Townie, by Andre Debus III

I don’t self-identify with New Englanders having spent the majority of my life in New Jersey. And I was fortunate to have not grown up in a tough mill town in Massachusetts (my brother-in-law Dan did, who loaned me a copy of this book). Nevertheless, the beginning of Debus’ memoir is compelling and I was ready for his tale. The author’s narrative of a long, torturous Saturday run with his father is solid prose with a great tempo. I lost my feel for his story, however. I don’t know how much this is due to my lack of familiarity with Haverhill, Massachusetts or just to my discomfort with his narrative style. It feels like a sustained staccato burst of sequences from the author’s childhood, some inter-related, but oftentimes giving the feeling that much is missing as one who leaves the room in the middle of a movie and returns 20 minutes later – there is a familiarity, yet a sense that something important was missed. I stopped reading after about a quarter of the memoir. This is not reflection on the quality of writing; it just didn’t stick.

Critical Mass, by Carter Plymton Hydrick

Extensively referenced (and relatively convincing) thesis on how the U.S. procured German enriched uranium for use in production of its atomic bombs near the end of World War II. The book is divided into two distinct parts. The first being the timeline and production obstacles associated with the Manhattan Project 1942 -1945. This gives a nice background to some of the basic physics behind the atomic bomb (minimal), the political and military backdrop to the Manhattan Project under General Groves and the production problems associated with enriching uranium. There is also a nice section on parallel efforts in Germany to do the same under the Nazi regime. Equally detailed in this first section is information on the capture/surrender of a German U-Boat which, according to this theory, delivered German enriched uranium and German timing fuses necessary to the production of American bombs. The second part of the book is a carefully constructed argument as to how Martin Bormann orchestrated the delivery of these German materials to the Americans in exchange for his escape from Germany during the last days of the Reich in 1945. There are nice (brief) sections on how Martin Bormann rose to influence in the Nazi regime and arguments both for and against him escaping Germany alive. The author makes a genuine effort to draw conclusions based on best available evidence – some compelling, much lacking. Due to the dearth of hard evidence to support his hypothesis (e.g. that Martin Bormann survived the war), the author is left with an argument based on circumstantial evidence. Many of the author’s references are other books while some are actual government documents. At times the book has a conspiratorial tone. But, to his credit, the author comes clean and admits the paucity of hard evidence and is transparent with his belief in his thesis. It is likely that the truth will never be known. But what is known is that the U.S. managed to detonate two atomic bombs in Japan and lead the charge into the nuclear age. A good read if you are interested in military history or just like a juicy “how the U.S. government conspired to hide this from the world” book.

Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace

One of my more entertaining reads in recent years. The dense prose and alternatingly hilarious and horrifying sequences of addiction and withdrawal and their attendant mental torture grip you by the throat and don’t let go. The criticism of modern American excess is like a sledgehammer to the forehead. And it’s meant to be. After all, an obsessively clean, former crooner elected President who realigns the U.S. northern border (laying waste to large parts of Canada as well) to create a tidy waste disposal region is anything but subtle. Also not so subtle is the appropriation of video as a means of excess-induced death by “pleasure.”  But these are mere vehicles for showing off Wallace’s brilliant prose – especially if the indulgence of which by the reader mirrors the novel’s underlying theme. I couldn’t help reading it through to the end, all thousand pages plus notes. This is not exactly like reading Pynchon, to whom some compare the author. Pynchon is denser and a bit more obtuse (I’ve read Crying of Lot 49, V, and Gravity’s Rainbow). Wallace’s writing is comparably lyrical and a bit more accessible. If the material wasn’t at times so sordid (how else to describe a bespoilt, filthy transvestite heroin addict racking with symptoms of withdrawal holed-up in a public library bathroom?) one could liken reading Wallace to slipping into a cool spring on a hot summer day with the soft steady splash of a waterfall only interrupted by forest birds and a gentle breeze. Still, an apt comparison, maybe, despite the toughness of the subject matter. I am finishing off a five year run living in the greater Boston area (Watertown) and working at a hospital in the Longwood medical complex. I ride my bicycle and/or run to work every day traversing the areas of Brighton and Allston that are the backdrop for much of the story. For this the novel resonated even more.