Hermann Broch's novel of the life and times of a 1920s mathematician is sadly overlooked.
Lydia Davis has a problem: she can't not display her ingenious bravura.
What's most impressive about Teju Cole's debut is its modulated darkness.
Irish writer Keith Ridgway is beautifully uncompromising in his pitch-perfect thug chronicles.
Amos Oz's interlocking stories are parables for a brilliant, haunted nation.
Irishman Flan O'Brien managed to introduce Disney to Swift in a comic vision of death.
Ben Lerner's 2011 debut set a fine tone for postmodern irony, but it grows repetitive.
Ross MacDonald's Lew Archer endures as a detective ahead of his time.
Denis Johnson's novel of spies in Africa falls well short of its Graham Greene-Le Carré mark.
Aleksandar Hemon's poignant memoir falters when family tragedy becomes its focus.
The Collected Stories of Leonard Michaels
By Leonard Michaels
Farrar, Strauss, and Giroux, 2007. 403 pages
Reading Leonard Michaels' first collection of stories "Going Places" (1969) is — to borrow an image from the poet Yehuda Amichai — like banging one's head against a door and screaming, "My head, my head!" With razor precision, Michaels scouts out the psychological underbelly of late '60s New York. These early stories have a tough sexual edge and a nervousness that is never resolved, but only adds a sense of desperate urgency. Every dialogue is fragmented into near incomprehensibility as the situation comedy spins out of control, despite the fact that not much actually happens. An aged Talmud scholar slips on the ice ("What's-a-matta, fuckhead, too much vino?" quips a police officer); a rabbi's daughter is raped by a Turkish student, then hangs herself; Phillip escapes his girlfriend's father's ire by fleeing naked into the subway; discovering he has gonorrhea, the narrator vomits in his own shoe ("I yelled; she ran in; I pointed. Why is it green?") then hops the downtown express at 3 a.m.
It's tempting to say that, after "Going Places," it's smooth sailing. But Michaels' second collection, "I Would Have Saved Them If I Could" (1975), is no less informed by a kind of gun-to-the-temple psychoanalysis. The stories get longer and less compressed; the narrative style smoother, less frantic. Sex is always in the foreground and explicit (and often hilarious), though never quite spirals into literary voyeurism. The sentences sometimes reach 20 words or more.
The only section of the book that seems onerous is "Journal," a 50-page performance that is, despite a few deft passages, what it advertises. Readers who make it to the final Nachman stories — left uncollected at the author's death in 2003 — will find a wise, mature storyteller telling the best tales of his career.
Reviewed by Marc Alan Di Martino