The Lay of the Land v. English, August
presented by
ROUND ONE
The Lay of the Land
v. English, August
Judged by Colin Meloy
Colin Meloy is the singer and songwriter of the Decemberists. He was born in a Viennese garret. He thinks his new dutch oven is the cat’s pajamas. He once played a game of blindfolded 5 Finger Fillet with Richard Ford; he splayed his fingers, Ford wielded the knife. However, because he was blindfolded, he can’t be 100 percent sure that it was Richard Ford. It could have as easily been Jonathan Safran Foer. Connections to authors: None.
“Two books enter! One book leaves!”
The Lay of the Land, the newest addition to the vaunted literary career of Maine resident Richard Ford, wiped the clinging dust from his book jacket and leered into the large, domed cage that separated himself from his destiny. Across the sand floor, on the opposite side of the cage, he could make out the form of his opponent, English, August by Uppamanyu Chatterjee. He looked tired, old. Christ, thought The Lay of the Land, he was originally published in ‘88! Reprinted this year in a new translation, sure, but could his prose be a match to Ford’s taut, masculine-yet-introspective saga of an aging New Jersey real estate agent looking down the barrel at his own mortality? The Lay of the Land thought not, but, in the end, it was the crowd’s decision. He looked up at the teeming hordes clambering up the walls of the cage, shouting for blood. Damn, he thought, looks like the Book Review offices let out early today.
“Two books enter! One book leaves!” This refrain, originally shouted by a hirsute dwarf in shoulder pads standing in the center of the cage, was now taken up by the crowd. The sound was deafening.
“You’re mine, Ford!” shouted English, August from across the cage, “Your little New Jersey pastoral is going to appear quaint next to my acerbic, comic look at modern Indian life.” He spat in the sand and added, “I’m like the fucking Indian Kafka!” The crowd erupted in boos and cheers.
It was true. Maybe The Lay of the Land’s time had come. Maybe it was time for shorter, funnier, and more globally minded books to take the spotlight. Maybe the Great American Novel was a thing of the past. He adjusted his book jacket and looked down at his middle. Shit, he thought, at least I’ve got sheer girth on him. And he’s only available in paperback.
Before he had a chance to ruminate any more, the gate to the cage snapped open and he was shoved into the middle of the dome. English, August was there, seething through his jacket-blurbs, as a dwarf suited him within his harness. A large woman in a headdress did the same for The Lay of the Land. “Make sure it’s tight,” he said, “Got a lot of dense prose in here.” He shot a glance at English, August to make sure he was listening.
“Begin!” shouted the dwarf. With a loud snap, the two books were shot into the air by the power of the elastic cables that attached their harnesses to the ceiling of the dome. A large wooden mallet, loosely attached to the cage, lay within easy grasp of The Lay of the Land as he was vaulted through the air. He grabbed it and nimbly landed on the floor of the dome. He looked across the floor and frowned; English, August was holding a chainsaw. Things were not looking good.
“You were made of sawdust,” shouted his opponent, “And to sawdust you will return!” English, August charged The Lay of the Land, chainsaw growling. The Lay of the Land leapt aside and felt the teeth of the chainsaw nip at his boards. English, August had not expected him to be so nimble and was thrown off balance by the weight of the chainsaw. With a swift motion, The Lay of the Land had English, August on his back cover.
“Sawdust, huh?” sneered The Lay of the Land. And down came the mallet.
A hush fell over the crowd. Bits of torn paper fluttered through the dusty air. The dwarf walked slowly to center of the dome and nodded at The Lay of the Land. He turned and intoned to the awaiting crowd: “By dint of the fact that The Lay of the Land held a Stronger Grasp on its Reader with its parcelled observations of What It Is To Be American (as well as Celebrating the Dysfunctions of American Family) regardless of the fact that the reader had not read either Two Frank Bascombe Books and Could’ve Cared Less About Real Estate in New Jersey, I declare The Lay of the Land to be the Victor in this Thunderdome Match—over English, August, which, while being surprisingly Funny, seemed lacking in Depth and a certain Vitality in the Writing next to the Observant and Character-driven Prose of Richard Ford.”
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Advancing:
The Lay of the Land
Note: English, August was originally published in English; the 2006 reprint is not a translation of the original text. —Editors
Match Commentary
with Kevin Guilfoile and John Warner
WARNER: In an earlier bout you were looking to be aggrieved and now it’s my turn, so I’m going to take some shots at Richard Ford. Though I’ll make sure to tread lightly so as not to receive the same Ford loogie-shower as Colson Whitehead. (Lest one think that Mr. Ford has moderated his passion over the incident, check out Ed Champion’s podcast with Ford, where the brave Mr. Champion asks about what may have happened and Ford responds—I’m paraphrasing here—“Go fuck yourself.”)
GUILFOILE: The worst thing about celebrity culture—even low-flying literary celebrity culture—is that there’s no incentive for any person who makes his living off the public to act civilly toward anyone. In fact, every time I travel I always think to myself, “Wow, if I hijacked this plane I’d sell a shitload of books.”
There are plenty of incentives for me not to spit on the other parents when I pick up my son at school. But as a writer in a world in which tens of thousands of new books are published each year, there is absolutely no downside to spitting on Scott Turow, especially in a well-lit public place ringed with camera-phone-equipped bloggers. (Turow’s a practicing attorney and a former federal prosecutor so maybe he’s a bad example, but how about Dean Koontz? There’s no downside to spitting on Dean Koontz.) None, except for the existential Jonestown in which I must kill the person I have always been, the person I was raised to be, and the person I have always aspired to be. But if I don’t care about that, there’s no downside at all. Once ambition has made me dead inside, whatever doesn’t incarcerate me makes me more successful.
WARNER: Anyway, Richard Ford owes me roughly six months of my life back, specifically October 1995 through March 1996. I was assigned the first Frank Bascombe book, The Sportswriter, as part of my studies in pursuit of an MFA in creative writing, and upon finishing it I decided that this was how all novels should be written since it was pretty much perfect to my mind and that indeed, the novel I was working on should adopt the same world-weary, funny, insightful, utterly absorbing tone. The problem was the novel I tried to apply this to was about a producer for an Oprah-style talk show obsessed with booking softball-playing Siamese twin sisters from Alabama. It only took me 180 pages to recognize that this wasn’t working out so well.
Sure, he’s paid me back with the pleasure of reading both Independence Day and now Lay of the Land, but still we’re not even by any stretch.
GUILFOILE: Yeah, despite what I said about Richard Ford being dead inside, Meloy should read the other Frank Bascombe books. They’re crazy good, and they really aren’t about real estate in New Jersey. This is about real estate in New Jersey, and frankly against English, August, it would have had no chance at all. Being in the middle of buying and selling a home myself, the Thunderdome analogy is actually closer to the actual house transaction experience than it is to The Lay of the Land. Unlike the Mad Max films, the Bascombe books won’t really provide you with much helpful information on selling your West Englewood colonial. What the Bascombe books will teach you is how to be a big mope. They’re also about the human condition and whatnot, of course, but honestly no detail of chronic male mopiness is unexplored in this trilogy.
But still, crazy good.