A year ago in fair Eugene
(Many narrative poems start this way
With unabashed mise en scene)
I wandered to the Bookstore Family
of Smith, perhaps, perchance, that day to spy
A novel unbeknownst to me
("Not new, but new enough", said he).
The shelves, as usual, overflowing
With a mute ferocity
Of yet unread verbosity
Would leave any bibliophile glowing
But Smith's ends with a bonus score:
The extra pilings on the floor.
Content, as I am, for creative stricture
That shapes my meandering thought
I updated my censorial picture
thus, "Suppose I only bought
a book from those upon the floor?
Indeed, I like that picture more."
Contented, now, I let my glance
Roll over Sense and Circumstance
By Austen Krugman, don't forget...
What else, this day, should my roving eye see?
...From ancient grudge, break to new mutiny! -
Another Romeo and Juliet.
But what's this here? Intriguing! Wait.
A novel called The Golden Gate
By Vikram Seth. It's writ in verse
In lieu of more predictable
Forms. Indeed, it's quite inverse
Of novels more habitual.
Intrigued, I stood and thumbed its pages.
Next I knew, the subtle ages
That, in bookstores, come to pass
Had come again down on my ass.
A narrative of deft delivery;
Self-conscious, yes, but tongue-in-cheek,
A pleasure, yet, to read and speak,
Adorning words with such sweet livery
As comes from gentle virtuosity
Of verse and verb. My curiosity
Was piqued and so I parted with this book
To give it subtler critique.
It's dense reading. To savor it, I took
The better part of that next week
Unhurriedly, to let the words sink in.
Iambic tetrameter's hardly been
In vogue these days, and thus, it takes essaying
Sometimes to make out just what Seth is saying.
Thankfully, the setting shines of old
In San Francisco where we lay our scene
That foggy bay, so fair, so crisp, so mean
Against the backdrop of that Gate of Gold
That funnels traffic land to land
Where steel meets concrete, sea and sand.
The snobbiness of college brats
And artsy, twitsy citygoers
Is the focus of the spats
That Seth so shrewdly muses o'er.
I cannot help but wonder if
His fluency with high-class tiff
Is autobiographical
Or merely hypothetical.
In either case, he's on the mark
Observing how the educated
Go about their obdurated
Lifestyles, while in the dark
Their doubtings stumble through a maze
Of Minotaurs and city haze.
These characters aren't lovable
By any metric I can fast produce
Demises seem so probable
From first the author quaintly introduce
Each brat in turn. He has no love
For them, and yet he's quite proud of
Each one's respective idiom.
They seem doomed by the tedium
Of lives only half-chose, indeed
The nature of their existential
Musings feels consequential
Of the author's constant need
To reassure his education
Has been put to good vocation.
Let me, though, not condescend
To imply that I didn't raptly savor
Every twist and sinuous bend
Of Seth's refined and polished love of labor.
What's lacking in his characterization
Is more than made up for by the narration:
A voice that commands as it croons
The literary reader swoons
On cleverness quite unabated,
Repeating rhymes they wish they'd penned
Or blindsided by more again!
One can see why the critics rated
This so highly as a masterpiece.
(A minor one, of course, to keep the peace.)
If you like your tetrameter iams
(Pentameter ne'er fails to creep out)
And your taste for a Onegin stanza crams
For satisfaction, check this novel out.
It's a peculiar delicacy
Delivered with scenic efficacy.
I have my reservations, don't you doubt it
But most of what I have to say about it
Shimmers with a gleaming admiration
What else will you read soon that compares to it?
For those still undecided, I say, "Do it."
You may just find this novel's liberation
Remains with you while others fare less well -
Romeo, Juliet... just go to hell.
book review Vikram Seth Golden Gate
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