A Painful Read

Not quite, Mr. AlgerIn his article “The Fiction of Nathanael West: No Redeemer, No Promised Land,” Randall Reid writes of West’s work: “His vision is too narrow, his subjects are too extreme, there are no normal people in his books, and life isn't all like that.” Reid is talking about why West is seen as a “minor” writer by critics, but at first—and maybe all—glances, even a reader who likes West’s work has to admit that this is true. But West’s dealings in extremism are toward a definite goal: A Cool Million is intended to be unrelentingly satirical. In that sense, the book is interesting to look at in terms of the failed American Dream, and as a counterpoint to all of the “uplifting” Depression-era books whose characters held on to hope above all else, and whose authors seem to be generally, or ultimately, positive about the American/human condition.

And yet, I couldn’t agree with Fred T. Marsh’s comment in “A Cool Million and Other Recent Works of Fiction” that “Mr. West's hilarious parody-satire is a good deal of fun. You will read it at a sitting and enjoy it.” I didn’t really find it fun. I found it disturbing, and slightly manic, and thoughtful. But I was prevented from truly enjoying it by the basic facts of the story; the repeated rapes, the gory violence, and the painful naïveté that West burdens his protagonist with were not “a good deal of fun.” Being one of those rare creatures who doesn’t enjoy Seinfeld because it makes me so anxious I have to leave the room, if I laughed during A Cool Million it was out of profound discomfort, and not true amusement.

I found Lemuel Pitkin’s journey most comparable to the pieces we read last week, particularly Conroy’s The Disinherited. Here was a boy who left home in search of a job, to try and help his only family; the book is a series of vignettes in which Pitkin becomes more and more desperate and tragic as a hero. No job or fortuitous experience lasts long for him. He loses body parts along the way, as though the world that is chipping at his optimism, having failed to make a dent there, went at him with a real shovel to chip at his flesh. West doesn’t greatly develop Pitkin, or indeed anybody, as a character, nor does he go into great detail about each and every event that occurs. Content to use the story as a sort of fable, West drags the “hero” of his story through increasingly dark experiences until, and after, his death. The fictional aspect didn’t help much; I still felt as depressed as at the end of Waiting For Nothing.