John Irving

I’ve written before about pet peeves. (Isn’t that why the world invented blogging?) I’d like to ring in the new year by drawing attention to yet another pet peeve.

First, a little background. As I’ve mentioned before, I love listening to short stories on my walks. I’ve found a few favorite (and free! keyword "free"!) podcasts of short stories, including The New Yorker Fiction podcast. Besides getting good stories, this podcast has the added bonus of a short discussion between The New Yorker’s fiction editor, Deborah Treisman, and the writer who read the story. (Note: the writer reading the story chose a story by another writer, not one of their own.) I like these discussions because I can often get more from the story from their perspectives.

However.

Sometimes Deborah will ask the guest reading writer, "So do you think this story is autobiographical?" or something to that effect.

Enter Pet Peeve #462.

Who cares if it is or not? Does that make the story more meaningful or more truthful? The author chose to write this as a fiction piece, not as memoir. That does not dilute the essential truth in the story.

I thought I was the only one who got all red-ants-in-her-pants irritated over this nonsense. Then I read this tidbit in John Irving’s Last Night in Twisted River (which seems less a novel and more an excuse to write about writing): "Yet what bothered the novelist more was that his novels had been trivialized. Danny Angel’s fiction had been ransacked for every conceivably autobiographical scrap; his novels had been dissected and overanalyzed for whatever could be construed as the virtual memoirs hidden inside them . . . In the media, real life was more important than fiction; those elements of a novel that were, at least, based on personal experience were of more interest to the general public than those pieces of novel-writing process that were ‘merely’ made up" (location 7333ff on Kindle).

Preach it.

(Unrelated side note: One reason I like John Irving’s novels is because the man is not afraid of semicolons and parenthesis. I like semicolons and parenthesis.)

Shameless plug: If you are a lover of audio stories, you can download some of mine for free at NoiseTrade. I never once discuss what is or what is not derived from real life.

In A Prayer for Owen Meany, John Irving retells the gospel story in more modern times. In the beginning, you think Owen is a prophet of some sort, a voice of God, but as the story develops, you learn he’s more than a prophet. He’s a Christ-figure.

I’ve wondered, if Jesus’ incarnation were today, not 2000 years ago, how would I respond? I’ve grown up comfortable with the ideas of the virgin birth and God and man. Irving creates a story that gives me a glimpse into this. How does the religious establishment react to a man like Owen?

There’s nothing in Owen’s appearance that would draw us to him–he’s short, and his voice! Irving does a magnificent job of not describing Owen’s harsh voice but conveying it all the same. Sometimes those around him love him. Sometimes they hate him. Even I at one point found myself disliking Owen. What on earth is he doing? I thought.

Owen comes from humble means, from somewhere unexpected–what good could come from this family? we ask. And yet, he lives on the rock, on a quarry where his family extracts and sells granite.

He’s the voice of God, but that doesn’t always mean good. He’s the instrument of God in the death of the mother of John (Owen’s best friend and the storyteller) and at the same time, the instrument of John’s faith. These two cannot be separated. What does this say about the God we believe in and can we accept it? But we must.

Owen is lifted up by those around him, always lifted up. At his death, he’s again lifted up, and he stretches out his arms and dies to save others.

It’s no mistake the story is told by Owen’s best friend, John (the disciple whom Jesus loved). John, some years later and in exile, alternates between Owen’s gospel and commenting in frustration on the powerful and corrupt empire of America (what we recognize as Revelation). Even the last line of the book ("O God–please give him back! I shall keep asking You.") reminds us of the end of Revelation, especially Revelation 22:20–"He who testifies to these things says, ‘Yes, I am coming soon.’ Amen. Come, Lord Jesus."

We know so many things from the beginning–that John’s mother will die, that Owen will die, that John doesn’t know who his father his (and we know, though Irving doesn’t explicitly say it, who John’s father is). The brilliance of the book is unfolding the details of how these events occur and what accompanies them. For example, at one point, John realizes he could figure out who his father is. Yes, we think, finally! Then we consider it as John gets closer and closer. No, this is terrible. He can’t know who his father is. What will happen when he knows this?

Another thing I particularly like is how Irving develops the character of John. We love him as a child. As an adult, he can get on our nerves. He’s just like his grandmother–always so critical. He diatribes the United States, and he hasn’t lived there for years. Let it go! we want to tell him. And stop boring me with these details in the meantime. But as the story develops, we begin to learn why he’s like this, why he says the things he says, and we become more and more empathetic with him.

Irving explores doctrines of the Christian faith such as original sin and resurrection. Regarding original sin, this develops as John feels connected to his unknown father when he lusts. "Henceforward, whenever I was troubled by a way I felt–and especially when I felt this way, when I lusted–I thought that my father was asserting himself within me."

Owen emphasized resurrection and victory over death, perhaps because he foresaw his own death. His favorite verses in hymns were the ones about resurrection and victory. He quoted–incessantly quoted–"whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." He quoted this as he died. This is the core to the Christian faith. This is our hope. In fact, in another place, Owen says, "If you don’t believe in Easter, don’t kid yourself–don’t call yourself a Christian."

There are so many themes and ideas in this book about faith, life, death, and living. This is what makes a book rich. It’s a long book, but I highly recommend it because of its writing, which takes you into this world and into the characters, and its development of themes.