I am not sure if it is entirely Ford's fault, but more of what he is writing about. The man is a brilliant wordsmith, and his three previous Bascombe novels--"The Sportswriter," "Independence Day," and "The Lay Of The Land"--I loved, because, despite the darkness within, hope shined through.
Not so with this volume, though a few things within it are structurally brilliant. The title is a double entendre--the author asking the reader permission to speak about rather unpleasant things, while at the same, asking one permission to revisit Frank Bascombe one more time.
Now, I know Ford has written short story collections, but I have never read them. So, I was not prepared for this book being a string of novellas, held together by the presence of Frank Bascombe. I would have been more satisfied had the work been fleshed out and structured as a novel.
Within these pages, Frank is sixty-eight. He has endured prostate cancer, and seems to be contemplating his own mortality throughout. As a result some things here are just so upsetting--a visitor to his house reveals a horrid family secret, an ex-spouse is slowly dying of Parkinson's, while another friend is expiring quicker from pancreatic cancer. "My God," I kept thinking. " Have I wandered into Joan Didion territory? Get me outta here!!!!!!!!!"
Granted, at sixty-eight one is closer to mortality than not. But I have a feeling Frank is not through with life yet, nor is Ford through with Frank. The cover art, which mirrors the integration of the destruction of Hurricane Sandy into South Jersey, is effective, as well.
I would read Richard Ford at a moment's notice. But I wonder why he chose to write about Frank in this way. Was he just stymied, or merely satisfying a contract obligation?
The results are eminently readable, but not as satisfying as Ford's other books. He definitely paints better on a larger canvass!
Bigger is better with you, Mr. Ford!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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