The Quiddity of Delusion by M.J. Nicholls

The Quiddity of Delusion Reviews

• 
  MJ Nicholls

  I wrote a novella that fits in one’s pocket. You could be sitting on a ski lift, preparing to slope down snowy tufts, and read page 28 of this novella that begins with the words “reason for making this trip”. You could be attending a cousin’s daughter’s clavichord recital, and in a break from the bumbled baroque boredom, read page 48 that begins with the words “my mother was pregnant at the time”. You could be erecting a supporting partition from drywall with seven other muscular builders, and in a lull, read page 12 that begins with the words “Paul was too vague to cause irritation”. You could be interviewing Sean Lennon about his latest album, and after making a barbed remark about his solo efforts never eclipsing the worst of his father’s avant-garde indulgences, read page 2 that begins with the words “of custard powder in a supermarket”. You could be in a chemistry lesson, feverishly trying to make the lime water turn cloudy with your carbon dioxide output, and read page 40 that begins with the words “in the lucrative trade of smuggling drugs”. There are 56 pages of text in this “sagging short”, so another 51 examples of moments in which this novella can be removed from a pocket for the purposes of reading can be provided on request. Otherwise,
  here is the book.
• 
  Manny

  Sitting down to write my review, I was torn between conflicting impulses: should I go with my first instinct, namely to parody the work in question (always a reliable formula, but in this instance too obvious, and already suggested by Not in her review, which, for once, she had got in first), or should I instead attempt to strike a more personal note, referring to my long e-relationship with the author, our humorous mock-dissing of each other's oeuvres covering what I hoped was a deep and mutual admiration of our related but, at least in my opinion, rather different talents? It was hard to decide, and for a moment I considered that old standby, the paradoxical comparison with Proust (they're just the same, except that one's three thousand pages long and the other fits comfortably in your pocket, one's about the French aristocracy and the other about the Scottish middle classes, etc); but I had been referring to Proust too much recently, and in any case it was obvious that the comparison made little to no sense, so this approach also seemed inherently infeasible, as did a retrospective analysis in terms of the author's earlier publications (Belch more whimsical, House more sustained; but this was facile and uninteresting). Nothing worked, and it became evident that the book, for once, had got the better of me. I decided to give up and graciously admit defeat.
• 
  Arthur Graham

  As always, Nicholls does humorous, maximalist metafiction right. However, this felt more like a prelude to something much larger than a proper standalone piece. Please say there's a sequel in the works..?
• 
  Zadignose

  This is a flash portrait of a character with a bitter struggle even in mundane circumstances, because the character is virtually overthrown by his own inherent sense of inadequacy.
  
  There is familiarity here, and there are humorous turns, but this is more restrained (in a sense) than the author's earlier works. There is no Dicklympics. There are no bazooka rampages. There are, instead, conversations and social awkwardness. And while there is bitterness and cynicism, here they are turned 100% inward. There's no room for aloofness or superiority when all anger towards others is tinged with envy and disappointment. It becomes a self-criticism. And in tempering his criticism of others, the narrator does not discover love for humanity. The chronic critic does not reach the conclusion, Oh, I guess other people aren't as bad as I had thought. Rather he stumbles upon the unwanted realization, Oh, I guess I am much worse than I had thought. Damnit. (An unfair conclusion, by the way, but self-appraisal is rarely kind to the socially anxious.)
  
  But the protagonist's struggle is not just a social one. He also has two formidible intelectual struggles. The first is a Freudian distrust of memory which is an obstacle to his attempt to get at any essential truths. The second is Sartre's awareness of the impossibility of a true story because truth doesn't have storiness. These could be problematic for anyone, but they are especially a writer's struggles.
  
  What is one to do when one feels inadequate while facing an impossible task whose accomplishment would be futile in any case? The fighters amongst us would say, "Soldier on. You've made a fine start of it, and after all, that's all that life is--it's all we're offered." But there are times, perhaps, when one does not feel that is a reasonable response, and this book expresses that doubt. And for that reason, though there is humor in it, I'd say this is the author's most despairing book to date, and grounding it in as-true-to-life-as-possible settings adds somewhat to the despair, as fantasy is denied (while some hyperbole is permitted).
  
  Odd that, perhaps, realism may be the quiddity of delusion. It may not be home to the truth we seek, though if not there, where is it?
• 
  Anthony Vacca

  This is a svelte novella that assaults the substantiality of autobiographical fiction. If the word "autobiographical" paired with "fiction" makes you wince then this is the svelte novella for you. Presented as an extended explanation of one lonely experimental writer’s attempts at being less lonely by crafting a personal anecdote perfect for enchanting whomever hears it, this non-narrative allows its author (or rather its author’s author) to dissect the pretenses of realistic fiction, those books which plague the New York Times, NPR, Oprah’s Magazine and any other source that pimps out the mundane products of middling MFA programs. Let the 19th century realist novel die its long overdue death and instead help usher in a new era of linguistic invention!
• 
  notgettingenough

  The nature of the book begs a certain sort of parody review. As I read the book, was my experience an authentic reading of the book or merely the preparation for a review of the reading of such a book. Chances to be clever no doubt abound.
  
  But. I'm just going to say I loved it and I am ordering half a dozen copies to give some of my book reading friends. Well done MJ!
• 
  Nathan "N.R." Gaddis

  When a dude walks out onto the literary beach with a thing this small and gets smacked in the 'nads. You've gotta give him some credit. That's chutzpah!
• 
  Cody

  Well now.
  
  I've long staved off reading MJ's work, principally as I never felt enough distance to appreciate it on the objective terms it deserves. Having taken long breaks from here, and MJ as a result, the timing seemed ideal.
  
  Shit: even if I didn't 'know' him to be a solid voice and human in the small but vocal community I haunt (as well as someone whose taste is often identically in line or diametrically opposite mine) I would have enjoyed the hell out of this chapbook. Whatever lingering externalities informed the first few pages (um, somewhat knowing Nicholls) were purged by the gestalt of just plain-old-fucking digressive fun. And what fun! Rare is the (chap)book that makes me smile hard or, forbid, laugh aloud, but I did. 'Tis true. Little bastard has a way with asides that erased any objectivist concerns almost immediately.
  
  AAAAAANNNNDD...one could posit the whole affair a published homage to Raymond Federman. When the first textual/type-set hijinks occurred, I actually kind of cringed. Then, next page, BIG OL' SOPPY LIP-KISS TO DOUBLE OR NOTHING. Yep, he does the full Federman. Yes, it works for me. Add in some straight verse, mix: a little book so stuffed with winks, styles, banalities, and wit that, to my sensibilities, benefits from its maximal form bounded by the literal, physical insignificance of the book. Which, also, one could argue is an exemplar of CONTENT, not page count, as a litmus by which maximalism's success can be measured.
  
  First Nicholls, realize I have three on deck. No matter how nice of a guy I think MJ is does not influence my maxim of 'good is good.' And this good, quite possibly great.
  
  Will report back on a novel far sooner than I ever would have imagined. Need I, or Nicholls in this case, say more?
• 
  Ian Scuffling

  Meso-meta-fictional account of a hyper-obsessive approach to anecdote-telling and the truest search for The Real-est Realism one can attain for maximum entertainment. I was reminded, actually, of a comedian named Nathan Fielder whose Comedy Central TV show "Nathan for You" is a kind of post-modern critique of human nature and capitalism and entrepreneurship.
  
  In the lead-up to the most recent season, Fielder appeared on Jimmy Kimmel's late night show and shared a wild, hilarious and engaging anecdote that had to do with an accidental airport luggage swap, a wedding that had to be attended, a Nathan Fielder wearing the (apparently VERY fat) stranger's suit that was in the mis-claimed luggage, and a run-in with the cops. I won't reveal more to not spoil its fun twists and turns (just search "Fielder" and "Kimmel" to find it), but Fielder delivers the story perfectly with pure truth and conviction to it.
  
  Lo and behold, an entire episode of this season was dedicated to Fielder, too anxious about his appearance and not having any kind of cute anecdote for the show decides to devise one of his own. Through the episode he meticulously plans for and creates/enacts each beat in the story so that the story is, in effect, an authentic tale (albeit fabricated to become a real event). The impact of this was magnified on me as I had seen the Kimmel appearance, believing it to be true, and only weeks later to have this episode of his show put me in tears from laughter.
  
  M.J. Nicholls captures some of the frenetic and comic energy of Fielder here, and Fielder perhaps provides a way out for Nicholls's narrator whose crippling anxiety in search of verisimilitude ultimately cuts him off from engaging with his peers.
  
  As a long-ish short story this is a funny, clever little package that is packed with linguistic firepower that will pop your synapses, however, it feels a little one-noted and flat-ish ultimately in ways that the story itself seems to be critically self-aware of in its nudge-winking closing paragraph about readerly expectations and so forth. A fun romp, and probably an unctuous amuse-gueule to some of Nicholls's longer-reads—I'm sure I'll be back for another bite in the future.
• 
  Chris Oleson

  On the train today, as I opened M.J. Nicholls' The Quiddity of Delusion (I too had forgotten the word's meaning), I didn't exactly know what to expect. I had read and greatly enjoyed his House of Books about a year ago. I meant to check out other work but I had procrastinated. This kindle version was rather inexpensive, so I snagged it.
  
  The narrator is attending a social gathering and experiencing waves of stress, most of which coalesce over how to tell an anecdote that will sell himself as an "interesting" person. He begins to engage in a ferocious internal debate over the various non-fiction elements with which he should spice his anecdote about a bag of custard powder and N.W. A.'s music. His predicament is fraught; failure might result in being "doomed to dangle on the precipice of potential friendship and linger in my lies until the invites dried up and another door to social integration closed with a firm and committed slam." Not even a graying misanthrope like me welxcomes such a fate.
  
  Three sentences in and I'm hooked, completely onboard with the narrator's plight and his project. His fertile, feverish mind begins to unravel all of the potential outcomes: choosing strand A featuring lie B over strand C spiced with lie D, embellishment E, and outright fantasy F. I'm giggling and snickering and guffawing under my mask, even getting glances from staid, neck-tied Japanese salaripeoples. I'm worried about deportation based on some dusty 19th Meiji-era prohibition against gaijins manifesting excessive emotion on a commuter train. The bitter, caustic barbs exploding from the narrator's parents damn near pushed me out the window and onto the tracks.
  
  As the narrator digs himself a deeper and deeper hole, he addresses his readers directly: "because you are reading this you are on the right side of the fictional fence, you are someone who reads long and self-contradicting tracts of mental effluent masquerading as a 'playful' form. . . . you are probably somewhat unhinged and find the whole business of life utterly laughable and prefer art to living, which is the right thing to believe because it is what I believe."
  
  Guilty as charged, Mr. Nicholls. Where do I sign up?
  
  Unfortunately, I must present a tiny quibble, rather enormous actually.
  
  The Quiddy of Delusion was TOO SWIVING SHORT!
  
  Admittedly, this short piece isn't for every reader. However, if you believe you remain a person who reads on the fence concerning such writing/imaginative effort, I recommend this piece. And if you find yourslef falling into the pasture on the "good" side of the fence, I'll greet you with milk and chocolate-chip cookies (or banana muffins, depending on the day) and we can laugh our asses of together and commiserate about our shitty lives but overstocked bookshelves. . . .
• 
  Josh

  Reading this directly after its inspiration,
  Thomas Bernhard’s Correction, is a treat, in that this is maybe sorta what I wanted Correction to be. As I suggested in that review, perhaps Correction can only be the way that it is to achieve its desired effect, and any slack would only have weakened it. Quiddity, by comparison, is a very quick little novelette, extremely funny, and structurally, allows its sentences to end, if even sometimes its paragraphs. In fairness it can be lighter since its topic is the unclear recollection of a childhood incident in which the author was struck in a sensitive bodily area by a soccer ball, rather than neurotic Austrians contemplating suicide.
  
  I say read ‘em both. Contemplate Correction, discuss it in lit class, write a paper on it, seek out your own Hoeller’s garret. Then read Quiddity in 20-some minutes and enjoy it a lot more.
  
  (By coincidence I also recently wrote about
  a childhood incident I can't remember clearly or maybe never happened at all.)
• 
  Diane Hernandez

  When telling an anecdote at a cocktail party, it is natural to embellish it to increase the entertainment value. The narrator of this short story is trying to determine why he is not entertaining and further, why he is not believed. He decides to go a quest to find out what really happened during the incident described in his anecdote.
  
  I liked the narrator especially his insecurities. However, it takes a while to get used to his stream of consciousness style of thinking. It reminded me of James Joyce, where you have to spend some time unraveling the meaning in each sentence. Here is an example from the beginning of the book.
  
  I had always known one fact of the incident to be 100% true—a ball of some sort collided with my crotch and I experienced some of the most excruciating pain I would encounter until a basketball collided with my crotch in secondary school (an anecdote that can’t be told due to the unfounded accusation that the thrower—a ginger tomboy—was doing so out of spite, and the distinct possibility she remembers me, and the less plausible one that she might ever read this story and recognize a slanderous portrait of herself), and that my sister was in hysterics.
  
  When the narrator is speaking to someone, as he does throughout the second part of the story, he thankfully speaks in normal length sentences.
  
  Overall, I liked the plot of the story especially the resolution. If the length of the sentence shown above doesn’t disturb, then this short story would be good for those people who enjoy literary fiction with a sense of humor about life.
  
  I won this book in a Goodreads giveaway but that has not impacted my review.
• 
  Peter Hayes

  This was a rather short, but amusing and perspicacious read. It did seem like it was, at times, an excerpt from a larger work, but that doesn't in any way ruin the experience. Anything Nicholls touches has his unique blend of juvenile mischief, bawdy humor and ethereal word-play. He bends words together to the same lyrical pitch that Flann O'Brien and Nabokov graced us with. This is a good read, short, not his absolute best (you'll have to pick up 'A Postmodern Belch' for that) but still head and shoulders above just about everything else on the friggin shelf. Read away!