Post 1

I apologize in advance for the drab theme of this blog.

In this blog post, I seek to address the brilliance of Nicholson Baker and his ability to write a simultaneously awful and fascinating book. I think of The Mezzanine as a sandwich, stacked with layers of thought and communication. Its outward appearance (crusty bread) is the mind of the main character, but as you slowly peel off the layers of figurative plastic cheese and lettuce, you discover the gems (perhaps Grey Poupon or Maille mustard in this analogy?) thus communicated through the text. I will show this in the following ways:

1) the ability to simulate the association of ideas in the mind of a character so lifelike that we are led to believe this could, under certain circumstances, just be an odd memoir,

2) a mischaracterization of the main characters behavior and the dialogues experimental style-compensation and completeness thereof,

3) and the assumptions made and the inability to speculate on meaningful aspects of the character.

I did not enjoy reading this book as much as I would have despite being mind-blown after deeper consideration of the techniques used to write the book. However, I will give credit where it is due; Baker is an expert at the simulation of a human mind and associations of ideas. This alone would be enough for this to gain a reputation as a very capable author; it is inconceivable how much time and consideration it took to write a single page. This is the sourdough bread bought from Walmart (the kind that never toasts well) serving as the figurative first layer of ingenuity.

Based on my takeaways from our various discussions, there seems to be a general consensus that Howie, with his antics and delineated descriptions of various memories all connected by a traceable thread, is just a very odd human. His ability to continuously talk is something foreign: too talkative for the most talkative person we know. Yet we feel this odd sense of connection and relatability to him. Perhaps it is the portrayal of tasks and occurrences we all know so well in minute detail or his extensive context before describing his memories. These are valid conclusions, however, I propose something else: the talkativeness and all-too descriptive observations are compensations for the lack of dialogical diversity. I think of the dialogue in a traditional novel with fractions. For example, the main character's total dialogue could count at 5/8 of all dialogue in the novel. However, in The Mezzanine, Howie's dialogue looms large over all other sources. In reading the book, there was this sense of incompleteness despite overflowing sensory inputs as described by Howie. I blame this on the complete absence of what is typically expected from such a novel: character and thought diversity. This is the soggy and brown-at-the-edges kind of lettuce that is the metaphorical second layer of the sandwich.

I conclude this sandwich with the plastic cheese. I find it typical that an engaging novel leaves paths for speculation by the reader (perhaps this is why fan fictions are so popular). The Mezzanine notably has none,  and every bit of Howie's life is vividly described and any conclusion we are to make about that life is directly influenced by the text. There is literally no stone unturned. To me, the incompleteness and dry feeling of the book is also influenced by this. I would proudly say that I enjoy fantasizing about the implied but unmentioned parts of the text; for example, I would think of my own interpretation of how a character would piss. However, Baker denies every single attempt to think of any alternative as to what was happening in the story. He clearly describes how Don Vanci urinates. To be able to realize where to insert detail and plug any hole that would lead to speculation, Baker is a genius.

I realize this sandwich is incomplete (more of a half-sandwich cut in the wrong way) and there was no mustard. Maybe the bread, lettuce, and tomato all compensate for its absence (see what I did there).