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From the celebrated author of Motherless Brooklyn,
a wry, satiric parable of a hardboiled man out of time
Gumshoe Conrad Metcalf has problems-not the least of which are the
rabbit in his waiting room and the trigger-happy kangaroo on his tail.
Near-future Oakland is an ominous place where evolved animals function
as members of society, the police monitor citizens by their karma levels, and
mind-numbing drugs such as Forgettol and Acceptol are all the rage. In this
brave new world, Metcalf has been shadowing the wife of an affluent doctor,
perhaps falling a little in love with her at the same time. But when the
doctor turns up dead, our amiable investigator finds himself caught in the
crossfire in a futuristic world that is both funny-and not so funny.
"Marvelous . . . Stylish, intelligent, darkly humorous, and highly
readable entertainment."-SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER
"Lethem has talent to burn."-THE VILLAGE VOICE LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
AUTHOR OF THE FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE
Jonathan Lethem is the author of six novels, including
National Book Critics Circle Award-winning Motherless Brooklyn
and The Fortress of Solitude. He lives in New York City.
While shadowing the wife of an affluent urologist, a hapless private eye falls in love with her. When the doctor turns up dead, the P.I. finds himself caught in a crossfire between the boys from the Inquisitor's Office and gangsters who operate out of the back room of the Fickle Muse.
Lethem's first novel is a work of noir science fiction inhabited by animal gangsters and a gritty futuristic P.I. (Mar.)
More Reviews and RecommendationsJonathan Lethem has a talent for bending literary genres. He has been entertaining readers since 1994's Gun, with Occasional Music, a debut novel that contained all the ingredients of his future career as a writer: science fiction, pulp detective noir, westerns, and award-winning coming-of-age stories.
More About the AuthorReader Rating:
See Detailed Ratings
March 10, 2009: This was strangely fascinating. It's nice to have a book that makes you think, while still staying fantasy-like.
Name:
Jonathan Lethem
Also Known As:
Jonathan Allan Lethem (full name)
Current Home:
New York, New York
Place of Birth:
New York, New York
Education:
Left Bennington College after two years
Awards:
World Fantasy Award for Best Collection for The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye. Esquire Magazine’s Novel of the Year, the Salon Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award for Motherless Brooklyn
The son of artists and activists, Jonathan Lethem has always been surrounded by art and archetypes. His father, avant-garde painter Richard Brown Lethem, ensured that the household was always bustling with fellow artists, live nude models, and a creative spirit. Despite the nurturing, artistic setting, Lethem's teen years were demanding -- his mother died of cancer when he was 14, and the streets of his Brooklyn neighborhood forced him to toughen up at a young age.
Lethem's Brooklyn is rich with history and stories. Much of the world knows Brooklyn through the movies and television -- as an urban maze just outside the glitter of Manhattan. But Lethem's novels deliver a more emotional and brutal reality of the streets he called home (and still does). The Brooklyn culture of his childhood became the sidewalk on which he built his critically acclaimed Motherless Brooklyn, which won a National Book Critics Circle Award.
Lethem attended the High School for Music and Art in NYC, where he studied painting but began to hone his love of literature. An insatiable reader, he read the classic and the contemporary, including Kerouac, Mailer, Vonnegut, Chandler, Dostoevsky, Orwell, and Kafka. While still in high school, he finished a 125-page novel called Heroes. It was never published but is rumored to be the earliest form of what became The Fortress of Solitude.
After high school, Lethem attended Bennington College in Vermont but dropped out after the first semester to work on his writing. He returned to Bennington briefly, but eventually made the move to California, hitchhiking his way across the country to arrive in Berkeley in 1984. This experience, and the years he spent in San Francisco, provided the inspiration for his first three novels, Amnesia Moon(1995), As She Climbed Across the Table (1997), and Girl in Landscape (1998).
In late 1996, Lethem moved back to Brooklyn and began writing the book that would put him on the lips of every publisher and reader in the country. When Motherless Brooklyn was released in 1999, readers fell in love with its fascinating lead characters, relentless plot, and detailed setting. It was an instant success and won many awards, including the National Book Critics Circle Award.
Lethem's long-awaited next novel, The Fortress of Solitude, hit the shelves four years later, in 2003. He conducted a lot of research for the book, gaining yet another perspective on his beloved hometown. The novel is again set in Brooklyn, on Dean Street, where Lethem grew up. Over three decades, the two lead characters -- Dylan and Mingus -- experience the world through the prisms of race relations, music, and pop culture in a disturbing and compelling story of loyalty and loss, vulnerability and superhero powers.
Outside of novels, Lethem has published short fiction and lent his editing talents to a number of projects. Odd and shocking, This Shape We're In (an extended short story) is about an unforgettable trip to the hospital. The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye is a collection of seven short stories about everything from clones to professional basketball. Lethem and coauthor Carter Scholz have fun with the master of the bizarre in Kafka Americana: Fiction, a book of short stories with Kafka as the main character navigating absurd situations. Lethem edited The Vintage Book of Amnesia, short stories about the art of forgetting by such authors as Philip K. Dick, Martin Amis, and Shirley Jackson. He was guest editor of The Year's Best Music Writing 2002, essays by writers on music.
Lethem's original artistic impulse was to be a painter. While he remains a talented graphic artist, he first acknowledged his deep desire to write while at Bennington, where fellow classmates included Bret Easton Ellis and Donna Tartt.
Before he was a published writer, Lethem's only other jobs were in bookstores. His first bookstore job was at age 13, and he supported himself this way up to 1994 when his first novel was published. In San Francisco, he worked at the well-known Moe's Books, home of rare and antique tomes.
In February 2007, a few weeks before publication, Jonathan Lethem sat down to answer a few of our questions about his new novel You Don't Love Me Yet with our specially selected interviewer -- Lucinda Hoekke, the book's main character.
Lucinda Hoekke: Surprised to see me here?
Jonathan Lethem: (laughs) Yes, I'd say so.
Hoekke: This is our first chance to discuss what you've done in the book, the way you've represented certain facts about my life. I hope you don't mind going on the record.
Lethem: (laughs) No, that's fine, fine. Are you, er, working as a journalist these days?
Hoekke: Actually, I'm playing bass again, in a band called Biscuits In The Glare. And working on a memoir. This Barnes & Noble gig is just a one-time thing. But I'm the one who should be asking the questions.
Lethem: (laughs) Fire away.
Hoekke: What makes you feel qualified to write about the lives of musicians? You have a tin ear. I remember once at Falmouth's birthday party when the cake came out you just mouthed the words to "Happy Birthday" while everybody else sang.
Lethem: (laughs) I suppose... in a way... that's not really fair, but -- I guess the truth is I think that my love of music is what qualifies me. I mean, pop music is all about yearning. About wanting to be something other than you are. In a way, a fan knows more about pop than a musician does. And that's what a writer does: he wishes or dreams himself into lives he could never lead himself. He explores wishfulness. Besides, if you'll pardon my saying so, Monster Eyes was never really that, uh, professional a band. Not really all that polished. You were sort of fans yourselves -- dreamers, I mean. Wishful thinkers, wanna-bes. So, maybe it's not that bad that a wanna-be like me wrote your story.
Hoekke: Sure, right. I'm supposed to be flattered that you called me a ‘wanna-be' because, in your tautological thinking, a wanna-be is the same thing as a humble genius like you. I still say you can't sing.
Lethem: (laughs) Is that a question? You're right, I can't.
Hoekke: No, this is a question: I know you've said you like to listen to music while you write. Did you listen to our band while you wrote? Or something else?
Lethem: (laughs) I only have a couple of your songs on an old cassette. Not that they aren't great. While I was writing I mostly listened to the kind of music that's now called ‘indie pop', or ‘college' rock... I don't know what it was called then. The kind of bands that seem like they should have top ten hits but they never even seem to get played on the radio -- the dBs, The Feelies, Big Star... and also a lot of the even less-well-known bands I was fond of briefly during the period the book takes place (there's a big clue, if you're still wondering when it's set): Big Dipper, Christmas, Glass Eye... bands that sort of never quite had their moment, or if they did, it was brief, and I wasn't there for it – so instead I discovered them in a kind of vacuum -- it was like they belonged to me alone. I wanted to write about a band that barely existed, in a way.
Hoekke: You are the Lorax, you speak for the bands, is that it?
Lethem: (laughs) I guess I have a fondness for lost causes. No offense.
Hoekke: Let's change the subject. Is Hugo's restaurant really a mile from the 101? I don't think it is.
Lethem: (laughs) What? Sorry?
Hoekke: I'm wondering about your poor understanding of Los Angeles geography and commercial. Hugo's restaurant, smart guy. It's off the 405, not the 101, where you have it in the book.
Lethem: (laughs) Oh, I think I meant the other Hugo's -- the one in the Valley.
Hoekke: Have you ever even been to Los Angeles? Nobody would ever say Hugo's and mean the one in the valley.
Lethem: (laughs) Listen, let me try to tell you what I had in mind with Los Angeles... after all that material about Brooklyn I was beginning to feel like some kind of bogus expert, always claiming this deep ‘provenance' in everything I wrote... it seemed like a good idea to put myself out on a limb, to write about a place I was merely curious about – even confused by. Los Angeles is very mysterious to me.
Hoekke: Yes, I can see that. It will remain so to your readers. So, setting the book there was another opportunity to claim your status as a ‘wanna-be', is that what you're saying? Another piece of exalted fakery – excuse me, of course I meant to say ‘yearning'.
Lethem: (laughs) Sure, I guess that's right. I mean, look, this book isn't a historical novel or a sociological study. The characters -- you guys, I mean -- are the kind of twenty-somethings who just sort of float. You never read the newspapers, you're not exactly debating the gentrification of Silver Lake or Echo Park. You're just sort of living there – plopped down there, just like an author could plop characters like you down anywhere. If I'd wanted to flout my Brooklyn credentials I could have set the book in, say, Greenpoint.
Hoekke: So now we're so blurry and indistinct we could have been anywhere?
Lethem: (laughs) I didn't say that --
Hoekke: Next question. Speaking of historical novels, when is the book actually set? Because it doesn't seem to say anywhere.
Lethem: (laughs) I'd rather not come out and say it... There are internal clues....
Hoekke: Now you're avoiding a really easy question!
Lethem: (laughs) I just... this interview is so hostile, Lucinda. I think... maybe we should stop now....
Hoekke: I've got a few more questions. You wouldn't want to disappoint Barnes & Noble, would you?
Lethem: (laughs) I just -- listen, I'll continue on one condition.
Hoekke: What's that?
Lethem: (laughs) I want you to put the word "laughs" in parenthesis before every one of my replies. Because I've noticed that anytime you read an interview where the subject (laughs) a lot, it never comes off as defensive, no matter what they say.
Hoekke: It's a deal. So, why are you so defensive about this book?
Lethem: (laughs) I'm not defensive! I'm proud of the book! I even let my publisher put my photograph on the front jacket!
Hoekke: Oh, yeah, that was one of my questions: what's that about? Are you trying to pretend you were in our band? Is that even your guitar? How many chords do you know? Are you wearing your pajamas?
Lethem: (laughs) Stop, okay? Just stop. The whole point of the photograph is to admit that I'm not superior to anything or anyone... that I once picked up a guitar and learned to play G, C and D and tried to melt a camera's lens with my youthful gaze... but I'm obviously not going to convince you of anything.
Hoekke: We would never have let you into our band looking that way, I'm convinced of that
. Lethem: (laughs) (long pause)
Hoekke: You really don't know what to say.
Lethem: (laughs) Is there, uh, anything else you want to ask about?
Hoekke: Last question: This makes two novels in a row. Will you promise not to write about me anymore?
Lethem: (laughs) What do you mean, two novels in a row?
Hoekke: I'm in The Fortress of Solitude too, remember? Me and Dylan Ebdus got mugged on a bus in Berkeley.
Lethem: (laughs) Okay, I promise.
From the celebrated author of Motherless Brooklyn,
a wry, satiric parable of a hardboiled man out of time
Gumshoe Conrad Metcalf has problems-not the least of which are the
rabbit in his waiting room and the trigger-happy kangaroo on his tail.
Near-future Oakland is an ominous place where evolved animals function
as members of society, the police monitor citizens by their karma levels, and
mind-numbing drugs such as Forgettol and Acceptol are all the rage. In this
brave new world, Metcalf has been shadowing the wife of an affluent doctor,
perhaps falling a little in love with her at the same time. But when the
doctor turns up dead, our amiable investigator finds himself caught in the
crossfire in a futuristic world that is both funny-and not so funny.
"Marvelous . . . Stylish, intelligent, darkly humorous, and highly
readable entertainment."-SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER
"Lethem has talent to burn."-THE VILLAGE VOICE LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
AUTHOR OF THE FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE
Jonathan Lethem is the author of six novels, including
National Book Critics Circle Award-winning Motherless Brooklyn
and The Fortress of Solitude. He lives in New York City.
Lethem's first novel is a work of noir science fiction inhabited by animal gangsters and a gritty futuristic P.I. (Mar.)
Private detective Conrad Metcalf finds himself the victim of an official inquisition when the murder of a former client and an obvious cover-up attempt lead him into dangerous political territory. Set in a near-future where only police and detectives are licensed to ask questions and where drugs to suppress memory are commonplace, this first novel imparts a new meaning to the word mystery . Spare prose and tight plotting create a taut sf thriller that should appeal to both sf and mystery fans.
Loading...chapter 1
IT WAS THERE WHEN I WOKE UP, I SWEAR. THE FEELING.
It was two weeks after I'd quit my last case, working for Maynard Stanhunt. The feeling was there before I tuned in the musical interpretation of the news on my bedside radio, but it was the musical news that confirmed it: I was about to work again. I would get a case. Violins were stabbing their way through the choral arrangements in a series of ascending runs that never resolved, never peaked, just faded away and were replaced by more of the same. It was the sound of trouble, something private and tragic; suicide, or murder, rather than a political event.
It was the kind of musical news that forces me to perk up my ears. Murder doesn't get publicized much anymore. Usually it's something you hear in an after-hours place between drinks-or else you stumble across it yourself on a case, and then you're the lone voice at the bar, telling a story of murder to people afraid to believe you.
But the violins nagged at me. The violins said I should get up that morning and go down to my office. They said there was something like a case out there. They set my wallet throbbing.
So I showered and shaved and got my gums bleeding with a toothbrush, then stumbled into the kitchen to cauterize the wounds with some scalding coffee. The mirror was still out, with fat, half-snorted lines of my blend stretching across it like double-jointed white fingers. I picked up the razor blade and steered the drugs back into a wax-paper envelope, and brushed off the mirror with my sleeve. Then I made coffee, slowly. By the time I was done with it, the morning was mostly over. I went down to theoffice anyway.
I shared my waiting room with a dentist. The suite had originally been designed for a pair of psychoanalysts, whose clients were probably better able to share than the dentist's and mine-back when telling other people about your problems was the rage. I sometimes thought it was ironic, that the psychoanalysts had probably hoped to put guys like me out of business, but that in the end it had been the other way around.
Myself, I couldn't see answering all those personal questions. I'm willing to break the taboo against asking questions-in fact it's my job-but I'm pretty much like the next guy when it comes to answering them. I don't like it. That's just how it is.
I bustled past the dentist's midday patients and into my office, where I lowered my collar and relaxed my sneer. I'd been away for almost a week, but the room hadn't changed any. The lights flickered, and the dust bunnies under the furniture pulsed in the breeze when I opened the door. I couldn't see the water stain on the wall because of the chair I'd pushed up against it, but that didn't keep me from knowing it was there. I burdened the hunchbacked hat tree with my coat and hat and sat down behind the desk.
I picked up the telephone, just to check the dial tone, then set it back down: dial tone okay. So I tuned in my radio to hear the spoken-word news, assuming there was any. All too often the discordant sounds of the early report are all smoothed over by the time the verbal guys get to it, and all you're left with is the uneasy feeling that something happened, somewhere, sometime.
But not this time. This time it was news. Maynard Stanhunt, wealthy Oakland doctor, shot dead in a sleazy motel room five blocks from his office. The newsman named the inquisitors who would be handling the case, said that Stanhunt had been separated from his wife, and that was it. When it was over, I switched stations, hoping to pick up some other coverage, but it must have played as the lead story all across the dial, the moment the morning ban on verbiage lifted, and there wasn't any more.
My feelings were mixed. I hadn't figured on knowing the victim. Maynard Stanhunt was an arrogant man, an affluent doctor who'd built up a pretty good surplus of karmic points to match what must have been a pile in the bank, and he let you know it, but in subtle ways. He drove an antique name-brand car, for instance, instead of the standard-issue dutiframe. He had a fancy office in the California Building and a fancy platinum blonde wife who sometimes didn't come home at night, or so he said. I probably would have envied the guy if I had never met him.
I didn't envy Stanhunt because of the mess he'd made of his life. He was a Forgettol addict. Don't get me wrong-I'm as deeply hooked on make as the next guy, maybe deeper, but Stanhunt was using Forgettol to carve his life up like a Thanksgiving turkey. I found that out the night I tried to call him at home and he didn't recognize my name. He wasn't incoherent or groggy-he simply didn't know who I was or why I was calling. He'd hired me out of his office, probably because he didn't like the idea of a shabby private inquisitor tracking mud over his expensive carpets, and now his evening self just didn't know who I was. That was okay. It was justified. I'm a mess, and I imagine Maynard Stanhunt kept his home pretty nice. Everything about Maynard Stanhunt was pretty nice except the job he hired me to do for him: rough up his wife and tell her to come home.
He didn't come right out with it, of course. They never do. I'd been in his employ for almost a week, working what I thought was strictly a peeper job, before he told me what he really wanted. I didn't bother explaining to him that I went private partly because I didn't like the part of the job where I bullied people. I just refused to do it, and he fired me, or I quit.
So now the golden boy had gone and gotten himself nixed. Too bad. I knew that the coincidence of my working for the dead man would earn me a visit from the Inquisitor's Office. I didn't relish it but I didn't dread it. The visit would be perfunctory because the inquisitors had probably already settled on a suspect: if they weren't about to break the case with a flourish, they never would have let it get all over the verbal news.
For the same reason I knew there wasn't any work in it, and that was a shame. The whole thing would be crawled over by the Office, and that didn't leave enough room for a guy like me to work-assuming there was a client. It was probably an open-and-shut case, and the one poor soul who was client material was probably also guilty as hell. Murder earned you a stay in the freezer, and the guy the inquisitors had in mind was likely no more than a few hours from cold storage.
It wasn't my problem. I switched back to the musical news. They were already comforting the populace with a soothing background of harps playing sevenths, and the rumble of a tuba to represent the inexorable progress of justice. I let it lull me to sleep on the desk.
I don't know how long I slept, but when I woke, it was to the sound of the dentist's voice.
"Wake up, Metcalf," he said a second time. "There's a man in the waiting room who doesn't want his teeth cleaned."
The dentist swiveled on his heels and disappeared, leaving me there to massage my jaw back into feeling after its brief, masochistic marriage to the top of my wooden desk.
Copyright © 1994 by Jonathan Lethem
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc., 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.
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