By Steve Weddle
Je dispose d’un triste.
Folks, some of the best times we’ve had together on the internet is when we’re arguing about a thing and it expands into all these other things. That’s what I’ll miss most this year. That’s what the Pulitzer people have taken away from me. (By the way, in the 1970s, the board failed to give a fiction award three times.)
Here’s how it happens, I think. The Pulitzer jurors recommend a few books to the Pulitzer board. Then the Pulitzer board agrees on a winner.
Of course, I’m not the only one with a sadz. Pulitzer fiction juror Susan Larson said that she and the two other jurors were wicked pissed [paraphrased] that the Pulitzer board crapped the bed on this one.
Three books were nominated:
Nominated as finalists in this category were: “Train Dreams,” by Denis Johnson, a novella about a day laborer in the old American West, bearing witness to terrors and glories with compassionate, heartbreaking calm; “Swamplandia!” by Karen Russell, an adventure tale about an eccentric family adrift in its failing alligator-wrestling theme park, told by a 13-year-old heroine wise beyond her years; and “The Pale King,” by the late David Foster Wallace, a posthumously completed novel, animated by grand ambition, that explores boredom and bureaucracy in the American workplace.
I’ve read Johnson (Pulitzer finalist in 2008) and DFW, though not those books. Johnson’s JESUS’ SON is one of the greatest books written and, at 120 pages or so, rivals James Salter’s LAST NIGHT in pound-for-pound awesomeness. And, thought I’ve read probably seven or eight reviews about SWAMPLANDIA! that have convinced me it’s a must-read thing of beauty, I haven’t gotten around to it. (I hope Karen Russell doesn’t not take this personally, because I haven’t gotten around to many, many things.)
I was most interested in the selection of the DFW book, if you must know. He hanged himself dead before he finished it. I completely enjoyed his non-fiction (tennis, cruise ships, lobsters), but have never been able to find his fiction as appealing. As an undergraduate, I told a professor that I didn’t like some novel or another and he said that my dislike of the book said more about me than it did about the novel. The same probably applies here. The choice of the unfinished and posthumous PALE KING had the feel of one of those awards given late in a career to some actor who made an OK movie last year, but had been shut out for his earlier, much better movies forty years ago. Or perhaps it was more a James Dean-type Oscar.
Again, I haven’t read PALE KING. I’ve read pieces that appeared in the NEW YORKER. Perhaps the unfinished novel was a fine choice. And perhaps TRAIN DREAMS, though being a novella, was fabulous. The Denis Johnson I’ve read has been. And perhaps, despite the punctuation in its title, SWAMPLANDIA! was even better than the reviews made it out to be.
But what tends to happen when winners are announced is that there’s a focal point for people. They talk about why that book was a great choice. They talk about why that book was a terrible choice. GOON SQUAD was much-discussed after its selection — as were many other books folks thought should have one.
We could be discussing books. We could be making lists of “TEN BETTER CHOICES FOR THE PULITZER.” We could have been pointing readers to fabulous works they should have heard of, but that the Pulitzer overlooked.
We could, and should, be taking about Bonnie Jo Campbell and Jesmyn Ward and Alan Heathcock and a hundred other authors.
What this non-selection has done is take away the focus on the books, on the reading.
Instead, the decision by the board to award nothing has placed the focus on the emptiness, taking away what could have been a great time for these books, for those of us who love reading.
But maybe the board is too political now. Maybe they try to balance selections to be politically correct. Maybe they’re too wizened and out-of-touch and can no longer see the beauty in fiction. Or maybe they think that with all the prizes and all the blogs and sites, I don’t know, maybe they think that awarding the Pulitzer to the year’s best of work of fiction is no longer something that matters.
Perhaps this says less about us and more about the Pulitzers.