an earnest attempt which softens to crumbs by the end of the novel. McCarthy has tried something similar in Suttree, but with more reflection, skill, and substance ( )

William H. Gass is a two-bit [a:William Faulkner|3535|William Faulkner|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1615562983p2/3535.jpg], that's it. The fact that [a:David Foster Wallace|4339|David Foster Wallace|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1615507112p2/4339.jpg]'s favorite book was Omensetter's Luck should tell you something already.

Omensetter is an innocent sod who decides one day to pack the family up and move to Gilean, Ohio. He's a babe in the woods but everything seems to work out for him which makes his new neighbors envious since he's such a simp. When his landlord disappears and then later is found hanging high in a tree, the town-folk take it as a useful opportunity to run him out of town. His good luck continues as his infant son miraculously recovers from diphtheria. That's it, as I said.

Not really. See Omensetter is the pre-Eve (pre-knowledge) Adam and his life is contrasted to the nasty sinful Reverend Jethro Furber. Furber, his neighbor, is Omensetter's biggest enemy in town, especially since Omensetter is not a church goer. Furber is as wicked and sinful as Omensetter is innocent. There's the gist of something good here, if somebody would just write it.

How did we get this post-modernist stream-of-consciousness trifle? Well, the first copy Gass wrote was stolen by a jealous colleague, so he had to think it up again (Much to our detriment. Why couldn't it just stay lost?). Such are the ways of petty university politics. When Gass rewrote it the thing sort of got away from him and the Furber section became the bulk of the book. But when you're trying to be clever, you leave the title alone.

The idea of the novel is really quite good, but you would have to turn it over to somebody who could actually write a coherent novel to get anything out of it. Here we have the output of a writer with a poor idea of grammar and punctuation, but a jolly good idea. Some might call it a difficult read but I didn't find that.

If I didn't know better, I'd pass it off as a literary practical joke.

I think it is in the sf novel [b:Hyperion|77566|Hyperion (Hyperion Cantos, #1)|Dan Simmons|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1405546838l/77566._SY75_.jpg|1383900] where [a:Dan Simmons|2687|Dan Simmons|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1427999015p2/2687.jpg] has the Poet say that William Gass is the only prose author still read from the 20th century. Now that's a literary practical joke. ( )

I started Gass's The Tunnel a few years ago and stalled. I decided to try Omensetter's Luck as a shorter entre into Gass's work. It's not an easy book. It's often called "impressionistic," and for much of it, I thought it was much like Joyce at his (non-Wake) hardest (but thankfully briefer). I began to doubt my fitness to read such a book. But then it began clicking, and the last half or so goes down more smoothly. It's a book that needs rereading, and it's worth picking up for the afterword if nothing else. ( )

Apparently I've been delegated to write the dissenting opinion on this one. I first read it in college and was so unimpressed that I gave the book away (a bad idea in retrospect, it's nice to have around). I was equally unimpressed this time, despite, I flatter myself, being a much better reader, and, particularly, having read much more Gass. But Omensetter's Luck (one of the great *titles* of the twentieth century) inspires a lot of rapture from reviewers, and I'm not sure I've come across any book that inspires people to write more creative responses. Well, well, what do we live for but to disagree about books.

The Gass you may know and love from The Tunnel, Middle C and his essays (possibly novellas too, which are next on my Gass reading itinerary) is absent for all but a few pages of this one. Instead of the post-Bernhardian rants of his later novels, OL is mostly post-Joyceian stream of consciousness, or quasi-Gaddisian dialogue. It's also interesting to note that there's a real plot in this book, and that The Tunnel, for instance, seems to have been written at least in part to prove that even a 700 page book (probably closer to 800 standard sized pages) can be written with literally no plot other than "I dug a tunnel, but didn't get anywhere".

Stream of consciousness: I have to come up with some rules for what I will and won't read. I'm getting older, and reading more, but there's still an infinite number of books, good books, that I will never get to read. So, I will no longer be reading books written after... 1945, say, which feature stream of consciousness that is not obviously parodic. Contrary to what is sometimes suggested, nobody's internal world looks like that. Which wouldn't matter at all, if it was formally, intellectually or emotionally invigorating. It is not. Even a master of prose and ideas like Gass can't make silk from a series of sow's ears. "That's mighty funny, you know that. He wore a fur hat like a hunter's. Thin hot face. Determined. Splotched. Knox on his arm like a cane. Pride, Furber suggested. Pride. Domestic tiff" etc etc... This kind of thing is almost deliberately destructive of everything that Gass does well: here there's no syntactical or rhythmic complexity, and little rhetorical bloat (a good thing, in his case).

Dialogue: there's almost no dialogue in the later novels, and now I know why--Gass is the anti-Gaddis. While double D can conjure the entire history of financial capital in a few words spoken over the phone by a middle-school student, Gass's dialogue (particularly towards the end, when Furber starts defending Omensetter) is less interesting and a good deal more repetitive than his narration (though more interesting and less repetitive than the stream of consciousness stuff).

In other words, this book comprises, for the most part, three thing that Gass is not good at, or that nobody is good at, plot, dialogue and stream of consciousness. And yet people love it, and occasionally give reasons for loving it. And there are things here I like, I admit. Furber is a glorious character, halfway between a Gaddis creation and Gass's later ranters. His sermon certainly points toward the latter, as does his general position as an intelligent man driven mad by stupidity (and, presumably, religion).

Also, the afterword is wonderful. The afterword is actually better than the novel, inasmuch as Gass's style has matured into its acid and hate, and the little tale he spins about the book is truly fascinating. You should read Gass, but if you're looking for someone to tell you to start elsewhere, I'm your man. Start with Middle C (pending the re-release of In the Heart of the Heart of the Country). ( )

This is the first Gass novel I've tried. I was slightly disappointed because the novel started out convincing and extremely polished. The transition into Furber's stream of consciousness was a tad jarring. There is a lot of punning, wandering narration, Biblical rap lyrics, odd juxtapositions, and I am convinced that Gass is frequently nonsensical. However, the novel is not overlong, and is likely to surprise you once or twice per paragraph with some verbal trickery.

Gass's highly amusing Afterword goes on to explain the history of the book's publication. It is told in the manner of an autobiographical short story and I found it one of the best parts of the volume, though, like much of what came before, not strictly necessary.

Omensetter's Luck, as a novel, was an interesting experiment, an experience in self-indulgent images and voices, sort of reverberating prose, a suggestive, bleak, detailed, unique reading challenge. The examination of character is pretty one-sided, but that does not stop it from being interesting. I had the feeling that Gass is a capable writer, one who could have gone on for 500 more pages in this manner without running out of quirky ideas. But he restrains himself (for the most part). It is not all one thing. It could have been all sadness or all farce. It is both and much more. The variety is refreshing, and though the plot isn't that complicated, its obfuscated by lyrical labyrinths.

I recommend reading a summary. Spoiling the plot won't detract from your enjoyment of the novel. Then relish the sheer breadth of language contortions to follow. You could isolate many situations in the first sections of the book, and examine their symbolism. Gass invites you to pick apart what he is getting at. But if writing book reports is not your speed, you can also simply sit back and contemplate his impressionistic gusto. It is possible to feel the repressive strictures of the tormented Furber and the wily fascinations of Israbestis and the other inhabitants of Gilean so lovingly depicted by the author, like flashes of lightning, and I find myself thinking about them after reluctantly finishing the book. ( )