My Summer of Pulp

A moment of clarity: I was at a café finishing up a rare Italian soda and trying to get away from the heat. The section I chose to sit in was rather empty and had a few shelves of books that have been donated by other patrons. You could take or leave whatever caught your attention. Most of what I found was romance, the worst sort of war narratives, and the usual airport fare. But I also found something that intrigued me: “Fletch’s Fortune” by Gregory McDonald.

Ever since I saw the film of the same namesake with Chevy Chase as the lead reporter/costumed quick change artist, I was a devoted fan…but I never really read the books. This was mostly because I knew nothing about them. They were not the kind of novels that teachers would have encouraged us to read. Stephen King, the comic collections of Garfield, The Far Side and the best years of Dr. Seuss were much more acceptable. It was only by chance that I saw a book at a W.H. Smith and became very curious about those other novels (“Fletch Too”, “Confess, Fletch”, “Fletch Won”). But…I was still a snob about such things: literature was over here; all that other easy stuff was over there. Leave it for a rainy day or when you had nothing else to read as you passed through another airport.

I learned to change my mind the hard way. One summer, with plenty of time on my hands and in my head, I read Anthony Burgess’ “A Shorter Finnegans Wake”, his abbreviated version of James Joyce’s final masterpiece. I had owned a copy for many years without actually reading it, but it was June (Bloomsday would soon pass), I was stuck in the heat and humidity of my hometown, and I was determined to read through it and make it to the other side with some understanding of what was going on during the ride.

Need I say that it was the greatest agony I have ever faced with anything I have ever read?

Joyce was not writing for a public that could pick up his book, dig in for the space of an hour, and then just put it aside as they made a snack or picked up the kids from school. It is a book that demands a completely new type of reader, one that has not been created yet. It was not written in English, Gaelic, or any other language… It was written in Joyce.

Not such a problem with Mr. McDonald’s sharp banter. What you observe in the work of the pulp writers that you do not see in the so-called higher realms of writing is that the former cuts out the material that the latter feels is important. Joyce will spend a great deal of time telling you about the exact geographic location of a character, how costly his wardrobe is, when exactly his wife decides to cheat on him, and how often he defecates, masturbates, farts, pisses and eats. With Fletch, we barely know what the man wears or what he looks like. And that is perfectly all right. We are guided along a narrative the same way the people who line up for a ride at Disneyland are taken to their seats and told not to let their arms out of the windows as they take in the ups and downs of It’s A Small World or Space Mountain.

So, this is the summer I have in mind:

I shall expose myself to those pulpy writers that I have saved and ignored, and I will try to make my way through a particular list of police stories and science-fiction.

Now, this list is still tentative, but it is a good start:

“Glitz” – Elmore Leonard

“American Tabloid” – James Ellroy

“Beggars Banquet” – Ian Rankin (a cheat being short stories, but it goes on the list)

“Ubik” – Philip K. Dick (maybe not the pulpiest writer on my list, but this one needs attention)

“Fuzz” – Ed McBain (where did I even find that one?)

“Farewell, My Lovely” – Raymond Chandler (an old favourite that I should have enjoyed much earlier)

“Dhalgren” – Samuel R. Delany (again, a challenge, and a bit beyond the pulp; not the biggest Delany fan but I will not be defeated)

“The Organ Bank Farm” – John Boyd

Interesting to look at that list and realize that most of these titles were found in book boxes in my neighbourhood, or given to me by people who clearly gave up on the challenge.

I will keep you informed of my particular literary climb.

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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