Most everybody knows the meme: ‘the great American novel’. Pynchon’s Mason
& Dixon, Melville’s Moby Dick,
Dos Passos’ USA trilogy, DeLillo’s Underworld,
Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay. Faulkner’s Absalom,
Absalom!—these and others have been referred to as such. And there is commonality among most: social
and personal transitions within the past two centuries of history that in some
way embody the American ‘rise from nothing’, all utilizing dense, typically
quality prose. The trajectory of this
transition has shifted from ascending to descending the further into
post-modernism we go, but in general remains in place. Jonathan Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude (2003) is one such contender—granted an
outside shot, but a contender nonetheless—for the epithet.
The Fortress of
Solitude is the story of two boys, Dylan Ebdus and Mingus Rude, and their teenage
and early adulthood years in Brooklyn and beyond throughout the 70s and into
the 90s. Dylan the introverted white son
of an equally introverted artist, and Mingus the troubled son of a formerly
successful soul singer now turned drug addict, neither boy has a strong mother
figure in their lives either, meaning the streets are their greatest educators. From the games children play to the wider contextualization
of their racial and social positions, the two boys arc in and out of each
other’s lives, through graffiti and music, pranks and pizza, as New York City and
the US beyond, evolve around them.
The novel’s title taken from Superman’s home away from home,
Lethem spins the idea in a few ways.
Foremost is the poetic interpretation, particularly Dylan’s strongly
introverted manner and the invisible line separating him from society. His friends, family, and schoolmates exist at
a distance that rarely if ever can be described as ‘warm’. Mingus Rude likewise lives something in a
bubble, though it is one spawned from an entirely different domestic scene. Never overtly described in detailed
exposition or stream of consciousness, both Dylan and Mingus nevertheless build
proverbial walls around themselves that feed the main theme. Fortresses keeping people out as well as in,
the metaphor likewise works as something of a prison. Another purpose of the title is its hinting
at the note of fantasy in the novel. Not
spoiling matters, a magical ring finds its way into the boys’ lives. More symbolic than ‘nebuous point of wonder’
as is found in many a fantasy novel, the ring comes to occupy a hopeful role,
of escape from said fortress/prison, and is best viewed as such when reading
the novel (rather than a ‘real’ object granting supernatural powers). And thirdly, and admittedly in minor
fashion, the title hints at the role of comic books in the novel, not only as
talking points in scenes of Dylan and Mingus’ childhoods, but also as points of
reminiscence in the scenes where they are older. Lethem does not go into whether Superman beats
Batman or any other futile comics discussion, rather he parlays the differing
types of value the comics had for the characters young and old into narrative. Lest any reader be afraid Lethem is secretly
championing ‘comics as salvation’, later scenes in the novel, particularly at a
science fiction and fantasy convention clearly intended to imitate WorldCon,
are presented as often insular and juvenile, and as such delineate where Lethem
believes comics fall into the spectrum of story beyond.
It was not a surprise in post-reading on the novel to learn
that Fortress is
semi-autobiographical. There are
simply too many exact, precise details for historical readings or imagination
to supply. Foremost among these is the
usage of music, particular its evolution on the street. From primitive DJ parties to the more general
eclectization and amalgamation of urban music that would eventually become rap
and hip-hop, Lethem uses said evolution for a portion of the story’s
backdrop. Likewise, while Mingus’ father
Barret is portrayed as having had minor success in a fictional soul group,
around it is a fair bit of discussion on many real-world though very poorly known
soul performers. But I think it’s the
quality of the scenes that made me believe in the high quanityt of
auto-biography. Many are presented with
such depth, such insight into the mindset of Dylan that they feel to real not
to be true. Perhaps the greatest
compliment to pay a writer, the reader comes as close as possible to living
these scenes.
Based on Lethem’s prose in general, writing does not feel
something that comes naturally. It feels
a difficult process, a long struggle, a wrestling of words over multiple
revisions and rewrites, minor tweaks at every paragraph, maybe every line, until
every word finds its correct place. In Fortress the effort is fully worth it. There are many nice turns of phrase, mood is
appropriate, and the unveiling of scenes is always subtle and surprising. Many times a mundane sit down between
characters evolves in intriguing ways—sometimes dramatic, sometimes, emotional,
sometimes reflective, sometimes self-critical, and sometimes revelatory, minor
or otherwise. Fortress deploys a more
dense, literary style than seen in previous Lethem novels like Gun, with Occasional Music or Amnesia Moon, and ends up being something
akin to what might be found in the novels of Don DeLillo—dense, chewy prose.
It is important to note that Fortress is not a nostalgic, backward looking novel that mourns the
passing of time—of the “better days” of post-WWII Brooklyn. It’s a real novel, an honest novel that is
more interested in self-interrogation and revelation than it is recalling halcyon
days. No Normal Rockwell in sight, its post-counter-culture, or what was happening
with the hippy/bohemian movement as time moved inexorably forward after the
60s. Ebdus and Rude’s lives catching the
remnants, culture and society are nevertheless forging new paths for
them—moments of which Lethem captures in brilliant form, and help to underpin
the wider social and cultural context to their story.
In the end, The
Fortress of Solitude is a quietly powerful, emotionally honest, personally
revelatory, likely even cathartic novel that one rarely finds in fiction. I
would guess Lethem felt naked while writing.
It will resonate most—as the title hints—with the more introspective
reader, but given the strong degree of cultural and social association—music,
art, parenthood, racial tension, comic books, drug abuse, father-son relations,
etc.—more erudite readers will likewise find a great deal of worthwhile material. And as with any book which successfully
recalls childhood, Lethem should be applauded for being able to deliver fiction
through the eyes of a child, something that is difficult to do in such dense,
meaningful fashion. I could heap further
praise, but suffice to say this just may be Lethem’s magnum opus, and, just
perhaps a book to consider for ‘the great American novel’. Time will tell.
*Note: For anyone who has read The Fortress of Solitude
and is looking for further reading on the novel, I recommend The Disappointment Artist. Indirectly describing details of setting and
character, Lethem’s collection of essays acts as a real-world parallel to many “fictional”
events of the novel, all the while branching out to other areas of interest
that will likely be of interest, as well.
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