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Jun. 16th, 2013 07:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cblj_backupI am SO CLOSE to closing out my reading list. Or at least, I THOUGHT I WAS.
Turns out that the library is having trouble procuring for me the last half-dozen books on the list, but when I opened my netbook the last time I traveled, I was reminded that I have a "to read" file of digital books. Without an e-reader I find digital books rather difficult, but I've been slowly plowing through them with my netbook on the train in the mornings.
As I wrote along, in long-hand at first, a whole army of little E’s gathered around my desk, all eagerly expecting to be called upon. But gradually as they saw me writing on and on, without even noticing them, they grew uneasy; and, with excited whisperings amongst themselves, began hopping up and riding on my pen....
-- Introduction (with e)
I'm not sure where I picked up Gadsby from, but I had a PDF of it which came from somewhere. Gadsby is a book written entirely without the use of the letter E, which was a sterner proposition in the days before digital thesauri and "search document". Imagine being able to search a document and not find a single letter E. The technique is known as lipogram, and has been employed by other writers as well, including the French writer Georges Perec, who was apparently inspired by Gadsby.
I tried to write a version of this review without the letter E and failed miserably. I need to go back and see how Wright compensated for not being able to use -ed.
It is a story about a small town. It is not a gossipy yarn; nor is it a dry, monotonous account, full of such customary "fill-ins" as "romantic moonlight casting murky shadows down a long, winding country road."...it is an account of up-and-doing activity, a vivid portrayal of Youth as it is today...
--ch. 1
Gasdby was written in 1939, in the last year of Ernest Vincent Wright's life. It is not a particularly gripping story, once you get past the novelty of not containing the letter E.
As a start, Branton Hills’ “Daily Post” would carry a long story, outlining a list of factors for improving conditions. This it did; but it will always stay as a blot upon high minds and proud blood that not a man or woman amongst such capitalists saw, in his plan, any call for dormant funds. But did that stop Gadsby? Can you stop a rising wind? Hardly!
--ch. 1
It begins with a middle-aged man named Gadsby who decides that his sleepy little town of Branton Hills needs some "fixing up". He recruits a number of high-school students to help him out, and with their aid he transforms the town into a booming urban metropolis, a sort of middle-America utopia. There are various trials and tribulations -- the first world war, a cranky city councilman, a young delinquent in need of rehabilitation -- but on the whole it's fifty thousand words' worth of easily solved problems.
“Boys,” said Gadsby. “you can pat your own backs, if you can’t find anybody to do it for you. This city is proud of you. And, girls, just sing with joy; for not only is your city proud of you, but I am, too.”
--ch.2
It is, admittedly, especially difficult to write dialogue without the letter e; expository prose forgives a lot that dialogue won't, in terms of twists of phrase.
"It’s silly to squat in a hot room squinting at a lot of print! If you want to know about a thing, go to work in a shop or factory of that kind, and find out about it firsthand."
"But, Bill," said Gadsby, “shops want a man who knows what to do without having to stop to train him."
"Oh, that’s all bosh! If a boss shows a man what a tool is for; and if that man is any good, at all, why bring up this stuff you call training?"
-ch.1
There's still something remarkably gripping about it, all things considered. And Wright clearly loves showing off his ability, writing about everything from speeches to public notices to newspaper ads. And there is, occasionally, some very pointed commentary:
“Your Honor, Mayor of Branton Hills, its Council, and all you out in front:— If you would only stop rating a child’s ability by your own; and try to find out just what ability a child has, our young folks throughout this big world would show a surprisingly willing disposition to try things which would bring your approbation. A child’s brain is an astonishing thing. It has, in its construction, an astounding capacity for absorbing what is brought to it; and not only to think about, but to find ways for improving it. It is today’s child who, tomorrow, will, you know, laugh at our ways of doing things."
--ch.2
All right. You want to know all you can about matching and crossing your stock, don’t you? I thought so. But God did all that, long, oh, so long ago; gradually producing such animals as you own today; and all you can do is to follow along, in your puny way, and try to avoid a poor quality of stock mixing with yours. This building contains thousands of God’s first works. It won’t do you a bit of harm to look through our rooms. Nothing will jump out at you!”
--ch.13, discussing a museum
There is also some unfortunate racism.
At this point in Bill’s blow-up an Italian Councilman was passing, and put in his oar, with:-
"Ha, Bill! You thinka your man can worka all right, firsta day, huh? You talka crazy so much for my boota! You lasta just a half hour. Thisa library all righta. This town too mucha what I call tight-wad!"
--ch.1
My favourite character ended up being Gadsby's son, Bill the fop:
Always in first class togs, without missing a solitary fad which a young man should adopt, Gadsby’s Bill was a lion, in his own right, with no girl in sight who had that tact through which a lasso could land around his manly throat.
--ch.9
The story follows the Gadsby family and Branton Hills from a small town at the beginning of the 20th century to a booming interregnum metropolis, including the first world war, when the Youth of Branton Hills go off to fight.
On a grand autumn morning Branton Hills’ “Post” boys ran shouting down Broadway, showing in half-foot wording: “FIGHTING STOPS!! HISTORY’S MOST DISASTROUS WAR IS HISTORY NOW!!!” and again, Branton Hills stood stock still. But only for an instant; for soon, it was, in all minds:-
“Thank God!! Oh, ring your loud church clarions! Blow your factory blasts! Shout! Cry! Sing! Play, you bands! Burst your drums! Crack your cymbals!”
--ch.31
Final Verdict: For people who are fond of novelty books or of books that play with prose, it's a fun read; there's not much depth to the story but the feat itself is well worth applauding. And because the prose is so fun, I'll leave you with Wright's description of the local county fair:
Ah! It was a fair, I’ll say! What mobs on that first day! And what a din!! Bands playing, ballyhoos shouting, popcorn a-popping, “hot dogs’ a-sizzling, ducks squawking, cows lowing, pigs grunting, an occasional baby squalling; and amidst it all, a choking cloud of dust, a hot Autumn wind, panting, fanning matrons, cussing husbands; all working toward that big oval track at which all had a flimsy possibility of winning a million or two (or a dollar or two!). Oh, you County Fairs! You bloom in your canvas glory, annually. You draw vast crowds; you show high quality farm stock, gigantic pumpkins, thousands of poultry, including our “Thanksgiving National Bird”. You fill coops with fancy squabs, fat rabbits, and day-old chicks. You show many forms of incubators, churns, farming apparatus, pumps, plows, lighting plants for small farms, windmills, “bug” poisons, and poultry foods. And you always add a big balloon, which you anchor, so that kids may soar aloft until a windlass pulls it down. You fill us with food that would kill a wild goat, but you still last! And may you always do so; for, within your flapping, bulging canvas walls, city man rubs against town man, rich and poor girls bump, snobs attain no right of way, and a proud, happy boy or girl shows a “First Class” satin ribbon which a lovingly brought-up calf or poultry brood has won.
-ch.14
Turns out that the library is having trouble procuring for me the last half-dozen books on the list, but when I opened my netbook the last time I traveled, I was reminded that I have a "to read" file of digital books. Without an e-reader I find digital books rather difficult, but I've been slowly plowing through them with my netbook on the train in the mornings.
As I wrote along, in long-hand at first, a whole army of little E’s gathered around my desk, all eagerly expecting to be called upon. But gradually as they saw me writing on and on, without even noticing them, they grew uneasy; and, with excited whisperings amongst themselves, began hopping up and riding on my pen....
-- Introduction (with e)
I'm not sure where I picked up Gadsby from, but I had a PDF of it which came from somewhere. Gadsby is a book written entirely without the use of the letter E, which was a sterner proposition in the days before digital thesauri and "search document". Imagine being able to search a document and not find a single letter E. The technique is known as lipogram, and has been employed by other writers as well, including the French writer Georges Perec, who was apparently inspired by Gadsby.
I tried to write a version of this review without the letter E and failed miserably. I need to go back and see how Wright compensated for not being able to use -ed.
It is a story about a small town. It is not a gossipy yarn; nor is it a dry, monotonous account, full of such customary "fill-ins" as "romantic moonlight casting murky shadows down a long, winding country road."...it is an account of up-and-doing activity, a vivid portrayal of Youth as it is today...
--ch. 1
Gasdby was written in 1939, in the last year of Ernest Vincent Wright's life. It is not a particularly gripping story, once you get past the novelty of not containing the letter E.
As a start, Branton Hills’ “Daily Post” would carry a long story, outlining a list of factors for improving conditions. This it did; but it will always stay as a blot upon high minds and proud blood that not a man or woman amongst such capitalists saw, in his plan, any call for dormant funds. But did that stop Gadsby? Can you stop a rising wind? Hardly!
--ch. 1
It begins with a middle-aged man named Gadsby who decides that his sleepy little town of Branton Hills needs some "fixing up". He recruits a number of high-school students to help him out, and with their aid he transforms the town into a booming urban metropolis, a sort of middle-America utopia. There are various trials and tribulations -- the first world war, a cranky city councilman, a young delinquent in need of rehabilitation -- but on the whole it's fifty thousand words' worth of easily solved problems.
“Boys,” said Gadsby. “you can pat your own backs, if you can’t find anybody to do it for you. This city is proud of you. And, girls, just sing with joy; for not only is your city proud of you, but I am, too.”
--ch.2
It is, admittedly, especially difficult to write dialogue without the letter e; expository prose forgives a lot that dialogue won't, in terms of twists of phrase.
"It’s silly to squat in a hot room squinting at a lot of print! If you want to know about a thing, go to work in a shop or factory of that kind, and find out about it firsthand."
"But, Bill," said Gadsby, “shops want a man who knows what to do without having to stop to train him."
"Oh, that’s all bosh! If a boss shows a man what a tool is for; and if that man is any good, at all, why bring up this stuff you call training?"
-ch.1
There's still something remarkably gripping about it, all things considered. And Wright clearly loves showing off his ability, writing about everything from speeches to public notices to newspaper ads. And there is, occasionally, some very pointed commentary:
“Your Honor, Mayor of Branton Hills, its Council, and all you out in front:— If you would only stop rating a child’s ability by your own; and try to find out just what ability a child has, our young folks throughout this big world would show a surprisingly willing disposition to try things which would bring your approbation. A child’s brain is an astonishing thing. It has, in its construction, an astounding capacity for absorbing what is brought to it; and not only to think about, but to find ways for improving it. It is today’s child who, tomorrow, will, you know, laugh at our ways of doing things."
--ch.2
All right. You want to know all you can about matching and crossing your stock, don’t you? I thought so. But God did all that, long, oh, so long ago; gradually producing such animals as you own today; and all you can do is to follow along, in your puny way, and try to avoid a poor quality of stock mixing with yours. This building contains thousands of God’s first works. It won’t do you a bit of harm to look through our rooms. Nothing will jump out at you!”
--ch.13, discussing a museum
There is also some unfortunate racism.
At this point in Bill’s blow-up an Italian Councilman was passing, and put in his oar, with:-
"Ha, Bill! You thinka your man can worka all right, firsta day, huh? You talka crazy so much for my boota! You lasta just a half hour. Thisa library all righta. This town too mucha what I call tight-wad!"
--ch.1
My favourite character ended up being Gadsby's son, Bill the fop:
Always in first class togs, without missing a solitary fad which a young man should adopt, Gadsby’s Bill was a lion, in his own right, with no girl in sight who had that tact through which a lasso could land around his manly throat.
--ch.9
The story follows the Gadsby family and Branton Hills from a small town at the beginning of the 20th century to a booming interregnum metropolis, including the first world war, when the Youth of Branton Hills go off to fight.
On a grand autumn morning Branton Hills’ “Post” boys ran shouting down Broadway, showing in half-foot wording: “FIGHTING STOPS!! HISTORY’S MOST DISASTROUS WAR IS HISTORY NOW!!!” and again, Branton Hills stood stock still. But only for an instant; for soon, it was, in all minds:-
“Thank God!! Oh, ring your loud church clarions! Blow your factory blasts! Shout! Cry! Sing! Play, you bands! Burst your drums! Crack your cymbals!”
--ch.31
Final Verdict: For people who are fond of novelty books or of books that play with prose, it's a fun read; there's not much depth to the story but the feat itself is well worth applauding. And because the prose is so fun, I'll leave you with Wright's description of the local county fair:
Ah! It was a fair, I’ll say! What mobs on that first day! And what a din!! Bands playing, ballyhoos shouting, popcorn a-popping, “hot dogs’ a-sizzling, ducks squawking, cows lowing, pigs grunting, an occasional baby squalling; and amidst it all, a choking cloud of dust, a hot Autumn wind, panting, fanning matrons, cussing husbands; all working toward that big oval track at which all had a flimsy possibility of winning a million or two (or a dollar or two!). Oh, you County Fairs! You bloom in your canvas glory, annually. You draw vast crowds; you show high quality farm stock, gigantic pumpkins, thousands of poultry, including our “Thanksgiving National Bird”. You fill coops with fancy squabs, fat rabbits, and day-old chicks. You show many forms of incubators, churns, farming apparatus, pumps, plows, lighting plants for small farms, windmills, “bug” poisons, and poultry foods. And you always add a big balloon, which you anchor, so that kids may soar aloft until a windlass pulls it down. You fill us with food that would kill a wild goat, but you still last! And may you always do so; for, within your flapping, bulging canvas walls, city man rubs against town man, rich and poor girls bump, snobs attain no right of way, and a proud, happy boy or girl shows a “First Class” satin ribbon which a lovingly brought-up calf or poultry brood has won.
-ch.14
