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Fieldwork: A Novelby Mischa BerlinskiPicador February 2008, 368 pages, $14.00 by Nav PurewalSo the story goes: as he read his son’s new novel, Kingsley Amis was so disgusted that Martin Amis had written himself into Money that he hurled the book across the room mid-sentence. Even allowing for the Oedipal psychodrama that characterized much of their relationship, this seems like a bit of an overreaction. And yet, I can hardly claim not to have experienced similar urges.
Writing yourself into your fiction is a device all graduate Creative Writing programs, from East Anglia to Southern California, should caution students against. How anyone made it all the way through Douglas Coupland’s JPod remains a minor mystery to me (opening line: “Oh God. I feel like a refugee from a Douglas Coupland novel”). Which is not to say that all such uses are equal, and not simply because Money is a good book and JPod is not. Enter Mischa Berlinski with his fiercely original first novel, Fieldwork.
Berlinski piles story-upon-story, and his resulting Russian doll narrative resembles nothing so much as Robertson Davies in his prime. The wry prose is a pleasure in and of itself, but is never foregrounded at the plot’s expense. There are writers one reads for their inimitable eloquence, and there are those one turns to for pure storytelling. Berlinski’s achievement is in marrying the two, fashioning a story that thrills without condescension. Fieldwork is clearly the work of a superior intellect, but one that doesn’t shy away from juicy plot twists or exciting set pieces.
Berlinski himself worked as a journalist in Thailand, and his experiences have surely helped shape his writing. That Fieldwork is impeccably researched is beyond question, but Berlinski doesn’t flaunt his erudition needlessly. Instead, the information he’s accumulated provides a steady foundation, allowing him to write with an earned authority that never fails to convince. One need not harbor any particular interest in the minutia of Christian missionary work or the eponymous anthropological fieldwork to appreciate his accomplishment.
The next time some aging curmudgeon, say V.S. Naipaul, declares the novel dead, someone should force Fieldwork into his hands. No art form capable of exhibiting this much vitality and this level of originality can truly be waning. That this is Berlinski’s first effort just makes his achievement all the more impressive, and all the more enviable.
27 March 2008
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