Verdant Pages of Life and Light

My favorite author by a longshot is Mark Helprin. He has ruined me, in the way that exceedingly great things do, to the point that I can't imagine reading any fiction but his. I suppose that one day I will be open to reading other people's fiction and will take any suggestions here, vehement proposals only.

How to describe him? Hmmm... regal, dense, layered, whimsical. If his writing were a song it would be part Enya (lush, atmospheric), part Springsteen (brawny, masculine), part U2 (packed, weighty). Oh, and funny too. Really funny. And for a guy who can load a sentence full of beauty and meaning, his stories read pretty fast. He somehow manages to intersperse these incredible ink arias with straightforward humorous narrative so that you end up being pulled through his books with an almost giddy glee.

From The New York Times Book Review, "I find myself nervous to a degree I don't recall in my past as a reviewer, about failing the work, inadequately displaying it's brilliance." Ditto. Here's my shot at it; reading Helprin is the equivalent of being on an Italian farm at twighlight when the light is low, yellow and full of dust. You and your loved one are sitting in the middle of the field at a table spread with white tablecloth watching the sun sink as you slowly savor cheesecake and espressos. In the background, standing knee deep in the fertile crops, is a 62 piece orchestra performing Beethoven's Ode to Joy.

I have read Memoir from Antproof Case, A Soldier of the Great War, The Pacific and Other Stories, and his latest Freddy and Frederika. I wholeheartedly endorse all but the last. Helprin's characters tend to be aesthetics who live over the top, principled lives, consumed by one thing or another. His characters are so appealing because they live out of their hearts, without fear or compromise. Helprin drops little nuggets of truth into the dialogue or narrative that will have you inwardly screaming, "yes....yes! I've never put words to it before, but that is how I feel!" I will post brief excerpts of his writing from time to time and I'll leave you with one now.

Backstory: A British paratrooper has just injured himself severely on a solo jump behind enemy lines. He is in agonizing pain but knows he can help save lives if he can only complete his mission. He keeps fading in and out of conciousness while attempting to work through the pain.

"For the second time on the roof he awoke in heat and glare, and when he heard the shelling pick up he stirred, eager to get about his work now that he could. He was sick, and he wanted to stay still. The slightest movement was painful and nauseating. Though his fever had partially abated, even in the absence of morphine he was not quite himself. He knew that it was best not to move, that he had to let things settle, and the prospect of reopening his wounds by strain contradicted every natural impulse.
But upon going into battle-at the instant he volunteered, in the moment he accepted his orders, when the plane left the ground, and when he had stepped from it into explosions and flak-he had already written himself off in the quiet way that allows soldiers to do their duty even unto extinction. The more he presumed he would not last, the better he was able to take satisfaction from doing what was required. The delight of honor unknown to anyone but himself would have to substitute for a life that no longer lay ahead."