For years, nay, decades to come, people will speak of the October 2010 Shrinking Violets book club meetup as a hallowed, landmark event. Who knew that so many readers existed in Spokane? Who could have predicted that they would brave the city's autumnal chill and roads in mid-renovation to discuss a 500-page novel with such fervor and insight? Who would have thought that so many fulfilling tangential conversations would arise out of a debate of the merits and shortcomings of a journal-style work of fiction?
"I was amazed by the way the author deftly insinuated his protagonist into events throughout the twentieth century," said Deborah as soon as we were all seated and had coffees in front of us. "Occasionally it felt like name-dropping, but most of the time the way he allowed Logan to rub elbows with cultural or historic figures added more realism and depth to what could have smacked of artificiality."
"That's a good point," said Kim. "Did anyone forget after awhile that Logan wasn't real?"
I said I did.
"I didn't. I found him very difficult to relate to," said Phoebe.
"Why?" someone asked. "Because he was British? Because his mindset — his attitude toward women in particular — was very much a product of a bygone era?"
"Because he was a talentless snob who was overly obsessed with his libido," she answered. "If I wanted to read about a priapic old man who doesn't seem to do much of anything, I'd tuck into Hugh Hefner's autobiography." Laughs all around. Phoebe appeared to have modeled herself on Dorothy Parker.
"I suppose you'd rather challenge yourself with yet another young-woman-coming-of-age story," snickered Ted, who, in a unique turn of events, was one of several lit-minded men to attend this Shrinking Violets book club meetup. (Spokane, as it turns out, is teeming with men under 40 who would rather discuss literature than, say, drive through residential zones at fifty miles an hour in cars with windows that rattle from excessive bass.) "Isn't it a bit narcissistic and craven to only want to read stories that mirror your own life experience?"
"Isn't a bit smug and presumptuous to assume that's the only reason I might want to read those stories? Besides, if I thought there were anything to gain from five hundred repetitive pages on a self-styled writer who chases skirts and doesn't actually write much of anything, I think I could muster the courage to broaden my horizons."
"But didn't you find Boyd's prose — always disguised as Logan's jottings — to be worth the effort?" I asked her.
"No," answered Lucy instead. "I'm with Phoebe. I found LMS to be such an aimless, unlikeable, unwittingly misogynistic human being that even the most exquisite prose in the world couldn't compensate. Sure, there were some new vocabulary words to be learned, but I can do that on Free Rice and donate to the hungry while I'm at it."
"I wasn't too bothered about whether or not Logan was a nice guy or not. I was more impressed by the idea behind the book itself and its execution. I was just in awe of the effortlessness of it all — despite all the personalities and dates and events and coincidences that Boyd had to juggle," said Jim. "Plus it was fiendishly clever to have a cameo from Nat Tate too."
On that note, Madeline directed our attention to the final assessment of The Complete Review: "The case for this story, told in this form, is never convincingly made." Even those of us who had relished the novel all agreed that there was some truth in that.
"But if verisimilitude were Boyd's highest aim," someone said, "doesn't that mean he succeeded? Wouldn't that sentiment apply in some way to the lives of everyone gathered around this table?"
....
Well, no, it didn't happen like that at all. It was a bust. Only two people — Hilary and me — showed and we spent the time wondering why no one else bothered to come.
On the plus side, The Little Garden Café provided a pleasant atmosphere in which to be stood up by the 618 nominal members of the Shrinking Violet Society.
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