I was struck oddly by this book. I've thought of writing a not-so-fictional memoir of my high school experiences (a unique place) and the humorous tone of this book approximated the dosage I would use. Maybe it's due to our shared New Jersey heritage (though I'm from central and Lipsyte from north) or similar personal experiences. I'm not sure. The humor and absurdity of Home Land drew me in, but after a thorough read, I was disappointed it did not deliver more. You can avoid traps of kitschy epiphanies and platitudes while retaining some sort of genuine reflection.
First I must explain how I encountered Lipsyte's work. I came across a short story in the anthology The Anchor Book of New American Stories edited by Ben Marcus. Entitled "I'm Slavering" this short story captured a strained but meaningful relationship between the narrator and his drug addicted friend. Lipsyte is a master of exchanges, creating dialog with incredible movement and revelation of character, as seen in the closing conversation of the story:
I got up, took the man from Scarsdale's seat, pressed Gary's dead thumb in my hand.
"Are you sorry you did it?" I said.
"Get the hell off me."
I stroked his thumb, brushed it, tenderly, the way you would a blind, tiny thing fresh-pulled from a hole.
"Just tell me if you're sorry," I said. "Because here we are. Because, me, I've been following you. Do you understand that? I've been following you all along. So, just tell me, are you sorry?"
"Hell, no," said Gary. "I wanted to watch TV. Anyway, what's done is done."
"Done and gone," I said.
"Don't fucking wallow," said Gary, and pulled his thumb away. "Never fucking wallow. You wallow, you're pretending you were something else in the first place. I know who I am. I'm Gary. I go down into the street, I'm Gary. I've never stopped being Gary. There's no cure for it. There's no race. It's not a race, okay? It's a contest. Do you get what I'm saying?"
"Yes," I said. "I'm with you."
He walked over to the window, a vista of sky, brick.
"Don't be with me," said Gary.
The story begins with the narrator and a group of people waiting for Gary. He does not arrive so the narrator sets out for him. He tells the story of Gary cutting of his thumb because his parents wouldn't let him watch television late at night. After that, he got his way.
Then there are passages that are just funny like this one from Home Land:
"Lewis. Do you know, Lewis, that I can look right at you and tell by a single glance you are consumed by demons of nearly unimaginable ferocity? Do you know how I can ascertain this?"
"The shape of my head?"
"Primarily, yes. Do you pray, Lewis?"
"I don't believe in God."
"Who said anything about God, twat? Hey, do you like antiques? You'll never guess what I've got in my car."
"You're right, I won't."
"A goddamn war mace. It was used by Ostrogoths to split skulls. Fucked-up skulls like yours. Got it in the mail. From an Ostrogoth."
"I didn't know there were any around."
"He's an Ostrogoth by choice. You can be whatever you want to be in this country, in case you haven't heard."
I've continuously run into weak novels that take a good concept for a short story and attempt to stretch out for 200+ pages. So the protagonist, Lewis, writes sardonic letters to his alumni newsletter. He's an antihero; Holden Caulfield at 30; lonely and bitter and intelligent. Highlights: the absurdity of his life and his run-ins with the former principal, his friends, and enemies. Lipsyte avoids sentimentality - such a formidable trap for this novel's ambition. We can laugh about our shortcomings and ridicule the ones we love to hate, but in the end there isn't much left. There is an air of self-superiority, even for the burn-outs, but other than that is some fluffy appreciation for friendship. A complacency coagulates and we accept our circumstance and think happy thoughts. It reminded me of a John Hughes film straight out of the eighties.
Worth a read (quick one) for its hilarity, but don't expect to really care what happens. The anti-climactic climax with some slapstick sitcom action was fitting.
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