Mr. Fix-It

The American belief in progress, and the resultant failures, makes for high comedy in Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections

The backlash against Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections has begun in earnest. What with the gush of publicity it has received -- Oprah's blessing, Time magazine's devoting two whole pages to a review (a third of which being a photo spread of the author lounging), a National Book Award nomination -- the aesthetes were bound to protest. The New Republic (who else?) has dispatched the first wave of dispraise, with senior editor James Wood employing (what else?) the destruction of the World Trade Center as proof of the paucity of Franzen's narrative. Wood quotes from the novel the ruminations of Enid, the pleasure-starved mother in the story, a Depression-era child living in the go-go American '90s: "She had memories of the 1930s, she'd seen firsthand what could happen to a country when the world economy took its gloves off.... But disasters of this magnitude no longer seemed to befall the United States. Safety features had been put in place, like the squares of rubber that every modern playground was paved with, to soften impacts."

"And so," Wood snickers, "a passage at the conclusion of Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, about the end of the American century, now seems laughably archival." So there. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.

If Wood's targets were elsewhere, he could have chosen just about any passage from any American novel, at random, and found a phrase "laughably archival" in the face of Sept. 11. To employ the horror of current events as critical leverage is an easy strategy, unbecoming of a normally responsible critic. But then, Sept. 11 has driven away a great deal of normality.

“It’s in the nature of any self-correction to fail,” observes Jonathan Franzen.
Greg Martin
“It’s in the nature of any self-correction to fail,” observes Jonathan Franzen.

Franzen can expect further deflation over the coming months, because that's what becomes of artists who are both talented and ambitious, or overly ambitious. No wonder he had to leave Webster Groves, where he grew up (St. Louis is the locale for his first novel, The Twenty-Seventh City, and is poorly disguised as St. Jude in The Corrections). If the national media feasts so readily on open ambition, our city diminishes ambition through the slow starvation of the spirit.

Franzen isn't so harsh on his former home, although the Midwest is good for a comical aside, a place where a character is doomed to encounter "the fattest and slowest people in the central tier of states," in The Corrections. His leaving spurred other considerations, which he discusses during a phone conversation on his recent book tour. "The fact that I was moved to leave the Midwest created this conversation in my head," says Franzen, "which has been the conversation in every book, between the Midwest that I grew up in -- a very lovable place, if occasionally somewhat limiting-seeming -- and the coastal, indeed global, world, which is more exciting but also scarier and not so easy to make sense of morally.

"That's what I come back to again and again. I didn't [leave] in order to have material to write about; I did it because ..." he pauses and recalls those early seductions "... first I saw Chicago as a 16-year-old and I said, 'Yeah, now we're talkin,' because I was frustrated with St. Louis as it was when I was a teenager -- I wrote a whole book about that frustration (The Twenty-Seventh City). Then, a year later, I saw New York, and I said, 'This is the place for me.'

"As a novelist I like cities, and I like cities because cities are rather novel-like in bringing together disparate kinds of people and setting up these compelling and significant juxtapositions. Webster Groves could not have been a better place to grow up, and now, if I were doing anything but what I do, I'd be very attracted to some of the Midwestern cities."

For now, though, he'll remain in the unfolding novel that is New York. It is from New York that The Corrections takes off. Chip meets his Midwestern parents, Alfred and Enid Lambert ("To anyone who saw them averting their eyes from the dark-haired New Yorkers careering past them, to anyone who caught a glimpse of Alfred's straw fedora looming at the height of Iowa corn on Labor Day, or the yellow wool of the slacks stretching over Enid's outslung hip, it was obvious that they were midwestern and intimidated") before they take a cruise on the Nordic Pleasurelines. He's not with them for long, as lust and poverty send him racing blindly through the city, away from the immediate responsibilities of family (his sister, Denise, is in town for the brief reunion as well) and off to, by chapter's end, Lithuania.

New York is where such things are possible, but Franzen explores more than the phantasmagorical city. He follows the Lambert children in their lives on the East Coast and in Eastern Europe (Chip is a deposed college professor scrambling for a screenplay deal who falls in with Lithuanian swindlers; Denise is a chef who traverses moral and sexual boundaries; Gary is a successful banker caught in conflict between his scheming wife and scheming mother), Midwesterners who've departed from the course of middle-American stolidity for a trackless universe.

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