| Title | : | Moonglow |
| Author | : | |
| Rating | : | |
| ISBN | : | 0062225553 |
| ISBN-10 | : | 9780062225559 |
| Language | : | English |
| Format Type | : | Hardcover |
| Number of Pages | : | 430 |
| Publication | : | First published November 22, 2016 |
| Awards | : | California Book Award Fiction (Gold) (2016), National Book Critics Circle Award Fiction (2016), Andrew Carnegie Medal Fiction (Shortlist) (2017), Goodreads Choice Award Historical Fiction (2017) |
Moonglow unfolds as the deathbed confession of a man the narrator refers to only as “my grandfather.” It is a tale of madness, of war and adventure, of sex and marriage and desire, of existential doubt and model rocketry, of the shining aspirations and demonic underpinnings of American technological accomplishment at midcentury, and, above all, of the destructive impact—and the creative power—of keeping secrets and telling lies. It is a portrait of the difficult but passionate love between the narrator’s grandfather and his grandmother, an enigmatic woman broken by her experience growing up in war-torn France. It is also a tour de force of speculative autobiography in which Chabon devises and reveals a secret history of his own imagination.
From the Jewish slums of prewar South Philadelphia to the invasion of Germany, from a Florida retirement village to the penal utopia of New York’s Wallkill prison, from the heyday of the space program to the twilight of the “American Century,” the novel revisits an entire era through a single life and collapses a lifetime into a single week. A lie that tells the truth, a work of fictional nonfiction, an autobiography wrapped in a novel disguised as a memoir, Moonglow is Chabon at his most moving and inventive.
Moonglow Reviews
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Michael Chabon pulls off a hybrid memoir and a contested fictional multigenerational family history peppered with anecdotes and stories from his heavily medicated grandfather on his deathbed. Chabon unashamedly states its fictional roots and perhaps questions the concept of a factual memoir, how much of a memoir can be said to be true when peoples' memories are notoriously unreliable? Can a memoir be free from an agenda? How much is the truth embellished to create a compelling life history? How free is it from the desire to create a particular picture of an individual whilst diminishing or erasing other aspects? I came away from reading this feeling that in this case it barely matters which bricks of this fabled reconstruction of family history are true and which are false. What mattered to me is the warmth, passion, vibrancy, imagination and humour with which the web of stories are told, the love and affection that drive the need in the author to document his maternal grandfather's life as he is dying, serving the purpose of tangibly memorialising and honouring a life on the cusp of passing on. Particularly as his grandfather talks of his life amounting to little, the temporary nature of life and that whilst he was always starting things, he never finished them. I for one am not going to forget this book.
I was entranced by the lyrical prose and the vivid metaphors in the narrative. The stories of efforts to strangle Alger Hiss with ripped out telephone cables which lands the grandfather in a New York prison, blowing up bridges, sex, war time espionage and efforts attempting to locate Nazi SS officer Wernher Von Braun in Europe only to find he ends up working for the US space programme, There is the obsession with rockets and a lovely story of the exploits of Ramon the cat and the hunt for the snake. It appears the outpouring of tales is chaotic and non linear, but this is often the nature of memory, going back and forth in time. What is particularly tender and heartbreaking is the recounting of the love and loyalty he has for Chabon's grandmother, her desperate and traumatic history and the consequent mental instability that ensued. There is the examination of what constitutes family with the inclusion of non blood family members.
The exuberance of the prose render the novel never less than compelling reading. It matters not one whit if the entire book comprises of nothing but fiction. As you may have gathered I fell in love with Moonglow. A fantastic and moving read that I highly recommend. Many thanks to HarperCollins 4th Estate for an ARC. -
"'Moonglow' has been looked up 2315 times, is no one's favorite word yet, has been added to 3 lists, has 1 comment, and is not a valid SCRABBLE word".
Michael Chabon: I love your classy name - your books -and your wonderful talented -courageous wife: author Ayelet Waldman.
So before I begin my review I have a few things to say local boy!
I own every physical book - written - by 'both' Michael and Ayelet. --BAY AREA AUTHORS -- spotlight voices within the Jewish Community--- both bright - adorable - an inspiring married couple! I have a deep love for Ayelet. I feel a primal connection---( woman to woman - wife to wife - mother to mother - Jew to Jew).
When Netgalley and Edelweiss- both- turned my request down for Moonglow and Ayelet's new 'soon-to-be-released' book, called, "A Really Good Day: How Microdosing Made a Mega Difference in My Mood, My Marriage, and My Life"....
I kinda laughed. OF COURSE. ( Jewish Karma) I must own their PHYSICAL books.
When I told Ayelet that I was turned down for an arc of her new book when I saw her a few weeks ago - she offered to step in and get a book to me .... I said ...."don't, I can handle it". "I'll get a copy myself". Thanks anyway, Ayelet. Can't wait to read her book, too.
"Moonglow" -- fictional nonfiction"--is a lovely physical book. I especially like the inside black & white moon artwork when you first open the book.
It was easy to imagine Michael listening to his grandfathers final confessions--10 straight days before he died.....being privy to the lies, conflicts, and secrets, that his grandfather had kept secret.
Underneath the humor, it was inevitably painful for his grandfather and grandmother to deal with pain, loss, grief upsets, death, suffering of any kind. They would avoid - or minimize -talking about anything that was negative. Instead they would lie to each other - hold onto secrets thinking it was their best option.
Michael was able to see in those last ten days of his grandfathers life -- just how crushing his grandparents marriage really was at times due to all secrets & lies they both kept hidden.
I appreciate Michael writing this book for a couple of reasons:
......The more I read - it becomes clear how family bonds get stuck and pass down - generation to generation - behaviors that undercut & destroy relationships.
Michael set out to change those patterns. The secrets are out of the bag....
Terrific stories! Terrific storytelling.
At the end of Michael's grandfathers life, his doctor prescribed a powerful hydromorphone against the pain of bone cancer.
Michael begins his story by telling us what his grandfather was like as a child in South Philadelphia- a wild kid - who once threw a kitten out of a window.
The storytelling jumps around - which slowed down my reading to be honest. I didn't mind - but several times I turned back pages to check dates....
Was I in the 60's or 80's? The first 80-100 pages I read extra slow...
It took me a little longer ( slow turd), to understand the importance "Rockets, Missiles, and Space Travel", by Willy Ley - a favorite book of grandfather- was to him ... and just how big of a turning point that book might have been. Michael's grandfather, who normally drove to every shuttle firing--- had a silent boycott during the Apollo era --shocking his parents on July 20, 1969 after months of displaying fascination and excitement about the imminent manned landing on the moon, he had abruptly declined to join his family when the entire population of earth was watching Neil Armstrong fulfill the lifelong dream that Von Braun and his grandfather both shared.
All he said was...."the way they have done it is totally wrong".
Years later - he never wanted to miss a launch again!!!!
I found Michael's grandfather fascinating!!!
At times I was cracking up. His clothes - for example. Gramps ( I'm just going to call Michael's grandfather- Gramps from here on out).....was living in Florida after his wife died. His daily "uniform"....( so to speak), consisted of khaki shorts, one of seven he purchased at Kmart, to go with his one of seven polo shirts. On his feet he wore leather sandals, imitation Birkenstocks of Israeli manufacture with white tube socks.
Paul, my husband, told me --- don't ever let me wear tube socks with sandals when I become an old man! ( cute....as this visual IS Paul's visual of BEING OLD).
Other parts were sad: January 28, 1986- was the 11th yahrzeit of his wife's death -
Michael's grandmother- and Gramps was at the grave in Pennsylvania. At the same time - same day - Tuesday - an O-ring failed at Cape Canaveral. The shuttle began to break apart. His grandfather did not know until he got back to his motor lodge.
Michael called his grandfather that day- as soon as he heard the news....
Gramps was saying "Too goddamn cold". "36° at launch. Idiot bureaucrats".
Michael and his grandfather talked about the cemetery ...
Michael says, "I know you miss her. I wish you were still here".
Gramps says, "I'm glad she isn't. If she saw the mess her grave is, she be furious and she'd blame me. Because I insisted on that cemetery".
We learn as much about Michael's grandmother as we do his grandfather...
Her fortune telling cards, The painful life she had growing up during the war, her mental illness, ( the private suffering), and a lot about their marriage together.
I loved it .... and I couldn't help think about my own grandpa and grandma Cookie... Who lived in Oakland and were in a Jewish home late in life.
I fully enjoyed the richness of family history - honesty- Jewish roots - and Michael's devotion to family.
This book is a HUGE GIFT for the Jewish Community!
Jewish Book clubs all over the states will be having discussions -
I'll be reading this book again in the spring of 2017 with a group in the Bay Area
This book was picked as THE BOOK of the YEAR for "Jewish Learning"....
A project of the Jewish Community Library. Michael will be speaking all over the Bay Area in many months to come!
Congratulations, Michael. -
4.5 stars
Michael Chabon has held a place in my literary heart ever since I read
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay and has insured that place with his latest book. Chabon's inspiration for the book were the stories his grandfather told while he was on pain killers and close to death. In his opening author's note, though he warns us that what we will soon be reading may not exactly be true.
" In preparing this memoir, I have stuck to the facts, except when facts refused to conform with memory, narrative purpose, or the truth as I prefer to understand it. Whatever liberties have been taken with names, dates, places, events, and conversations, or with the identities, motivations, and the interrelationships of family members and historical personages, the reader is assured that they have been taken with due abandon."
For me, whether the stories and memories are totally true or partially imagined just didn't matter. I'll take them as they are , whatever they are because I felt they were told by Chabon with love and it felt like he had perhaps captured the essence of this history - his family's. His grandfather almost kills his boss, almost blows up a bridge, and is obsessed with rockets. The stories are funny and sad, and feel real , moving around times from the present, to before he met Chabon's grandmother, to his time in the war, arriving at Nordhausen concentration camp after the liberation, to their life together, to his time in prison, to the retirement community where his grandfather lived at the end of his life. While the changes in time and place aren't always seamless, the telling was very much like our memories, a little complex and not always in chronological order . I also loved when he tells of his grandmother and the stories she told him . Her story was a sad one as we learn of her past , her demons , and mental breakdowns. There were times when I asked myself where this narrative was going and the answer is straight to the heart .
I felt at times, it was a little drawn out, thus not quite 5 stars but I definitely recommend it, especially if to Chabon fans. Thanks to HarperCollins and Edelweiss for the opportunity to read this advance copy . -
"I see the hidden lovers, fates entangled like their bodies, waiting for release from the gravity that held them down all their lives."
- Michael Chabon, Moonglow
Fantastic. I needed to chew on this for a night, to stare at the moon, dream, and fantasize about what I really wanted to say -- and write my panegyric in a delicate space after the book.
First, I sometimes wonder if there is a genre Chabon can't master with his metaphors, his exuberance and his fantasy? At this point, he could write a book centered on zoophilic and beastial erotica and I'd gladly plunk down the full-price cost AND read it. Anyway, last night as the stars blossomed and the moon swung up over the Superstition Mountains, I felt a tug of ideas, but I needed to let them seep, to swirl, to swim and sink into the dark side of my brain. Perhaps, I'm ready. Who knows?
I'm not sure if Chabon has even read
Karl Ove Knausgård, but Chabon is doing something similar. He is playing with the structure of memoir, but it isn't memoir even exactly. It isn't a biography of his mother, grandmother, grandfather EXACTLY. It is family fan fiction. It is fictionalized memoir, an autobiographical novel.
Chabon, gives it up in his Author's Note:
"In preparing this memoir, I have stuck to the facts except when the facts refused to conform with memory, narrative purpose, or the truth as I prefer to understand it. Whenever liberties have been taken with names, dates, places, events, and conversations, or with the identities, motivations, and interrelationships of family members and historical personages, the reader is assured that they have been taken with due abandon."
There is a scene in the book where Chabon is describing his mother, playing with horses carved by her father. Through the act of narrowing her eyes, squinting, she was able to transform these carved toys into real horses as she played. THAT is what Chabon is doing. He is narrowing his eyes on his family's history. He is letting his imagination take the information he has and bend it, fill in the gaps, expand into an almost magical fancy. It really is a thing of wonder.
The real amazing thing too about this book is it gives the reader the license and permission to do the same thing to his/her own history. We as humans are natural mythmakers. Is Chabon doing anything different than his Jewish forefathers did with the Old Testament's great myths? The telling, and retelling of these "family" stories start to get bent into family folklore. Pieces are added and subtracted until a new story a new myth is constructed. It might not be straight and accurate according to carbon dating, sequences, or people. The ledgers might not quite ever balance, but at its heart ... these family stories/myths contain our BIG truths. They contain us and our humanity, both our ugly, painful, and grounded past, and our lofty dreams of moons, lovers and rockets. -
Just as you sense some authors haven’t yet written their best book – Zadie Smith? - you feel others have already written their masterpiece and no matter how many more they write they will never quite top it. Nicole Krauss with The History of Love springs to mind. As does Chabon with
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay. I’d be amazed if he ever tops that. Moonglow doesn’t but nevertheless it is a thrilling and highly distinguished achievement.
First of all, think of your own favourite grandfather and try to put together a narrative of his life. I’m sure you’ll soon realise some defining “facts” have never quite been verified, that there are conflicting reports of certain events, one or other of which you choose to believe to suit your own narrative, that there’s a fair bit of hearsay colouring his story and there are blanks you yourself have endeavoured to fill in. It was fitting I read this together with Orlando, a high spirited pastiche of the pretensions of all biography. Moonglow is purportedly a memoir of Chabon’s grandfather but it reads like a highly sophisticated novel. Often while reading I found myself thinking, no one surely could have a grandfather this interesting, so tailor made to be the hero of a novel. The same was true of his grandmother who, it will turn out, has created a fictitious self to survive the fallout of her wartime experiences. That misted twilight realm between fact and fiction is where this book mostly operates. It makes you think a lot about memory, its expedient ordering principles, its white lies and its hindsight stocktaking and balancing of the books. The other hugely impressive facet of this book is its structure. Chabon’s grandfather is dying of cancer when he narrates haphazardly to his grandson his memories. Chabon resists any temptation to write a chronological account of his grandfather’s life. Instead it’s as if he mirrors the non-linear laws of memory’s treasure hunting determination to find meaning and order.
Like I said the material he has to work with is the stuff of any novelist’s dreams. His grandfather’s role in the Second World War is to find the Nazi rocket scientist, Wernher von Braun, before the Russians do. When he learns of the thousands of slave workers deployed to build the rockets his intention is to kill Braun. He marries an Auschwitz survivor. She is as compelling a character as the grandfather and their marriage is depicted with moving though unsentimental tenderness. When she has a breakdown his anger is such that he tries to kill his boss, for no reason except to vent his rage, and is sent to prison. He has a lifelong obsession with rockets and space travel, a talent in this field too. “The rocket was beautiful. In conception it had been shaped by an artist to break a chain that had bound the human race ever since we first gained consciousness of earth's gravity and all its analogs in suffering, failure and pain. It was at once a prayer sent heavenward and the answer to that prayer: Bear me away from this awful place.”
Annoyingly I watched a documentary about the hunt for the Nazi rocket scientists a month before starting this. I can’t now remember if Michael Chabon’s grandfather was mentioned. No doubt in my memory of the programme he will eventually play a starring role. Often fiction can come so much closer to defining truth than facts. -
Memoir, fictional novel, exaggerations or just Chabon's musings, whichever way you choose to look at it, just know this book was written with a great deal of love. It shines through in the writing.
As his grandfather laid dying he shared stories of his life with his grandson. Let me tell you this man lived many different lives, tried to kill his boss, blow up a bridge, spent time in prison, worked for the space program designing model rockets and loved and married a woman with mental difficulties. The novel goes back and forth, different stages of his grandfathers life, Michael discussing these thongs with his mother, his mother's recollections and his grandmother's forays into mental illness.
I did think the coverage of rockets, which was his grandfather's passion always, was somewhat too lengthy, and I admit to skimming some of these sections. Yet, the other events in his life more than made up for this, it was all so interesting, almost voyeuristic, looking into someone's personal history.
The funny and coincidental thing about this is that the only other book of Chabons that I read, Wonder Boys, featured a snake. A snake was also an important part of this book, occurring in his grandfather's life before he found out he was sick. Rockets and snakes? Well this is Chabon after all.
ARC from publisher. -
I started Moonglow last week on a park bench, outside of my daughters' day camp, and by page 3, I knew, with total confidence, that as soon as I finished the book, I'd be reading it again.
By page 10, I was digging in my purse for my post-it notes and my pen, refusing to avert my eyes from the page to do so, pen cap in my mouth, scrawling Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse 5, and is Chabon the Philip Roth of Philadelphia?, and perhaps madness is caused by a person being unable to find their place in the continuum?
I was 100 pages into the book before I realized I was sitting in full sun, sweat was dripping down the sides of my face, and I had a moment of thinking, it's okay, I'll swim when I get home, picturing the pool that was in our backyard my entire childhood but that hasn't been a part of my life now for 21 years. I lost all sense of time and place and briefly thought I was a child again, and I had to force myself to look up from the book and shake my head. I was entranced. I was transfixed.
But, it's fitting. This is, after all, a book about the continuum, the interweaving of all generations, of all of our stories. And it's about trauma, and suffering. And sex and joy.
Oh, and it's about gravity. And rockets.
You see, it turns out. . . we are not always the hero in the story. And that sucks, because we thought we were. We imagined that we were always the good guy or the bad guy, not both, at different times. It's painful to discover that your grandfather was once the hero who risked life and limb to save a cat from an alligator, but was also the same boy who once callously tossed a kitten from a third story window.
And so it goes.
We are the “lonely slaves of gravity,” the ones who make good choices, the same ones who make bad choices, the ones who have convinced ourselves that we are so very different from our great-grandfather or our aunt or our father.
And gravity pushes down on us, crushes our faces against the earth, makes us feel puny and small, so some of us dream of flying to the moon, blasting off to be free.
We put our hopes and dreams into a shiny, metal phallus, the rocket, the ultimate metaphor for escapism, only to learn (in several really long chapters) that the rocket's origins are steeped in Holocaust madness. We thought the rocket was everything good and everything right (just like people), but the rocket “was not a means to liberate the human spirit from the chains of gravity; it was only a pretext for further enchainment.”
Sh*t!
So, you can't blast off, and you can't keep from being yanked down, chained by your own gravity, and it's not a good idea to be “weightless and drifting,” either.
You're orbiting. . . and you need to find a way to make that work.
And Chabon, like all gifted writers, can't solve your problems. He can only shed some moonlight on your situation.
And may I end with. . . Hot damn, Mr. Chabon. Hot damn, sir. -
4.5 Stars
Chabon’s Author’s Note at the beginning of Moonglow this states:
In preparing this memoir, I have stuck to facts except when facts refused to conform with memory, narrative purpose, or the truth as I prefer to understand it. Wherever liberties have been taken with names, dates, places, events, and conversations, or with the identities, motivations, and interrelationships of family members and historical personages, the reader is assured that they have been taken with due abandon.
Moonglow is an account, perhaps fictionalized, perhaps not, of the lives of members of the family of Chabon, with Chabon’s character as narrator. His grandfather shared stories that were revealed under the influence of prescriptions for the pain he suffered from with bone cancer, and shortly before his death. A week of stories told, revelations from his grandfather’s younger years. Out of these stories comes Chabon’s story of his grandfather’s stint in prison, his years in the horrors of WWII, the draw that space held for him, rockets, the race to the Moon. Stories about his grandmother who grew up in France during the war, his mother, his Uncle. Fortune telling. Skinless horses.
”Ninety percent of everything he ever told me about his life, I heard during its final ten days.”
There’s a dreamlike quality that wanders in and out of this story, or stories, you’re able to see what his grandfather saw, and feel what his grandfather felt through the haze of time, distance and pain. Even without the drug-induced fog, his grandfather was never a reliable source of information.
”Most of the questions people asked you, he felt, were there to fill up dead space, curtail your movements, divert your energy and attention. Anyway, my grandfather and his emotions were never really on speaking terms.”
This novel was a finalist for the NBCC 2016 Award for Fiction, ALA Carnegie Medal Finalist for Excellence in Fiction, Wall Street Journal’s Best Novel of the Year, a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, a Washington Post Best Book of the Year, an NPR Best Book of the Year, a Wall Street Journal Best Book of the Year, a Slate Best Book of the Year, a Christian Monitor Top 15 Fiction Book of the Year, a New York Magazine Best Book of the Year, a San Francisco Chronicle Book of the Year and a Buzzfeed Best Book of the Year. In other words, it has been lauded by those people that make LISTS of the best and the brightest.
So, what can I say? I loved it. It might get a tiny bit bogged down once or twice, or maybe that was just me having an unusually reading-time-interrupted (and thus, frustrating) week, but there was much about this that I loved. It made me wish, yet again, that I could find some old tapes of my father, interviewing some of his old flying buddies. I loved the adventures this takes the reader on, through New Jersey, through Florida, through Germany, through different eras, places.
"Everything you've been telling me is true, though, right?"
"Well, it's all the way I remember it happening," he said. "Beyond that I make no guarantees."
Some books are read and go straight to the heart, and stay there. For me, this was that kind of book. I will remember the story, but I doubt I will ever forget the way this went right to my heart. -
Given the opportunity, and if I could work out the mechanics of it, I would do some things to Michael Chabon’s prose, things that would make Ron Jeremy and Jenna Jameson blush. Because that stuff is purty.
The hallmark of true greatness (and let’s call the requirements for greatness a combination of natural talent and aptitude, sweat equity, and single-minded devotion to craft) is making something exceedingly difficult look effortless (a little bit like how I make it look so easy to poke yourself in the eye while trying to drink through a straw), and no matter how lyrical or grammatically obscure Chabon’s prose, it skates easily across the surface of the page, the most well-honed pair of skates on a perfectly Zambonied ice rink.
Contrast his prose with, say, Jonathan Franzen or the late and rightfully oft-lamented David Foster Wallace, both comparable titans of the modern American literary fiction scene—when I read one of their most finely crafted sentences, I find myself thinking, “now THAT is a writer.” Of course, if I’m thinking that, then what I’m NOT thinking about any longer is the story—and that can be distracting, even if it���s worth it to appreciate their linguistic gymnastics.
Chabon at his best, on the other hand, somehow manages the neat trick of writing with a skill and elegance that is nearly peerless, but feels so natural that you are immersed in the world he creates from start to finish. That’s not to say that he doesn’t have his own episodic occurrences of writeritis, mind you (witness the bulk of
Gentlemen of the Road, for example), but they are fewer and farther between, it seems.
I should note that Chabon’s plotting and storytelling are not always equal to his prose; after feeling somewhat let down by
Telegraph Avenue and
The Yiddish Policemen's Union, I went into Moonglow with some trepidation, a feeling that persisted through the first quarter of the book as I struggled to get into the flow. Once I did, however, and I found it happened right around the time Chabon begins describing his grandfather’s experiences in World War II, I got sucked back into that familiar and blissful state of simultaneously admiring Chabon’s dazzling skill while not really noticing it.
Moonglow purports to be a somewhat ficitionalized biography of Chabon’s maternal (but not genetic) grandfather, but as one might expect, the veracity of the tale is questionable at best (and revealed to be even more tenuous in the book’s Acknowledgments). If it doesn’t throb with the restless, youthful energy and heartache of
The Mysteries of Pittsburgh or match the epic grandeur and scope of
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, it still manages to carve out a rightful place alongside some of Chabon’s better work, a quieter but still imaginative meditation on truth, story, perception, grief, anger, dreams, and, above all, the messy byproduct of the union of those things we call life. -
Moonglow by Michael Chabon is a 2016 Harper publication.
I must admit, up front, that I’ve never read a book by this author. That is not to say I don’t have his books sitting on my shelves, or loaded onto my Kindle, because I do. However, I’ve never managed to get around to reading them.
My library was really pushing this book recently, so I placed a hold on it. Shockingly, few people were ahead of me, so I nabbed a copy almost immediately.
Having no idea what to expect, but hoping for something different and maybe a little challenging, I dived into what some have referred to as a ‘novel memoir’ or memoir/novel.
Michael Chabon, in 1989, travels to Oakland, California to visit his dying grandfather. Never having revealed a great deal to his grandson during his life, his grandfather decides to remedy that, by regaling Michael with stories from his colorful and adventurous life, while on his deathbed.
‘Ninety percent of everything he ever told me about his life, I heard in its final ten days.’
The author never refers to his grandfather by name, and I have no idea why, but the gentleman lived through many significant phases in history. His tale is not told chronologically, but skips through time in no particular order. While I’m usually pretty good at dealing with flashbacks in novels, this nilly willy time trip, did create some problems for me at times. I also lost interest a time or two, as the topics just didn’t appeal to me, in any way.
But, there were poignant moments that made up for those dry spells. I may have this all wrong, but I gathered the grandfather was the main focus of the book, and the other characters were meant to be secondary. I didn’t know what to make of his grandfather for a while, but by the end of the book, I realized I had enjoyed getting to know the man and appreciated his humor.
Now, why is the book labeled as a novel memoir?
“In preparing for this memoir, I have stuck to the facts except when the facts refused to conform with memory, narrative purpose, or the truth as I prefer to understand it.”
How much is absolute truth, how much is embellishment? Is it a real memoir, or a novel disguised as a memoir?
Either way, the book is unique, with realistic and compelling characterizations, and a sophisticated prose, which is what I liked best about it.
Overall, this one is a little off the beaten path for me. It’s not the type of book I would want to read often, but I am glad I gave it a try, and it has inspired me to move the books I already own by this author closer to the top of my TBR pile.
3.5 stars -
Dimly Reflected Emotions
Sadly Gary Cooper never made a film with Vivien Leigh. But with a script like Moonglow, they couldn’t have avoided it. The omni-competent nice guy and the sexy but flakey European as his wife are parts made for them (the required French accent wouldn’t have been all that far from her role in A Streetcar Named Desire). With all the necessary schmaltz, Yiddish wit, and Holocaust sub-text, it would have been instant boffo - America as it once was and may be becoming again: proud of its wars, politely but insistently racist, with rotten health care and tribal politics, and an ultimate hope for resting place in God’s gated community somewhere in the Florida swamps.
Depending on the Director, the script could take various tacks, from the edifying and heart-felt family drama of Miracle on 34th St. to a sarcastic variant of Dr. Strangelove. The tone depends entirely how the key decisions in the lives of the protagonists are pitched: as inevitable human tragedies or obviously avoidable mistakes. So much is hidden by Chabon as the story unfolds that it could be told with alternate points of view as it goes along. After all, the male lead does begin to appreciate eventually what he’s got himself into in marrying a ‘survivor’: “Like many of the spouses of ‘the lucky ones,’ my grandfather had observed that what got labeled luck was really stubbornness married to a knack for observation, a fluid sense of the truth, a sharp ear for lies, and a deeply suspicious nature.”
“She was always threatening rain; he had been born with an umbrella in his hand.” The proverbial pot and cover, therefore. He doesn’t want much: “in those years his ambition was not to own a piece of the world. Just to keep that piece from falling down or burning up around him would suffice.” But she also doesn’t give very much, especially after her stint in the mental ward: “She emerged from that first time at Greystone in a fragile and quiet state, holding herself like an egg balanced on a spoon.” ‘Repentance” he finds, therefore, “is the most solitary of pursuits”. But he really doesn’t have the leisure required for repentance given his crushing responsibilities. His obsession with space and technology lead him to an unhappy thought while contemplating a captured V2 rocket as, “a prayer sent heavenward and the answer to that prayer: Bear me away from this awful place.”
Although wonderfully written, I have an uncertain problem with Moonglow. It is clearly meant to manipulate my emotions. This Chabon knows how to do through his dead-pan humour, his pacing, his slow reveal. But I find myself asking is this what I want from fiction? A sort of emotional booster shot? Isn’t this just a variant of pornography? When I’m done, I am left with a feeling indeed; but I can’t even attach that feeling to the figure an actor or celebrity, much less someone I know. I don’t even know what to call it. Appreciation? Regret? Sympathy? Anger? Nothing fits. Chabon has magicked up a response out of nothing but words on a page. I don’t know if I’m pleased with either him or my reaction. Gary and Vivien at least would have given an illusion of reality I could hold onto. -
Chabon’s seventh novel was inspired by his maternal grandfather’s deathbed confessions in 1989—or was it? A tongue-in-cheek author’s note refers to this as a “memoir,” and it’s narrated by “Mike Chabon,” but he and “Grandfather” (never named) are characters here in the same way that Jonathan Safran Foer and his ancestors are in Everything Is Illuminated. Space travel and explosives are Grandfather’s lifelong obsessions. The chronology moves back and forth seemingly haphazardly, as if we are hearing this story exactly as it emerged. Chabon offers a rich meditation on how Jewishness and family secrets influence the creation of identity. With a seam of dark humor that brings to mind Jonas Jonasson’s The Hundred-Year-Old Man..., Moonglow inventively fuses family history and fiction but leaves cracks for happiness and meaning to shine through.
See my full review on the
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette website. -
"I'm disappointed in myself. In my life. All my life, everything I tried, I only got halfway there. You try to take advantage of the time you have. That's what they tell you to do. But when you're old, you look back and you see all you did with all that time is waste it. All you have is a story of things you never started or couldn't finish. Things you fought with all your heart to build that didn't last or fought with all your heart to get rid of and they're all still around. I'm ashamed of myself."
"I'm not ashamed of you," I said. "I'm proud of you."...
"Anyway, it's a pretty good story," I said. "You have to admit."
Moonglow is a pretty good story by Michael Chabon, a novel cum fictionalized memoir centered on Chabon's maternal grandfather but in many ways a multigenerational family portrait. I've read two of Chabon's books prior to Moonglow: his children's baseball fantasy book
Summerland that I found endearing and with great storytelling and imagination (but lost me on some of the baseball bits) and
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, one of my all time favorite books that I try to re-read every year or so. So I was expecting to enjoy Moonglow, but I was not expecting to be as enchanted as I was with this read, and formally usher Chabon into my list of favorite writers.
There are so many things I loved about Moonglow. One is how tightly wound and cohesive Chabon's narrative ultimately proves to be, when from the outset it looks like a series of anecdotes and episodes in the life of his grandfather, grandmother, mother, or other family member. But Chabon's masterful storytelling means that all of the stories have a purpose in the larger whole, and something once introduced usually reappears in a new or interesting way, and whether or not it's impactful on the whole, there are no hanging details left unresolved. Early in the narrative, in the final years of Chabon's grandfather's life, we're introduced to his quest to kill the alligator or snake that ate Ramon, a cat belonging to the deceased husband of Sally. It's a perfect meet-cute and meet-quirk of a scene, in which Sally and the grandfather interact, form opinions and revise them and revise again, and eventually leads to the grandfather beginning a relationship with Sally and embarking on the mission to find and kill the alligator/snake. Nearing the end of the book, that dangling detail comes back full circle: when Sally and the grandfather are out looking for the dastardly reptile, in the midst of a declaration of love, Ramon himself appears, bloody and blackened and fat from eating what was imagined to be his killer. If a small moment like this is properly and charmingly revisited and concluded, if differently from how the reader may have thought things would turn out, Chabon has it mastered with the larger set pieces and major themes: his grandmother's mysterious past and demons that torment her; his grandfather's love of rockets through the years; his grandfather's strong but occasionally tenyous relationship with Chabon's mother who is not his biological child.
Chabon's grandfather gets the lion's share of the attention, and he is a marvelous character and sounds as though he was also a pretty amazing man. It opens with a fantastic little moment of Chabon's grandfather basically going postal on the president of a company that just fired him: he was chosen since they felt he'd be unlikely to make any trouble, and Chabon uses this to show the reader just how wrong that idea is, and just how many levels, how many lives his grandfather has. From the streets of Philadelphia to WWII secret missions, to prison radios and rocket building to NASA model making, Chabon's grandfather wears many hats but is always devoted to his wife, increasingly troubled and unstable, and his daughter, Chabon's mother. The relationship between Chabon and his grandfather is also so well drawn, as they interrupt the storytelling to bring nonsequitors and related questions up, and we see the love between them and the family similarities, but also evidence of the generational gap and distance too of growing up in very different eras and with different guiding sensibilities. There's something somewhat Princess Bride-y in it, which adds to its charm: Chabon and his grandfather switch off narrating events (and his grandmother and mother do as well, as does Sally later on), and then there's the commentary within the story on the events or the telling of those events.
Chabon's writing is, to my taste, great: revealing, smart, light. He wields metaphor and culture and history deftly, and though he can write overlong in some passages that can slow down one's interest (sometimes on the details of the rockets I found myself wanting to hurry through), most of the time you're effortlessly carried through on the strength of the narrative, the characters, and the humor. Oh the humor in Moonglow! God I found this funny, laughing out loud in parts, appreciate chuckles in others, devouring scenes with big wide smiles. Taste is subjective of course, and not everyone has the same sense or appreciation for humor, but I loved reading Moonglow and a lot had to do with just how much fun it was to read. There's a part in which the grandfather and Chabon's mother go to visit the grandmother in the hospital, where a play is about to be performed, and a female caretaker introduces them to the author of the play:"How are you?" Mrs Outcault said very loudly.
Mr. Casamonaca nodded genially and made a looping benedictory gesture in the air, just in front of his face, more ornate than a cross, as if he were a priest in a sect whose symbol was the holy coat hanger of God.
"Sign language," Mrs. Outcault explained. "Poor thing's deaf as a boot. I heard he was struck by lightning, though I can't say for sure."
With his long pallid fingers and his nails manicured to a moonlike luster, Mr. Casamonaca continued to draw things across the space between him and my mother. The regular rippling of a corrugated roof. The outline of a jellyfish. The downward spiral of water in a toilet bowl.
Mrs. Outcault nodded emphatically. "Oh yes," she said. "I know. You're so right."
"What's he saying?"
"I have no idea," Mrs. Outcault said through a tight smile. She kept on nodding. "It isn't real sign language at all. Just something he made up. He never learned to speak English very well, and in the past few years he's lost the ability to read and write in Italian."
"He - Then how did he write a play?"
"He dictated it to your mother, which is why she has been so involved in all this. Using those crazy signs of his."
"My mom doesn't know sign language."
"Apparently, she is fluent in Mr. Casamonaca's."
My mother watched Mr. Casamonaca's hands and fingers explain the behavior of skyrockets, the opening of a beer can, and the proper means for setting a golf ball on a tee.
"It looks like he's just making it up as he goes along," she said.
"That is a popular theory," said Mrs. Outcault.
There is so much life in Moonglow: a novel with the trappings of memoir that wraps in the lives of Chabon's grandfather, grandmother, mother, and even himself in parts. The humor, the struggles, the desperation, the guilt, the Jewish culture, the bonds of blood... all here and all executed brilliantly and woven into the fabric of the larger whole. The family is so well drawn (coming from real people, I suppose it was both easier and harder to do) and the narrative strong, the moments from life well chosen to entertain and to better flesh out into a story of a family. I really liked this book, and while parts did feel like they could have been edited a bit tighter to not slow the reader's pace/enjoyment, this family saga gets 4.5 enthusiastic stars from me, rounded up for the fantastic writing and sheer fun.
"Everything you've been telling me is true, though, right?"
"Well, it's all the way I remember it happening," he said. "Beyond that I make no guarantees." -
A Magnificent Chiaroscuro
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed and gleam and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:--
"Mutability," Percy Bysshe Shelley
Moonglow, Michael Chabon's brilliantly constructed narrative, documents the narrator's conversations with his dying grandfather that travel back and forth between the grandfather on his deathbed and the story he's giving of his past.
This construct accomplished two wonderful things for Chabon's storytelling. One, it forced him to put the brakes on all the baroque prose and schmaltzy dialogue that so vexed both Telegraph Avenue (I gave it up 3/4 of the way through) and Kavalier and Clay (I know I'm an outlier on this one). Initially I was skeptical of this novel because the previous two put ants on me.
In addition, Chabon gets to show his finely honed storytelling skills--instead of trying to impress with his lexicon--by weaving together frayed story lines to compose what stroke-and-layer by stroke-and-layer becomes a magnificent chiaroscuro lingered in moonlight, of his grandfather (an admirable, ingenious, gruffly romantic man's man from the Greatest Generation), his grandmother (a fascinating and troubled soul who came to the U.S. after WWII with a young daughter on her hip and a numbered tattoo on her arm), and their unique marriage, while family secrets obscure the background.
Chabon vividly captures the mixture of pleasure and plaintive of grandpa's past, infused with charm and wit. He manages the complex construction with seeming ease while doing two things simultaneously, a skilled craft that many writers of literary novels either ignore or just do not seem to get: He propels the reader forward, while keeping her intrigued. -
This is my third book from Michael Chabon. Chabon never writes the same book twice, and each book has been terrific in its own way.
His endlessly celebrated—and one of my all-time favourite novels— The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay trades comic book shtick with political and societal upheaval while building some of the most memorable character moments I’ve ever read.
The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, by contrast, is a gumshoe noir set in a fictional Jewish settlement in Alaska that could sit comfortably beside Pynchon’s Inherent Vice. What the two books share, aside from an author, are a dedication to character, stellar writing, a fascination with the ephemera of times past, and deeply humanistic narratives that stuck with me long after the final pages were turned. Other than that, the books are wildly different.
Moonglow, again, twisted my expectations of a Chabon novel. First thing: it isn’t really a novel, but not quite a memoir. Chabon has pasted together conversations with his palliative grandfather in his final days, oodles of research, historical fact, memory (that tricky, unreliable, ephemeral creature), and liberties taken to “conform with memory, narrative purpose, or the truth as I prefer to understand it (Author’s Note, Moonglow.” It makes for a tale that seems at times to be too strange to be non-fiction, to personal to be anything but real, and had me questioning throughout what was true. In a stroke of brilliance, the questions I was asking about the narrative are the same that Chabon’s family ends up asking through his research.
This time-hopping, perspective shifting narrative both serves to keep the story moving at a lively pace while inviting the reader into the thicket of the diverging accounts with which Chabon has been wrestling. It’s a clever way of putting the reader in the headspace of the writer, but the book never seems like an experiment in structure alone. The book is filled with stories and recollections that run the full gamut of human feeling. There’s the account of Chabon’s grandfather in his golden years sojourning into the woods in pursuit of a household pet-eating snake that is equal parts comedic and poignant display of grief. This is then juxtaposed with a WWII mission where his grandfather plays an interesting part in the American pursuit of V-2 rocket technology. The story jumps from adventure, to reminiscence, to regret, the joy of discovery, the pursuit of a worthy task, and familial love.
What most surprised me with the novel/memoir was how large a part Chabon’s grandmother plays in the proceedings. The synopsis on the dust jacket downplays her involvement, though her story is central to the telling made by Chabon’s grandfather on his deathbed. The revelations made by the stories told by his grandfather contrast with historical fact and, later, medical documentation. There are truths and lies woven together in the same spirit of love that they become almost impossible to separate without destroying the entire tapestry.
What I’ve written so far downplays the humanistic narrative of the story. Chabon’s grandfather’s struggle to bring comfort to his mentally ill wife is heart wrenching in its stoic portrayal of love. Chabon’s grandmother serves initially as a mystery, then a tragic character, but resolves into person that seems real because of her conflicted nature. Just a little over the mid-way point of the novel, this exchange between Chabon and his grandfather about the nature of their conversations seem to drive home the purpose of the novel.”You think this explains everything,” my grandfather said. He freighted the word explains with as much contempt as it would bear before exiling it from his mouth. “Me and your grandmother. Your mother. My time in prison. The war.” He turned from the window.
In his eyes, through the haze of hydromorophone, I saw a flash of something I took, based on the historical record, for anger. “You think it explains you.”
“It explains a lot,” I said.
“It explains nothing.”
“It explains a little.” (Moonglow page 239-240)
It’s true: the novel does not explain everything. It does not tie up the narrative in a neat little bow and send it on its way towards the reader. It struggles against its packaging and it refuses to conform to any box that might hold it. Chabon's books are each different, I think, because he's trying to answer a different question with each project. In his writing of Moonglow, Chabon explains a little in an effort to explain himself. Though it might not all fit together and conform to a single vision of the truth, it makes a strong approximation of truth. It is that pursuit of truth to which many of us aspire, and Moonglow is the beautiful struggle of one man to uncover that truth. -
Though this is billed as a memoir it reads like a riveting novel. It's surprising how a life can be organised into a watertight constellation where everything falls so neatly into the place. Aren't lives messy and disordered and unfinished? Chabon's grandparents though are a novelist's dream. The grandfather is an amateur rocket enthusiast. During the war he is part of a special operation tasked with finding the designer of the V2 rocket before the Russians get him. This is Wernher Von Braun. In many ways he is what the grandfather dreams of being, a genius. Except when the grandfather sees the conditions under which the slave workers were compelled to toil his prevailing emotion towards Von Braun becomes murderous. I didn't know the man who later sent man to the moon on behalf of America could have been and probably should have been tried as a war criminal.
But more compelling is the tortuous but loving relationship shared by Chabon's grandparents. The grandmother is a French Jew who, unlike the rest of her family, survived Hitler's psychopathic insanity. However, it appears she has told a few lies. I loved all the sections where Chabon recounts his childhood memories of his mentally unstable but compelling grandmother. It's often the detail, always exuberantly and eloquently and deftly chosen, that makes this such a fabulous read. And how beautifully he elegises the sustaining love shared by two immensely loveable eccentric outcasts.
Chabon writes brilliantly and he's a handsome devil to boot! -
Like so many others, Michael Chabon won me over with
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay and this novel/memoir (?) looked to be infused with the same kinds of playfulness and seriousness. The opening promise that the author had 'stuck to facts except when facts refused to conform to memory, narrative purpose or the truth as I prefer to understand it' speaks so much to how we all construct our memories and especially the ways in which we relate them to others.
Bearing this in mind, the story about his grandfather throwing a cat out of a third story window for the sake of curiosity did not endear me to him as a character. I genuinely struggled to reignite my interest in the man afterwards, which only goes to show that I was completely lost within the narrative/memoir maze of the book. When reading other novels, I don't worry whether each little vignette is real and how it reflects on the 'real man'. Chabon's gambit worked. I know not what was real or what wasn't. This feeling is exacerbated by the typically magical Chabon language and metaphor; he rarely chooses to illustrate moments in the way which my mind was primed to expect. His work is all chaos, but always utterly compelling.
He still loses a star for probably killing a cat.
ARC via Netgalley -
“Moonglow” is a wondrous book that celebrates the power of family bonds and the slipperiness of memory. Chabon suggests that it was written as an act of rebellion against his upbringing. “Keeping secrets was the family business,” he says, “but it was a business that none of us ever profited from.” His courage to break that code of silence was inspired by stories his dying grandfather told him more than 25 years ago. “His fetish for self-reliance made him secretive,” Chabon says, but their final meeting produced an unusual torrent of reminiscence. “Ninety percent of everything he ever told me about his life,” Chabon writes, “I heard during the final ten days.” And — what do you know! — the old man turns out to have been a Jewish superhero with a brain “whose flights of preposterous idealism were matched only by its reveries of unfettered violence. . . .
To read the full review and watch The Totally Hip Video Book Review, go to The Washington Post:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/entert... -
This is my first experience reading Michael Chabon. It won't be the last. This work has captivated me for the past week as I moved from story to story with "Mike" as his grandfather related the experiences of his lifetime. The whole notion of a fictionalized autobiography left me rather cold before reading Moonglow. Now I'm a convert...I believe that a truly skilled writer can inspire me, thrill me, using unexpected literary combinations....especially when they are filled with the obvious love that Chabon brings to this work.
What is "real" and what is not is probably beside the point here. One point is the importance of the stories we tell in our families, how we create our lore and sense of who we are. This can rise or fall on problems of trust but can be saved by love. You may detect my avoiding certain specifics about the book, such as who is at the center, etc., well I guess I am. A young man named Mike is narrating this book based on the conversations he had with his maternal grandfather shortly before his grandfather died. Or did he. What stories have come from within the author's mind vs from within his family.
There was an afterword in my edition (and hopefully in all) wherein Chabon talks more about what is at play in this book, the family stories, his grandfather, grandmother, his mother, "real" memories vs family lore vs the type of memories that children retain based partly on reality and partly on confused recollection. Then there is the mind of the author who uses his creativity to bring his family together in a story which combines everything. Understand, this is me the reader speaking here. I am not paraphrasing the author. I am trying to put some form on this book for myself.
BUT it doesn't need it. It is something to be enjoyed for itself and I recommend that you do. -
Every so often, there comes a book that is so heartbreakingly real and so stylistically accomplished that it makes you feel like you're never going to pick up another book again, because what would be the point? Then there are those times when a book so sparks you with a love of narrative and of your fellow people, that you want to rush out and just smother yourself in stories. Michael Chabon's latest is, somehow, both of these. Easily my favourite book of the year.
-
Update - great interview explaining the fiction
http://www.powells.com/post/interview...
5★
“The girl’s lips were painted red as Bicycle hearts and diamonds, and they parted to reveal an Ingrid Bergman smile to go with the sunglasses. My grandfather heard a sound inside his head that he compared, years later, to the freight-train rumble of an earthquake. He felt he was standing in the path of something fast-moving and gigantic that, in its blindness, was bound to carry him away. Swept off his feet, he thought. This is that.”
A love story, a history, a fantasy. Who knows how much of each comprises this amazing “biography” of the narrator’s grandfather? He’s shown to be an inventive, rocket-mad tinkerer and engineer (we think) whose first name we never learn. He’s built hundreds of models, ostensibly for NASA, and now he’s dying and talking to his grandson, “Mike”, about things he’s never spoken of before. As Mike says:
“In my family, in my lifetime, we preferred to leave the business of feeling, and talking about feeling, to people with nothing better to do.”
Grandfather is not a talker, but he’s a lover and loves the ladies. The opening quotation is how he described meeting Mike’s grandmother, a gorgeous, mercurial, mad butterfly of a woman who could sew copies of the latest designs much as his grandfather could make or repair almost anything. These two could have created a life on a desert island, I’m sure, and in many ways they DID live on an island of their own making.
Grandmother’s wonderful, terrible madness had a life of its own, as did her mind, and her daughter, the narrator’s mother, was certainly scarred by it. Grandmother brought her young daughter ("my mother") to America after the war, which was when Grandfather met them.
Mother is much loved but often neglected, due to craziness and business. There is an extensive history of the various businesses the family is involved in, and mother's upbringing is disjointed and colourful, to say the least.
My experience with memoirs and biographies is that while they may reveal some embarrassing personal anecdotes or unfortunate traits, and they may try to delve into the soul, they seldom go into the bedroom. It’s one thing for a lover to tell all about his or her own love life, often a case of “the older I get, the better I used to be” (pardon my sarcasm), but for a grandson to write the kind of intimate, almost voyeuristic sex scenes included here is really unsettling! His grandparents share a visceral passion for each other.
The characters are always “my grandfather” or “my grandmother” or “my mother” except for uncles and others, who are identified by name. So even when the story is about these people in their youth, we follow “my grandfather”, hiding from the Germans at the end of WW2, or lusting after young women.
In this instance, his grandparents are adults, but still! This is not something I imagine a grandfather would ever have discussed with a grandson, nor most of the rest of his private life either. And if anyone had told ME this, I don't think I could have repeated it! I will put this behind a spoiler lest I offend any delicate sensibilities. Grandfather is having trouble sleeping, separated as he is from his wife.
Incidents and stories are not told in chronological order, and occasionally I’d be confused about whether “I” was the narrator or the grandfather recounting his exploits. But it never stopped me from enjoying the book.
WW2 gave grandfather a close encounter with a V2 rocket, the stuff of dreams for him, and while he hated Werner Von Braun for the atrocities of the Nazis (because he used labor from the camps to build his designs), he also felt sorry that these marvellous inventions that should take man to the moon were being used for war.
“The rocket was beautiful. In conception it had been shaped by an artist to break a chain that had bound the human race ever since we first gained consciousness of earth’s gravity and all its analogs in suffering, failure, and pain. It was at once a prayer sent heavenward and the answer to that prayer: Bear me away from this awful place. To pack the thing with a ton of amatol, to hobble it so that instead of tearing loose once and for all from the mundane pull, it only arced back to earth and killed the people among whom it fell, was to abuse it.”
I don’t know what the significance of the matches on the cover are, but a particular cigarette lighter figures all through the book, as do the moon and the stars. Many a match or lighter has ignited a rocket, though. The moon and the stars are always where the grandfather’s focus is. Sneaking out one night with a friend, up to no good . . .
“By design they had chosen a moonless night, but the weather was clear, and over my grandfather’s head the circuitry of heaven was printed in bright joints of solder.”
I would love to believe it all, the priest in wartime France, the woman in Florida who seduces the grandfather, the mad plan to blow up a bridge, the arrow that puts out an eye – all of it.
The Jewish experience in America during and post-WW2 was particularly special, because while the war was fought to stop Hitler and save the Jews, they were still outsiders and tended to band together behind a protective wall of tradition and culture, language and food. At least that’s the feeling I got from this.
And I enjoyed the wisdom of recognising that while we may break free of the shackles of our upbringing for many years, as we get older, we find ourselves retreating back into some of the beliefs and routines of our childhood. Here, the mother is now making chicken soup for the dying grandfather. Perhaps it's a way of pretending we're living in a time when there was an adult in charge to take care of us. I wonder.
Love the stories, love the book. I couldn’t bear to live with any of these people (nor they with me, I suspect), but I’d love to know them. In fact, I feel I do.
========
P.S. Having been asked whether this is fiction or not, I will quote the Author's Note which introduces the book. I love the throwaway comment, "with due abandon". :)
Author’s Note
"In preparing this memoir, I have stuck to facts except when facts refused to conform with memory, narrative purpose, or the truth as I prefer to understand it. Wherever liberties have been taken with names, dates, places, events, and conversations, or with the identities, motivations, and interrelationships of family members and historical personages, the reader is assured that they have been taken with due abandon."
P.P.S. Re "red as Bicycle hearts and diamonds", see
http://www.bicyclecards.com/product-c... -
Grandfather's deathbed confessions: the type of stuff REAL authors take on. Classy, refined...autobiographical and therefore affecting. But early on Chabon mentions that yup, this is A NOVEL. The protagonist's grandkid is the writer, so this is second hand, but has a hint of fiction. But where is it? What is the ruse in this novel that is more of an extended multi-part anecdote, in fact, than a contrived, or classical, plot? "Moonglow" is bouncy; it is fluidly told with great confidence. Dude's craaafty...
Unfortunately we live in a time where most forms of privilege is shunned (well, if you're woke), so we cant help but realize how much, how good, white people have had it and continue to*. This writer's life is an American Beauty: families scattered all over the U.S., disconnected despite being related by blood, and, of course, Mental Illness. His mother and grandmother suffered (the dad had to cope). And so we have the prodigal turned-it-arounder, the fabulous Micheal Chabon**. He could take on a more interesting subject, is my thought.
*Just catch "First Man" (or select to nap instead), which is about the adulation of American Man... where he can do stuff because he has nothing to fear, society-wise. But is, at the core, thoroughly vanilla.
**Note hint of disdain. Still cannot believe that Chabon's great but not absolutely perfect "Kavalier & Clay" beat out Blonde by Joyce Carol Oates for the Pulitzer. It may be my absolute literary grudge. -
I started this one and then set it aside, uncertain if I felt like finishing it. I lugged it to Baltimore with me, knowing I would likely not have time to read it, because some of it is set there.
This is a novel about family memory and legacy, and goes back and forth between a somewhat fictional "Mike" interviewing his grandfather on his death bed and scenes in the history of his grandfather's life. Sometimes it feels like Gravity's Rainbow fanfic, especially all the V-2 bits. And I'm not sure that it is a novel I'll particularly remember later on.
"...In the ordinary course of life, it was probably best to say what was in your heart, to share what was on your mind, to tell the people you loved that you loved them, to ask those you had harmed to forgive you and to confront those who had hurt you with the truth about the damage they had done. When it came to things that needed to be said speech was always preferable to silence, but it was of no use at all in the presence of the unspeakable."
This happens midway through the book, and I think up to this point, most of the events have been pretty predictable. Afterwards, there are some stories that are somewhat shocking, I guess, but because of the way they are encountered in the text, they lack the impact they may have otherwise. They aren't the point, the climax, just these amazing pieces of information that get swept past quickly because truly focusing on them would be too uncomfortable, perhaps, or maybe by then the fact that they had occurred in the past took all the power out of them. It was a strange approach, and would probably have been handled differently by a different author.
Or maybe this explains it, from about 100 pages later:
"What's the point of talking about it?" my mother said. "Everybody already knows." -
Sometimes I finish a book, and I loved it, but I feel too puny a mind to say anything to do it justice. I just am not learned enough, wise enough, deep enough. I am at a loss for words.
Moonglow by Michael Chabon sat on my Edelweiss shelf for 45 days until I could finally make a space to read it, read 'out of order', as I read based on a book's publication date.
I have enjoyed all the novels I've read by Chabon: The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, The Wonder Boys, and The Yiddish Policeman's Union. I have The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay and Telegraph Avenue on my TBR shelf. (The real books bookshelf, not ebooks!) And I'd been hearing a buzz that Moonglow is Chabon's best book yet.
Chabon makes me laugh. That's golden. Especially in a novel about the effect of war on the lives of the narrator's grandparents, where happiness is found 'in the cracks' between failure and mental health breakdowns, and heroes are found to be villians, and fiction is better than knowing the truth.
Stories told to Chabon by his terminally ill grandfather inspired Moonglow. In the novel, a grandfather reveals what had remained unspoken, a gift for his grandson (Chabon) to turn into an orderly account, with the admonition to 'make it mean something.'
His fictionalized grandfather, a Drexel Tech graduate, joined the Army Corps of Engineers before WWII; his wartime experiences leaves him with a 'form of spiritual aphasia' and searching for purpose. He meets a beautiful girl, another victim of the war, who has a daughter, and struggles for mental stability. Together they hope to 'fly to the moon', but the journey is fraught with crash landings and heartbreak.
The backstory is told in bits and pieces, interwoven with stories from other time frames, slowly revealing the grandfather's history.
"You think this explains everything?" the grandfather queries, "Me and your grandmother. Your mother. My time in prison. The war." The grandson replies, "It explains a lot." "It explains nothing,,,It's just names and dates and places," the grandfather retorts, "It doesn't mean anything." And then he adds, "I'm disappointed in myself. My life...you look back and you see all you did with all that time is waste it." And the grandson sums it up, "Anyways it's a pretty good story."
Which is all we can ask from life. A pretty good story in spite of the failures, dreams deferred, the heartbreak, and the craziness.
See photos that inspired Chabon while writing Moonglow at:
http://www.ew.com/article/2016/09/22/...
I received a free ebook from the publisher through Edelweiss in exchange for a fair and unbiased review. -
Chabon's skill on the line-level, that cascade of perfect, idiosyncratic sentences, has never left him, but his iffy choices of subject matter over the last 15 years has rendered him somewhat invisible. (Though his Spiderman 2 is the secret high-point of the superhero movie era). This fade into the background of literature is the hazard of the mid-career artist, but after reading his wonderful essay about his son at Paris fashion week (
http://www.gq.com/story/my-son-the-pr...), I pre-ordered MOONGLOW.
And the fake memoir was a happy surprise - a return to the epoch-spanning scope of KAVALIER AND CLAY, with a personal touch that plays into the contemporary vogue for author-is-present novels. The deceit of the format - if you didn't know it was fiction, you might read the plot as exaggeration - creates an oddly effective mixture of, say, Lerner and John Irving. There is one scene of peak melodrama that is (no spoilers) real bad, but most everything else feels right, and Chabon's fake grandfather is one of the more real characters I've read in a long time. A breezy 4.51. -
Now the fields are all four lanes,
and the moon's not just a name.
Are you more amazed at how things change,
Or how they stay the same?*
A young man gets to know his grandfather during the last ten days of the old-man's life. Share in this death-bed confession by a fascinating individual who lived well, and loved passionately. His life story is an interesting read, that occasionally seems overstuffed, yet I can't imagine what could have been edited away.
A rollicking tale, well told.
*75 Septembers by Cheryl Wheeler -
I've adored and championed Michael Chabon's books since away back in the '80s, with Mysteries of Pittsburgh. Like him, I'm an intellectual Jew, born within a year of him, and with many of the same cultural references. For years, he was to me what Phillip Roth was for my father: a funhouse mirror of my times and fascinations, as well as a lens through which to freshly grasp history and world events.
Most of all, he was just plain fun to read. Like, teary-eyed, breathlessly fun.
That peaked with The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay. To be fair, a work of that level is both a life-defining achievement and an anchor around an artist's neck. The Pulitzer followed, which is like the Mafioso kiss of death. "You're the genius of our times! You can do no wrong!"—a poisonous enough blow to creativity—is implicitly followed by, "You've peaked! All else will be compared to what you've done!"
If Chabon did feel a load on his shoulders, he bore it with aplomb. Yiddish Policemen's Union was a truly great read. If I wasn't as thrilled as with Kavalier, that was understandable. Beethoven may never have written another 5th, but it's safe to say his later output was pretty worthy.
With Telegraph Avenue, a sinking feeling started to take root. There were moments of joy, but I found myself lacking motivation.
And now, Moonglow.
I'm a little sick at heart to say that, if it hadn't been a Chabon book, I would have abandoned it half-way through. As it is, I put it aside more than once, and had to push myself to return.
Overall, the book felt to me like 47 ripping yarns about one life, all sewn together only by the loose concept of memoir. Chabon's penchant for endearing, vividly drawn characters persists, and his grasp of history and period, ditto. He renders such pleasing prose that you feel sad when a story is over. The problem is... 47 times? Playing cat-and-mouse with the fact-versus-fiction line is clever, but doesn't make up for the lack of vision.
My most frequent problem, though, was feeling buried under a mountain of detail. Chabon is famous for his monumental vocabulary and encyclopedic knowledge bank. I've never felt so much like that trait was a drawback. I more than once groaned, "What happened to the story?" I'm almost constitutionally incapable of skipping segments of a book, but I did here.
There are Big Themes aplenty here—one of Chabon's strengths—and each of them could merit a separate book. (I think maybe those books are all shoehorned into this one.) Long segues on New York State prison history, cascades of technical information about rocketry, and—perhaps strangest of all—rambling background on secondary characters. And a whole lot more extraneous stuff. It got directly in the way of my emotional involvement.
Chabon also seems to have fallen into a comfortable character type for his heroes: Lovably bumbling and ineffectual in some realms (usually women and romance), redemptively brave and sharp in others (important work, or a tendency toward good deeds).
I never thought the day would come when I would give a Chabon novel a three-star review. In all honesty, if I'd been allowed, I'd have given two-and-a-half.
* * *
The author doesn't have much room left to rise in the opinion of the reading elite, but if he does, I hope it comes by virtue of a truly fresh take on a new type of person and problem, in which the tsunami of detail and virtuosic world-building are rendered unnecessary by the novel approach (pun clearly intended). Roth, in his long journey from Portnoy's Complaint to The Human Stain and beyond, managed to stay with familiar themes, and yet savored the challenge of reinventing himself each time.
I dearly hope Chabon will make that his New Year's Resolution. He's more than capable of it. -
Brilliant . . . so what's my problem?In preparing this memoir, I have stuck to facts except when facts refused to confirm with memory, narrative purpose, or the truth as I prefer to understand it. Whatever liberties have been taken with names, dates, places, events, and conversations, or with identities, motivations, and interrelationships of family members and historical personages, the reader is assured that they have been taken with due abandon.
What a brilliant Author's Note! Moonglow may be a memoir of the author's grandfather, but Chabon has always been a wizard at telling stories. Now, right at the start of the book, he gives due notice that he will let nothing—not even fact—stand in the way of a good one. His grandfather leaps off these pages as tearaway, mischief-maker, jail-bird, space-nut, special operations officer in WW2, inventor, failed businessman, businessman again, and elderly Don Quixote battling a pet-eating python in a Florida retirement village. To impress a Dulcinea, naturally; from beginning to end, he shows a fine capacity for love and making love, even if his marriage to the author's grandmother, a Holocaust survivor and fiery actress, was by no means plain sailing. Chabon brings scene after scene to life with his marvelous gift for description, such as this V2 attack in London during the war:The physics of the rocket's detonation had sucked the show windows from the front of Selfridges. The windows had been decorated for the season with ice floes and ice mountains of pasteboard and sequins. A frolic of pasteboard Eskimos and penguins. The aurora borealis or australis in arcs of colored foil. A mannequin Father Christmas in Scott Expedition drag. Now the sidewalk was buried in snowbanks of shattered glass. Christmas trees lay scattered like tenpins. Their needles drifted down onto my grandfather's hat and the epaulets of his greatcoat. When he hung up his trousers that night before bed, cellophane snowflakes snowed down from the upturned cuffs. Pasteboard Eskimos and penguins, headless, torn in half, continued their inaccurate cohabitation. Father Christmas was found the next morning in a dovecote on a nearby rooftop, intact and unharmed apart from a holiday frosting of pigeon shit.
I got the book two years ago as a review copy from Amazon Vine. When I finally opened it, I kicked myself for not having done so sooner; it felt like digging into one of those cornucopia of stories I devoured as a boy. But then, roughly halfway through, I suddenly realized that I did not particularly want to read any more. Nothing had changed; I'd just had enough. So what was the problem? Perhaps my difficulty with classification is a clue. Is it fiction (which I enjoy) or a non-fiction memoir (which generally I don't)? Because of its many brilliant free-standing episodes, I have put it on my "stories" shelf, but does it also add up to be a novel? It works in the moment, but does it also work as a 400-page whole?
As I see it, there are three ways in which an author might generate ongoing momentum. He can make the individual sections so wonderful that the reader cannot stop. Call this the box of chocolates approach; it works for a while, but you still must allow for indigestion. Or he can make us readers so interested in his grandfather as a person that we are anxious to see what happens to him. Chabon almost succeeds in this, I think, especially once his grandmother and mother come into the picture. But (personal failing) I am not a fan of memoir and biography generally, and it is difficult to truly invest in someone who is never given a proper name. Thirdly, the author can give succeeding chapters an increasing gravity or complexity, building up themes that can be developed into a true novel. Again, I think I saw Chabon beginning to do this roughly a third of the way through the book, but it was not quite enough to capture my loyalty. I stopped at about the halfway point, then read the last four chapters in detail. Nothing in them, I'm afraid, made me regret my decision to skip—though someone who is into non-fiction might not have had my problem.
All the same, Michael Chabon is indeed brilliant, and I do not want to make this a negative review. So let me end with the first passage which made me think that this might be a novel after all. The grandfather, with the allied forces invading Germany in the last winter of the War, comes upon a priest in a rural village. He has a name, Father Nickel, and in the two or three chapters in which he features, becomes almost as well filled-out a character as the grandfather himself. Moreover Chabon, who has emphasized throughout the book that this is a Jewish story, creates a character from a very different belief system, and does so with a glowing generosity that I shall remember even after the rest has faded:
"We've has a very cold winter," the old priest said. He was sitting up front, next to Gatto. Everyone agrees that this was unquestionably the case. "I gave out the pews and reredos and so forth. The beautiful oak pulpit, which a professor-doctor from Tübingen dated to the thirteenth century. I told them to take the crucifix too. It was quite large. Used prudently, it might have heated a dozen homes for a night or two. But there they drew the line. They were shocked, I think. I tried to explain that if He would give His life to save their souls, He would not mind parting with His image to warm their bones." He shook his head, looking at the ruin of his church. "Of course, in the end it went to waste."
-
The powerful driving force of Chabon’s new novel is the deathbed confessions of the narrator’s grandfather. Revealing the pains and surprises caused by secrets, lies, and war, Moonglow is a rich examination of a family history built on hidden truths, an emotional love story, and a fantastic work of autobiographical family history-turned-novel. (The novel is based on Chabon’s own grandfather’s stories.)
Backlist bump: Manhood for Amateurs: The Pleasures and Regrets of a Husband, Father, and Son by Michael Chabon
Tune in to our weekly podcast dedicated to all things new books, All The Books:
http://bookriot.com/listen/shows/allt... -
There's clearly something wrong with my literary tastes, right, Andrew? You gave this book 5 stars. Other people love it. Me? I'm bored. I forced myself to read 120 pages, but I just can't go on. I even skipped ahead 100 pages to see if something eventually happens later on. It's just so slow. And what is this book? Historical fiction? It's not memoir. I've never read Chabon before, but I'm thinking he and I are not a good fit.
