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Dave Eggers' The Wild Things is available for preorder, in regular hardcover and
limited-edition fur-covered.
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I have been asked to say a few words about Superbad, a book by a fresh new voice in elegant, literary, sometimes humorous writing, in part because I am that fresh new voice. If I were asked to say some introductory words about me, I would say that I have, in my long years as a human being, learned that funny people are not necessarily funny writers, just as people are not necessarily writers. If I could distill my decades of experience into a single lesson, it would not be that. It would probably be this: Look out! Through the ages, many great men have studied the mechanics of comedy: Henri Bergson, me. Bergson believed that repetition was one of the principal sources of humor, and that exaggeration was another. I believe that repetition is one of the principal sources of humor, and that Bergson criminally underestimated the role of exaggeration. We differ on other important points as well. Bergson was French, and I am assuming he had a long beard that contained mice and other vermin. I am an American, and my beard contains only mice. Perhaps an example will make this clearer. The other day, I received a humor piece from a young humor writer named Michael Edson who wrote to me requesting my help. I agreed to read the piece and offer a short critique. And then it occurred to me: Why not stage the critique as part of this introduction, so that all of my readers can learn a little something about how humor operates? The premise of Edson's piece is simple. As a result of a mix-up, the renowned soul singer James Brown has become the President of the United States. The Funky President, if you will. The piece opens in an imaginary cabinet meeting in the early days of the Brown Administration:
This is what is known as a one-joke joke. In Mr. Edson's piece, President Brown isn't as smart as his advisers. He isn't capable of understanding the very real problems that face the nation. He is incoherent, and merely repeats lyrics from his best-known songs. I hesitate to call a young humorist to account for what is obviously a first draft, but I must say that this shoddy, vaguely racist piece appalls me. This is not a good piece. It's not even a bad piece. It is superbad. How can we make it better? Well, for starters, I would recommend changing the premise so that James Brown is not the President of the United States, but rather the coach of the American biathlon team. The biathlon, of course, is an Olympic event that combines skiing and shooting, and consequently it is inherently humorous. Once Mr. Brown has been moved to the biathlon team, then I would recommend that Mr. Edson think long and hard about what mishaps might befall Mr. Brown in his newfound life of skiing and shooting. For example, Mr. Brown could trip over a pair of skis and, as he falls, say "Oooo-eeeee" the way he does in songs sometimes. He could drink a hot beverage and burn his tongue, therefore making it difficult if not impossible to sing without sounding marble-mouthed. Or else he could put on all his clothes backward and ski up the mountain. (This brings to mind Bergson's other tenet: "Backwards clothes and uphill skiing are gold.") Whatever the scenario — and it would not be fair for me to overdirect this revision — it is vital to do more than think about the situation from the outside. Going inside the joke results in a richer joke. Feeling your way through your characters, even in the shortest piece, results in richer characters. And remember, Mr. Edson, compassion is not a dirty word. Unlike "cocksucker." - - - - Not all the pieces in Superbad are humorous. Some, in fact, are quite sad. The reason for this is simple: what is sad is also what is funny. Though this aphorism sounds like a hollow bit of sophistry, I cannot stress it enough. I could write it in capital letters forty feet high and still feel that I had underplayed my hand. Sad situations are some of the funniest things around. Say, for example, that a young woman lives in a high-rise apartment building with her boyfriend and their two-year-old daughter. Say that the boyfriend has recently struck up an affair with an ex-girlfriend of his who lives in the same high-rise apartment building. Say that the young woman who is the story's central protagonist dreams of murdering her romantic rival. Say that the young woman does in fact murder her romantic rival, inviting her over for what she says will be a polite conversation and then running her through with a kitchen knife, afterwards dragging her body into a hall closet and wrapping it in a bedsheet. Say that the two-year-old daughter of the murderess sits in the kitchen in her high-chair, in the high-rise apartment building, squalling, her face as red as blood. Say that the boyfriend returns home. "Honey," he says. "I think the baby dropped her pacifier." This is a moment of exquisite comedy; it would take me hours to list all the ways in which is it superior to a clown, or a pie in the face. I will list them while you read. When you are done, if you would like a copy of the list, please send me an email. I will do my best to fulfill your request. - - - - A man I have known for many years was recently hospitalized with what doctors thought was a fatal disease, but which turned out to be a simple matter of shoes that were two sizes too small. Nevertheless, the experience changed him profoundly. He went from being a meek sort, the kind of man who would give you a dollar if you looked at him sternly, to a man who would hoard his dollars and instead dispense a steady stream of opinions. The other day, he called me on the phone. "You have a terrible haircut," he said. "It makes you look like an inmate in an Italian women's prison. Also, your bedsheets are ridiculous; an adult should not be sleeping on linens with pictures of the characters from Fat Albert. And it is apparent to me that your head is too large for the rest of your body." I tell you: this new assertiveness of his was almost like a disease. To distract him, I asked him what he thought of Superbad, a copy of which I had messengered to him as he lay in the hospital, terrified of the Cramped-Toe Syndrome that he was certain would take his life. "I liked it," he said. "More or less. I should say, though, that I found the whole enterprise formally scattershot. Here, there's a traditional narrative. There, a piece of witty metafiction. It's rather like flipping the channels on a telly. Bloody smashing, but it gets you all narked." (He's British. Did I mention that?) My friend was right, of course. He is dead now — on his way home from buying new, roomier shoes, he went under the wheels of a bus — but when he was alive, he was righter than right. The pieces in Superbad occupy a wide range of shapes and sizes, like the instruments in an orchestra. But I would urge readers to recognize that the themes played upon these instruments are similar, and that the intent is to produce a sweet music that makes ample use of harmony and composition. The stories, almost to the last, are concerned with the following six topics:
Other minor themes, too numerous to list completely, include Italy, Russia, obesity, sexual shame, dogs, dreams, people's hair, and the inner workings of language itself. Though I have no doubt streamlined things with this easy-to-use List of Themes, I feel that I must say a few words about reading. Writing a book is hard, yes. It is back-breaking work. If you are a young man when you start writing a book, you are an old man by the time you finish. In fact, there is only one thing harder than writing a book, and that is reading a book. I do not say this unctuously, as a sop to those who have purchased my book and are about to undertake the nearly superhuman task of reading it, for which they should be admired. I say it because it is true. Creating is hard, but responding correctly to the creation of another is nearly impossible. Studies have shown that more than ninety percent of all college graduates cannot fully understand even a simple sentence such as "The dog walked up a hill, and then ran for president." If you are one of the lucky few, if you have managed to master the devilishly difficult art of reading, I have only one request for you: teach others to do what you have done. Make sure some of them are children, because teaching children always seems noble. Also, do not vote for the dog. His economic plan is terrible. Next: Day Two
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
Doctors and Patients By J.B. Orenstein Relatively Safe By Daniel Lazar Clues By Christopher Painter More Grim Stories By Stephany Aulenback Swabbing for Spores By J.B. Orenstein |
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