Philadelphia Fire
John Edgar Wideman
Here is a book that really displays the challenge of fairly representing a book. There is no doubt that some aspects of Wideman's passionate novel are worthy of the accolades triumphantly gracing its cover. There is some doubt that there is literary merit on each page of this complicated book. There is significant doubt that this book can truly inspire or successfully engage all but the most highbrow readers, thereby alienating the very demographic that the book appeals to and is meant to inspire. Wideman surely has chosen an appropriate form for his story of absolute disintegration and chaos; unfortunately his free indirect discourse, however critically appropriate, does not translate into a logical or even particularly engaging narrative. Wideman takes an important and tragically neglected topic and causes more confusion and befuddlement than was likely there in the first place, squandering an important opportunity but all the same crafting an interesting and valuable piece.
The main problem with the book is its utter lack of logic. Characters drift in an out, conversations without quotation marks may or may not take place, stunningly irrelevant flashbacks cut across the hints of plot, and Wideman launches into self-serving soul-searching just when his character is about to find a hint of solace (maybe; one can never tell). To call the book "winding" or "stream-of-consciousness" would be grossly exaggerated understatements as Wideman takes pains in refusing to make any sense whatsoever. What is most remarkable about the work is that selected portions do manage to make sense within themselves and that Wideman's bits of wisdom make the book bearable, if only barely. There are scattered paragraphs that brilliantly evoke the difficulty of literature to fully contain a sense of history and to even attempt to convey complex and individual-specific thoughts. When Wideman says, "Thought telling you might help. But it doesn't. I feel myself beginning to invent. Filling in the blanks but the blanks are real. Part of the dream," he latches onto an almost universal sentiment and makes an utterly profound statement about reality. This insight is potentially life-changing, but even a discerning reader will easily miss it the first few times around due to the incongruity of the book and the misplaced wisdom. There are similar morsels, but they would do better to be collected (as is an inexplicable list of possibly relevant outside quotations just a few pages later) than to languish amongst the debris that makes up the book.
Now for the surprising part. Though the book is utterly painful to read and will cause many a headache to those accustomed to vague progression of events or consistency in setting or character, there is an underlying logic that barely peeks through, and then only upon the closest inspection. Wideman is ostensibly writing about the bombing of the MOVE cult in West Philadelphia and the subsequent burning of the surrounding ghetto in 1985, and his detached and flaky narrative skeleton can easily be mapped onto the confusion felt by his first main character (Cudjoe). The disjointed nature of the story makes more sense in this context, and though it is painful to experience it places the reader almost inside Cudjoe's disoriented and confused mind. The first section of the novel, in fact, almost presents a narrative that could be follwed during the subsequent sections, if only Wideman would stick to the subject matter and resist the urge to lapse into self-pitying autobiography, which is where he loses the reader. The second portion of the book is mind-numbingly boring and self-concerned and utterly unrelated to the important event now neglected even by the author aiming to shower it with attention. It is no wonder that people feel disenfranchised and forgotten; if Wideman's point was to convey this he succeeds absolutely, which unfortunately still brings a loss to the community that, nevertheless, lacks adequate (if any) representation. Is Wideman's message truly that the black community in Philadelphia should play second fiddle to his personal concerns? The third section of the book somewhat redeems the work, but the first story remains unresolved and only comes back nominally in the last few pages, too late to make any sense whatsoever and just in time to really agitate those hoping for a hint of stability.
There is no mistake in calling Wideman's work a study in disintegration. His book brilliantly mirrors the disrespect thematically hinted at throughout Philadelphia Fire, but I fear that in falling into this trap he has done a great disservice to those who would benefit most from an honest and intriguing treatment of this tragedy. While Wideman does nail some aspects of his story, such as the routine subtle racism towards a black mayor and the hopelessness of the landscape of poor urban America, his book is messy at best and is too challenging to affect the situation at large. I have no doubt that Wideman is an exceptionally skilled writer; his insights can be fascinating and mind-opening, but altogether this work lacks coherence and cannot even stick to its own vague semblance of a plot for more than 90 pages. Philadelphia Fire is structually interesting but could probably be replaced by a more coherent and, let's face it, enjoyable portrait of the destitute, one which remains accessible enough to do more than endlessly frustrate.
Grade: C+
John Edgar Wideman
Here is a book that really displays the challenge of fairly representing a book. There is no doubt that some aspects of Wideman's passionate novel are worthy of the accolades triumphantly gracing its cover. There is some doubt that there is literary merit on each page of this complicated book. There is significant doubt that this book can truly inspire or successfully engage all but the most highbrow readers, thereby alienating the very demographic that the book appeals to and is meant to inspire. Wideman surely has chosen an appropriate form for his story of absolute disintegration and chaos; unfortunately his free indirect discourse, however critically appropriate, does not translate into a logical or even particularly engaging narrative. Wideman takes an important and tragically neglected topic and causes more confusion and befuddlement than was likely there in the first place, squandering an important opportunity but all the same crafting an interesting and valuable piece.
The main problem with the book is its utter lack of logic. Characters drift in an out, conversations without quotation marks may or may not take place, stunningly irrelevant flashbacks cut across the hints of plot, and Wideman launches into self-serving soul-searching just when his character is about to find a hint of solace (maybe; one can never tell). To call the book "winding" or "stream-of-consciousness" would be grossly exaggerated understatements as Wideman takes pains in refusing to make any sense whatsoever. What is most remarkable about the work is that selected portions do manage to make sense within themselves and that Wideman's bits of wisdom make the book bearable, if only barely. There are scattered paragraphs that brilliantly evoke the difficulty of literature to fully contain a sense of history and to even attempt to convey complex and individual-specific thoughts. When Wideman says, "Thought telling you might help. But it doesn't. I feel myself beginning to invent. Filling in the blanks but the blanks are real. Part of the dream," he latches onto an almost universal sentiment and makes an utterly profound statement about reality. This insight is potentially life-changing, but even a discerning reader will easily miss it the first few times around due to the incongruity of the book and the misplaced wisdom. There are similar morsels, but they would do better to be collected (as is an inexplicable list of possibly relevant outside quotations just a few pages later) than to languish amongst the debris that makes up the book.
Now for the surprising part. Though the book is utterly painful to read and will cause many a headache to those accustomed to vague progression of events or consistency in setting or character, there is an underlying logic that barely peeks through, and then only upon the closest inspection. Wideman is ostensibly writing about the bombing of the MOVE cult in West Philadelphia and the subsequent burning of the surrounding ghetto in 1985, and his detached and flaky narrative skeleton can easily be mapped onto the confusion felt by his first main character (Cudjoe). The disjointed nature of the story makes more sense in this context, and though it is painful to experience it places the reader almost inside Cudjoe's disoriented and confused mind. The first section of the novel, in fact, almost presents a narrative that could be follwed during the subsequent sections, if only Wideman would stick to the subject matter and resist the urge to lapse into self-pitying autobiography, which is where he loses the reader. The second portion of the book is mind-numbingly boring and self-concerned and utterly unrelated to the important event now neglected even by the author aiming to shower it with attention. It is no wonder that people feel disenfranchised and forgotten; if Wideman's point was to convey this he succeeds absolutely, which unfortunately still brings a loss to the community that, nevertheless, lacks adequate (if any) representation. Is Wideman's message truly that the black community in Philadelphia should play second fiddle to his personal concerns? The third section of the book somewhat redeems the work, but the first story remains unresolved and only comes back nominally in the last few pages, too late to make any sense whatsoever and just in time to really agitate those hoping for a hint of stability.
There is no mistake in calling Wideman's work a study in disintegration. His book brilliantly mirrors the disrespect thematically hinted at throughout Philadelphia Fire, but I fear that in falling into this trap he has done a great disservice to those who would benefit most from an honest and intriguing treatment of this tragedy. While Wideman does nail some aspects of his story, such as the routine subtle racism towards a black mayor and the hopelessness of the landscape of poor urban America, his book is messy at best and is too challenging to affect the situation at large. I have no doubt that Wideman is an exceptionally skilled writer; his insights can be fascinating and mind-opening, but altogether this work lacks coherence and cannot even stick to its own vague semblance of a plot for more than 90 pages. Philadelphia Fire is structually interesting but could probably be replaced by a more coherent and, let's face it, enjoyable portrait of the destitute, one which remains accessible enough to do more than endlessly frustrate.
Grade: C+
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