Not that authorial intent should have anything to do with it. "The Petting Zoo" is an interesting book on several levels, least of which is the question of whether or not I would recommend it to someone else: I'm not loving it, but I could easily see why people would. This is problematic for me. The main character is fairly likeable, except that he's an artist who found success early in his life, which, as a frustrated creative type, I find envy-inducing, and with the envy comes contempt. That's a personal hang-up; furthermore, Billy Wolfram, the protagonist, is overly serious, dismissive of rock music, self-involved, etc. When a protagonist fills the book the way Billy does here, it's easy to assume that he is an author's stand-in, but here, despite no doubt having much in common with Jim Carroll, the main character is somewhat at odds with the world he lives in, as the narrator describes it. Billy and the narrator are not one. Whatever Billy's faults, I find myself suspecting that that was an authorial choice, not the non-decision of an obviously narcissistic creator. Billy's limits--as an artist, as a person--make him real, and the distance between the narrator and Billy are key to making the book work.
Most interesting is the tone. The book doesn't have much of a sense of humor, but it does have a mood, an atmosphere. In some way the story is like that of Mozart near the end of Amadeus: it's about a brilliant artist struggling to complete a last masterpiece as his life goes to shit. Billy Wolfram, at the start of the book, has a sort of mental break brought on by a painting of Velasquez. It's that kind of novel: and after that, he ends up in a psychiatric ward, which doesn't particularly intend to sell Billy as mentally ill, just a little...off-kilter. That's a good thing: it makes the style explicable. Characters make speeches that they must have practiced, but the speeches almost invariably have something interesting to say, no matter how artificial they sound. A Hindu cab driver postulates on the meaning of the Age of Kali-Yuga; a talking, possibly hallucinated raven complains about how the Old Testament left out his contribution in the flood narrative. The setting is New York, but the time period is a floating point in the nineties. TVs still have rabbit ears and get static from bad reception, "Columbo" is in reruns, the World Trade Center stands, and no one uses a computer. A more explicit time period might make things more specific, but in doing so it would detract from the ethereal, half-lucid vibes of the narrative.
Carroll was finishing the book when he died, and although it might not quite be what he intended, it still comes across as polished--as polished as book like this can be, which is a lot, but with a few necessarily frayed edges. This is the sort of book some people will love; I suspect it should be read young, among an artsy crowd. This is a book that takes patience: not because it is difficult, but because it has a kind of seriousness, a kind of honesty--at the very least, an intensity of earnestness--that can't be breezed through without missing the point. It's enchanting in many ways; a serious, and stuffed to bursting, kind of masterpiece that is, frankly, not to my taste one-hundred percent, but I like to think myself capable of recommending a book even when it's not quite on my wavelength.
Sometimes you have to learn how to read a text in order to properly read it at all.
Most interesting is the tone. The book doesn't have much of a sense of humor, but it does have a mood, an atmosphere. In some way the story is like that of Mozart near the end of Amadeus: it's about a brilliant artist struggling to complete a last masterpiece as his life goes to shit. Billy Wolfram, at the start of the book, has a sort of mental break brought on by a painting of Velasquez. It's that kind of novel: and after that, he ends up in a psychiatric ward, which doesn't particularly intend to sell Billy as mentally ill, just a little...off-kilter. That's a good thing: it makes the style explicable. Characters make speeches that they must have practiced, but the speeches almost invariably have something interesting to say, no matter how artificial they sound. A Hindu cab driver postulates on the meaning of the Age of Kali-Yuga; a talking, possibly hallucinated raven complains about how the Old Testament left out his contribution in the flood narrative. The setting is New York, but the time period is a floating point in the nineties. TVs still have rabbit ears and get static from bad reception, "Columbo" is in reruns, the World Trade Center stands, and no one uses a computer. A more explicit time period might make things more specific, but in doing so it would detract from the ethereal, half-lucid vibes of the narrative.
Carroll was finishing the book when he died, and although it might not quite be what he intended, it still comes across as polished--as polished as book like this can be, which is a lot, but with a few necessarily frayed edges. This is the sort of book some people will love; I suspect it should be read young, among an artsy crowd. This is a book that takes patience: not because it is difficult, but because it has a kind of seriousness, a kind of honesty--at the very least, an intensity of earnestness--that can't be breezed through without missing the point. It's enchanting in many ways; a serious, and stuffed to bursting, kind of masterpiece that is, frankly, not to my taste one-hundred percent, but I like to think myself capable of recommending a book even when it's not quite on my wavelength.
Sometimes you have to learn how to read a text in order to properly read it at all.
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