|
A: Alistair McCartney, back when
he was a wee little lad in Perth,
Australia, fell asleep on Volume A of
the World Book Encyclopedia. When
his mum roused him from his youthful
reverie, there was “drool streaming
onto the gold A of the book’s spine.”
Or maybe that didn’t happen at all,
since Alistair, grown now and living
in L.A., still believes he’s deep in that
youthful slumberland, the encyclopedia
standing in for a pillow.
B: Because Alistair has yet to
exit his dream-world, The End of
the World Book is written like an
encyclopedia. From “Abercrombie
and Fitch” to “Zoo, The,” the narrator
shuttles us along a tour of his life
and loves. Along the way, we learn
he’s sweet on “Kafka, Franz” and, as
he describes in the “Heart, The” entry,
that his “heart is like Anna Karenina’s
red handbag.’
C: Catalogued one after the other,
the entries provide evidence that
McCartney writes with grace and
ease. Where he encounters trouble,
however, is in creating a novel/
memoir that gels. Each entry, taken
separately, works fine as its own little
morsel. But collectively, they add up
to a less than satisfying read.
D: Devising a conceit for a book
that feels honest can be tricky, and
try as he might, McCartney can’t
quite overcome his encyclopedic
device. If instead of focusing on
moving us from A to Z, he’d have concentrated
on merely moving us, he
could have crafted a book that, while
not necessarily keeping us in thrall
till the the world’s end was a night
at hand, could have left a feeling
of satisfaction we wished would’ve
lingered for eternity. |
