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A Review of John Benditt’s “The Boatmaker”
I really wanted “The Boatmaker” to be amazing.
The jacket description was so promising… and misleading. “Reluctant hero” and “destructive love affair” are interesting descriptions for a man who would more accurately be referred to as an emotionally abusive (and at times physically violent) alcoholic who himself had been abused by his mother, who shacks up with a prostitute for as long as his money lasts. He returns again once he’s sold off his only valuables to throw more money at the woman. Which happened to be about 70 pages that did nothing for the story or forward momentum of the plot other than making the boatmaker out to be an aggressive psychologically abusive drunk.
When the boatmaker reaches the Mainland the novel hits its main narrative stride, and this probably could have functioned on its own with only a chapter or two to introduce the boatmaker and the quest his fever dream has set him on, rather than the 130 pages of set up and unnecessary exposition that exists. The novel, as well as the boatmaker, spend this next arc redeeming themselves and creating a story that’s truly engaging. The boatmaker’s journey through the Mainland and his experiences there understanding money, religion, prejudice, and redemption was addicting. It took me six months to get to that point, and a week to read the other three quarters of the novel.
The consistency of style is the most impressive thing about this book, and worth reading for such a technically well executed novel, despite the story itself, the meandering and elusive point of it all, lacking in satisfaction by its end.
Or maybe that was its intention…
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[Insert Clever Play on Title of Book Here]
An untitled article in which I confess that, apparently, I like to lie in bed late at night and think about Christopher Moore… and I’m not sure that isn’t as creepy as it sounds.
I’ve mentioned this before, but while I’ve been trying to figure out this story idea and get up the nerve to actually write it, I’ve been reading some Etgar Keret who, as I’ve said, has been exactly what I needed to read style-wise but not I was looking for in terms of content. It’s also been an excuse to read more Christopher Moore, as if anyone has ever needed convincing to do that. For anyone not familiar with Christopher Moore, the simplest way to describe his writing is to say he’s the American Douglas Adams, but that may be oversimplifying things. However, for anyone not familiar with Douglas Adams, I must politely ask you to fuck off.
Moore is hilarious and absurd but no less a great and gifted storyteller for that, and completely right about everything while being utterly tragic and sad and really just perfect in so many ways all at once. I may be man-crushing a bit. Or is it… author-crushing?
It’s in his humor and absurdity that he truly hits his stride in the sense that he uncovers a truth about life or some fundamental, universal and completely overlooked fact of existing in this ridiculous world in such a way that, while not expecting the moment to come from him (because he’s a funny man, he can’t be sad and real), and not expecting it to be delivered as it is, he makes even an insignificant line or description stand out to you. Because in dealing with the funny or the absurd, and these comic characters, his imagination is able to look at the simplest things in a fresh way. A way someone focused on writing realistic (depressing, cold, boring) literary fiction never would.
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As a reader, that moment creeps up on you while you read and uncover the words and the world and his meaning and what he’s really saying to you. As a writer, should you like to believe yourself to be one, you die a little inside because this guy just described something beautifully—more beautiful and true and original then your talentless-serious-literary-fiction-ass could.
“They stopped when he spoke. One of them hissed—not the hiss of a cat, a long, steady tone—more like the hiss of air escaping the rubber raft that is all that lies between you and a dark sea full of sharks, the hiss of your life leaking out at the seams.”
Well, maybe I’m being a little hard on myself, and maybe that isn’t even that great a line. It’s late, I should get some rest. I couldn’t sleep and this is what came out. And really… No, you know what? That was perfect. The way he said it and when he said it and just everything—everything about it. I needed that. I needed that reminder…
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Gas Station Burrito 