James A.
Mitchener is probably unparalleled when it comes to the historical aspect of
his fiction. I am no historian but that is my intuitive guess. He knows dates,
times, people, culture, war, and geography. He was also probably one of the
most dedicated writers in any canon, with these seven hundred plus page books,
and many of them. Mitchener wrote, it seems, about almost everywhere and every
time. And he is utterly rational, sane, organized, sensible, and reliable when
it comes to most things. The Drifters,
a work about young people searching for themselves and adventure during the
Vietnam era, came highly recommended. There is a new publication series of his
novels, with smart and fun covers, well bound pages, and erudite introductions.
I wanted to love this book, at least as an entertaining if not outright
enthralling summer read. But there are some problems with the structure and
content that are making me become a drifter (away from the text), and quite
early at that.
I noticed right
off that these are not so much chapters of a novel as short stories where the
characters link, but sometimes only tenuously, and as an afterthought. I was
surprised at this, because I thought that the characters would be going along
together, from the start, like in an orthodox story. The people are fleshed
out, yes, but mostly on their own, and apart from one another. I don’t dislike
them, but nor do I feel a great sympathy towards them. That way, structure and
character development seem to be lacking.
Secondly, from
the first chapter onwards, characters run into a problem, be it financial,
political, academic, geographic, - only to be taken out of this problem by an
almost magical series of events, - a benevolent underground society of
marvelous people help one character almost as if in a dream. A travel agency
owner practically gives away a ticket to an exotic Spanish locale. A relative
of yet another has saved money secretly to aid in the future of a man, and
steps forward from the shadows to gently direct his life. Hmm…whereas the
atmosphere of the locals is painted pretty well, what goes on in them, though
it appears normal, is not so likely if the reader puts any thought into what is
being asked of him or her to believe in the narrative.
There are other
problems such as the lackluster physical scenes, of which there really aren’t any
if you think about it. I don’t know what anyone thought was so juicy, then or
now, in simply telling the reader that a character had sex and liked it, or didn’t
like it, or sort of liked it. That is neither juicy on the one hand, or any
type of literature on the other. It’s kind of, to use a term from around that
time, ‘Nowhere.’
There are things
that are outright mistakes. Some of Michener’s characters experiment with LSD,
which is, again, outwardly historically accurate. But he shows himself up in
not really knowing the innards of things when after debating how to deal with
the trip, one character gets another to simply retire for the evening and sleep
it off. This can’t be done on that substance, and the solution to being too
drunk on beer does not transfer well when the author tries to use it, such a
prosaic cure, for another, far different and more powerful drug.
And if things don’t
turn around soon, that is where I am going to be with this book, neither loving
it or hating it,- but just nowhere…………..
There is probably nobody that can do what Mitchener has done in terms of sheer volume. He is probably the great writer of geography, and that is not meant at all in a pejorative sense. I think the man who wrote the books about Alaska, Hawaii, Space, and everywhere else,- set down to write a book about young drifters. He himself, though obviously well traveled, gives the feeling somehow his nose was kept out of some of the trouble and adventure he writes about.
If you are going for a great outline of events, an interesting and accurate portrait of place and history, and a nice orthodox read, he is the one for you. But there is nothing really like the looking into of the human heart, the searing pain of loss, the wild bliss of spiritual experience, or any of those great themes and atmospheres that take up the pages of say a Conrad, Huxley, or one of that ilk. But perhaps we are comparing apples to oranges here.
(no matter
what, I adore the cover).
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