The Echo Maker v. The Emperor’s Children
presented by
ROUND ONE
The Echo Maker
v. The Emperor’s Children
Judged by Marcus Sakey
Ten years in advertising gave Marcus Sakey the perfect background to write about criminals and killers. His debut novel, The Blade Itself, which Publishers’ Weekly called “Brilliant. A must read,” has drawn comparison to Dennis Lehane, Laura Lippman, and Quentin Tarantino. To research the novel, Marcus shadowed homicide detectives, toured the morgue, and learned to pick a deadbolt in 60 seconds. Visit his web site at MarcusSakey.com for contests, excerpts, and behind-the-scenes info. Connections to authors: None.
I realize the Rooster is structured like a basketball championship, but me, I’m more of a boxing fan. So, with that in mind:
In the Red Corner, weighing in at eight critically acclaimed novels, a MacArthur Fellowship, and a National Book Award, the poet of popular science, Riiiiiiichard Poooooowerrrrrrs!
And in the Blue Corner, sporting three novels and two novellas, a PEN/Faulkner Award and a Guggenheim Fellowship, subtle of sympathy and apt of metaphor, Claaaiire Messuuuuuuuuuuudd!
The crowd howls with anticipation, the two bump gloves and the bout begins.
But here’s the problem with boxing: Sometimes, even when you’re dealing with a couple of veterans, a fight doesn’t live up to expectations. It may be balanced, bloody, and sincere, and yet somehow not have that spark, that indefinable thing that makes it magic.
Which is how I felt about both books.
The Echo Maker revolves around Mark Schluter, a 27-year-old Everyman who awakens from a coma with a rare syndrome that leaves him unable to recognize the people he most loves. This is understandably traumatic for his sister, who, though he admits she looks and acts like his sister, Mark believes to be an imposter sent to spy on him. It’s an interesting premise that gives Powers a platform to reflect upon the definition of consciousness, on the millions of biological and neurological steps that combine to create our visions of ourselves. The philosophical ramifications are fascinating: if what I think of as “me” is actually beyond my control, then what, exactly, am I?
That’s a question that The Emperor’s Children also wrestles with. At the heart of Messud’s novel about Manhattan intellectuals searching for validation and love (in that order) lies a question of identity. Of course, amidst the bantering bourgeois, personal identity depends on the opinion of others, and so all of her protagonists define themselves not by their own actions, but by their relationships to one another, and most especially to the aging and celebrated journalist who is the “emperor” of the title.
So far, so good. But a theme does not a novel make, and like boxers with great footwork but no arm, both novels dance around a lot without accomplishing very much.
The people in The Echo Maker aren’t people—they’re arguments, vantage points from which Powers can explore his ideas. They stagger about in ways that too clearly reveal the hand of the puppeteer, mouthing elaborate witticisms that serve symbolic purposes but ring false, like the husband and wife who nickname each other “Man” and “Woman,” as in, “Woman, can you pass the salt?” Try as he might to force emotional significance into the story, the book is all head and no heart.
In contrast, Messud’s characters are real enough to hold the door for you—though they wouldn’t. She has a wonderful eye for the subtleties that define us, and though her characters spend most of their time whining and bickering, she writes each with compassion and empathy that makes their inevitable collisions, and the damage that results, compelling and lyric.
Just not, ultimately, meaningful.
Maybe it’s me, but to rise to the kind of greatness conferred by our much-coveted Rooster, I feel a novel needs to not only mean something, but also do something; to excite not just the mind but also the soul. And while both books are admirably written and widely lauded, and both authors are worthy combatants, in the end, the fight simply didn’t live up to expectations.
Thus, without a knockout, we have to go to the judges. They’re tallying their score now, consulting amongst themselves, and the winner is…The Emperor’s Children, by a narrow margin.
As a novelist, I believe stories are first about people. If you can’t make me believe in the characters, I have a hard time buying into the philosophy—especially philosophy about the nature of character.
Advancing:
The Emperor’s Children
Match Commentary
with Kevin Guilfoile and John Warner
WARNER: I have to admit that I have a rooting interest in this showdown. For the 2001-2002 academic year, Richard Powers and I teamed up as members of the University of Illinois English Department. At the time, between us we had a Lannan Literary Award, a notice from Esquire Magazine as “one of the writers of the decade,” a National Book Award finalist title, a MacArthur Genius Grant, and a Washington Post paperback number-one bestseller done primarily in colored pencil.
Powers and I were a kind of dream team that year, he with a dual appointment as Swanlund Chair of English as well as being part of the Center for Advanced Study, while I held down the fort teaching my three sections of freshman composition.
I think I saw him in the hallway once, but I’m not sure. It was from the back and he was turning the corner.
GUILFOILE: Speaking of rooting interests, Marcus Sakey is a friend of mine, and a rock-solid Chicago guy, so I’m going to take him at his word here. Marcus is a fight fan, as I once was (having come from a family of amateur boxers), but I notice that whenever Manhattan intellectuals talk about boxing on NPR they always call it the “sweet science.” In fact, scientists have not learned very much from their observation of black men beating each other bloody with their fists, at least not since 1908 when Marie Curie discovered Jackjohnsonium (Symbol: Jj. Atomic Weight: 185; Atomic Height: 6-1; Atomic Reach: 74 inches.).
Most scientists agree that those research dollars would be more effective if they were redirected into modelboxing research.
WARNER: Note that Judge Sakey is lukewarm about both titles (an emerging trend in this year’s tournament). Coupling Powers’ recent National Book Award victory for The Echo Maker with Sakey’s description of The Emperor’s Children as a “novel about Manhattan intellectuals searching for validation and love,” makes Messud’s victory even more surprising.
Kevin, you and I have often spoken both privately and publicly about coming from flyover country and holding certain East Coast provincial attitudes in disdain, so perhaps this colors my perception, but I can’t think of a book I’d rather read less than a “novel about Manhattan intellectuals searching for validation and love.”
In fact, here’s a list of general themes I’d rather read about more than a novel about Manhattan intellectuals searching for validation and love:
A novel about foot fungus finding purchase underneath toenails
A novel about librarians talking about the intricacies of the Dewey Decimal System
A novel about that squeaking noise chalk makes against a blackboard
A novel about Manhattan intellectuals realizing there’s nothing less interesting to most people than Manhattan intellectuals and poking their eyes out with fondue skewers
GUILFOILE: I’m so tired of books (and movies) about lonely, dissatisfied Manhattan intellectuals that when I actually meet one in person I generally taser him in the scrotum. Which is not really fair to the intellectual.