An interview with Larry Brown, discussing his book Father and Son.
Published October 31st, 1996,
in The Minnesota Daily’s A&E Magazine
Shades of Brown
By Larry Brown
Algonquin, $22.95
Back in the 1950s, nobody knew who Flannery O’Connor really was. Her powerful,
grotesque, and unforgiving stories burned themselves into the reader, and only
a few close friends knew she was a quiet little Catholic woman from
Milledgeville, Georgia. Like O’Connor before him, novelist Larry Brown writes
with an intensity that’s sometimes nearly unbearable. And like O’Connor,
Brown’s private bearing belies his frightening literary presence. With an easy
laugh and a quiet, unassuming charm, Brown hardly seems the fiery, unflinching
literary persona that has gained so much attention in the past few years.
Brown’s last novel, Joe,
evokes such a pathos for his characters that it almost transcended fiction. In
his novel before that, Dirty Work, which focused on the aftermath of
Vietnam, Brown took on God himself. His new novel, Father and Son, lives
up both to Brown’s literary reputation and to its portentous title.
A dark, disturbing look at a
small southern town in the late 1960s, Father and Son follows the
troubled Glen Davis on a rampage through the other characters’ lives and
deaths. Fresh out of the state pen for an alcohol-related vehicular homicide,
Glen takes up old loves and hatreds where he thinks he’s left them, but as his
ex-lover Jewel says, “Things has changed.”
“I like to start off with a
character in trouble,” Brown said in an interview during his book-tour stop in
Minneapolis, “and see where it leads. That’s where I start all my stories, with
a character, and I like to follow them around, see what happens, and eventually
it leads to some kind of conclusion I didn’t know was coming.”
Glen begins as a character similar to the main character
of Joe—a flawed but essentially sympathetic character in trouble. But
Brown takes the familiar misunderstood rebel theme and stretches it to its breaking
point. His first night back, Glen kills Barlow, a slimy bar owner he sees as
the reason for his prison sentence. Then he goes on to rape a young woman he
picks up around town, all the while ignoring his responsibilities to Jewel and to his four-year-old son, David.
“I wanted to see if I could create an even less
sympathetic character than Joe, but still make you care about him,” Brown says.
“I wanted to have this nasty guy with almost no redeeming qualities, but make
you look at his past, what made him the way he is—and maybe not like him, but
at least see where he’s coming from.”
This isn’t easy, but as Glen increases in his evil
intensity, the reality of his circumstances makes him understandable, if not
sympathetic. Brown’s greatest talent lies in his ability to get inside
different characters’ heads, and with Glen he succeeds in creating a horrific,
warped mind that's entirely believable—even inevitable.
As the reader’s hopes turn away from Glen, the characters
he sees as his enemies rise to take his place. The novel’s beginning
paints Glen’s father, Virgil, as a worthless drunk, but as Glen’s credibility
shrinks, Virgil’s character gains in richness. Bobby Blanchard, the town’s
lawman and Jewel’s new suitor, also slowly shifts in the reader’s sympathy.
From seeming like little more than the ominous and antagonistic face of law,
Bobby ultimately ends up as one of the novel’s most genuinely likable
characters.
“I didn’t know any of these things was gonna happen,”
Brown says. “I just had this idea of a guy coming back home after being in
prison—coming back and going to the cemetery right away to see his mama. I
brought in Bobby’s character in the cemetery, but I didn’t know how tied up he
was gonna get, how much he has to do with Glen’s story.”
As the novel progresses, the relationships become more and
more intertwined. The reader slowly learns that Virgil dated Bobby’s mother,
Mary, before World War II, and that Bobby and Glen are half-brothers. Hence the
Dostoyevskian rivalry. Interestingly, Brown discovered these relationships at about the same time the reader does:
“I kind of figured it out when I was looking at Virgil and
Mary’s pasts,” Brown says, “and as Mary became a more important character, the
relationship just sprung up—and it made a lot of sense. It also made the
tension between Glen and Bobby more understandable.”
Plenty of other things arose—and fell away—as Brown wrote Father
and Son:
“Originally, it was gonna be a novel about the Civil
Rights situation in the ’60s,” Brown says, “and Vietnam too. I grew up with
segregation, and I wanted to write something about what it was like, but those
things got pushed aside as Glen’s story got going. It just turned into a story
about these characters instead.”
Still, Brown keeps a keen eye on the novel’s race
relations. He paints a subtle portrait of the small southern town (based on his
own town just outside of Oxford, Mississippi), and the levels of power are
apparent, even if they aren’t the novel’s focus.
Brown creates the town and its inhabitants so organically
that, even just a few pages into the book, the reader develops a mental map of
its layout. As with the best fiction set in small towns—Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg,
Ohio or Peter Hedges’ What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, for instance—Father
and Son succeeds in making you think you’re there.
“I keep an eye on the things you see every day,” Brown
says, “the roads, the trees, the wind on the grass, the rise and fall of the water. Without
that stuff you don’t really get a good sense of place.”
Even compared to the awesome power of Joe and the
hilarious pain of his second story collection, Big Bad Love, Brown
outdoes himself in Father and Son. His sense of detail is at its peak,
and the writing itself achieves a new level of poetry for Brown.
“I sure do like a pretty sentence,” he says. And with his
uncanny gift for evoking the humanity—and inhumanity—of his characters, Brown
builds the narrative with layer upon layer of penetrating and, at times,
heart-stopping lyricism.
William Faulkner (who shares Brown’s hometown), upon
deciding to become a writer, noted that it was a fine thing to be able to
create a man who has a shadow. Larry Brown’s writing embraces this notion of
real characters whose lives hold true consequence, and with every sentence,
Brown makes his characters actually live. With such nuanced attention to the
things that make us human, Father and Son confidently places Brown among
this country’s finest contemporary writers.
—David Wiley
No comments:
Post a Comment