Dear readers, Bombast, you may have noticed, has become the lingua franca of the day. “We All Have ‘Main Character Energy’ Now,” The New Yorker observed in 2021. Politicians don’t just call themselves leaders anymore; they sell themselves as heroes. And who can forget monikers like “Alpha Male” and “Girl Boss”? As a reader though, I find myself drawn not to larger-than-life protagonists, but to what I call the SSCs: the sensitive side characters. I love the quiet characters who are off in the margins feeling big things about the great, terrible world around them. The earnest characters who wear their hearts on their sleeves. The gentle characters who would be right at home with one of those “Wells for Sensitive Boys” from “Saturday Night Live.” Frequently, these characters crop up as emotional foils or inciting figures for a more central champion. But for my money, the SSCs always steal the show. So this week, let’s toast them. Here are two of my favorites. —MJ “Cloud Atlas,” by David MitchellFiction, 2004
Mitchell’s postmodern tour de force (one of the Book Review’s Best Books of the 21st Century) is a virtuosic literary relay that stacks cascading story lines, each written in a different style, to unfold a sweeping story of love, war, rebellion and humanity through the ages. But the reason this book will forever have a place in my heart is the chaotic lover boy Robert Frobisher. Yes, yes, technically he is one of the six anchors of the novel; however, in a book filled with spy murder plots and clone supplicant revolutions, his more grounded story of musical striving infuses him with sensitive boy energy. He’s an SSC to me! When his story line begins, Frobisher has been disinherited from his family and is on the run from debt collectors. But he has a plan to fix it all: He’s going to apprentice himself to Vyvyan Ayrs, an aging English composer hiding away in Belgium; under Arys’s tutelage, rise up the ranks of the musical world; become rich and famous; and ultimately accept his crown as “the Robert Frobisher, greatest British composer of his time.” It’s a lofty and impractical dream, but that’s who Frobisher is: a lofty and impractical dreamer. Frobisher’s sections are written, winningly, as letters to his lover, Sixsmith, and they ooze with charm. They’re filled with mischievous advice (“When insolvent, pack minimally, with a valise tough enough to be thrown onto a London pavement from a first- or second-floor window. Insist on hotel rooms no higher”) and quiet wisdom (“A man is ruined when the times change but he does not”). You fall in love with Frobisher because of his voice. But what I like most about Frobisher is that even when he is down on his luck, he still has time for kindness (he spends his first afternoon in Belgium distributing pastries to people who help him and alms to people in need) and artistic passion. “One writes music because winter is eternal and because, if one didn’t, the wolves and blizzards would be at one’s throat all the sooner,” he says. He’s a tender reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is still room for beauty. Read if you like: The Final Fantasy video game series; epics like “The Lord of the Rings,” by J.R.R. Tolkien (shout-out to Samwise, another SSC); experimental but very human stories like “Lincoln in the Bardo,” by George Saunders. “Lord of the Flies,” by William GoldingFiction, 1954
Can we raise a glass for poor sweet Simon? When I first read “Lord of the Flies” as a kid, I was enthralled by its noisy main cast: the naïve leader, Ralph; the brutal and menacing Jack; the doomed nerd Piggy. Their story seemed like both a dishy soap opera and a thrilling adventure — here was a saga of power, jealousy, social order and survival. But a few years ago, I reread Golding’s classic and a different character hooked me: Simon. If Ralph and Jack compete to be the organizing and controlling hands of the group, and Piggy is the brains, then Simon is the heart. Simon is a “skinny, vivid” choir boy who, from the moment we meet him, is framed as an underdog. During the initial roll call at the top of the novel, he faints — not because of the heat, but because of what seems to be epilepsy. While the other boys jockey for power, Simon holds back and looks after the little kids. When he gets overwhelmed, he escapes to a quiet shelter he has made for himself in the woods. Ralph recognizes that Simon works hard, but doesn’t seem to respect him much for it: “He’s queer,” Ralph says. “He’s funny.” Despite his gentleness, Simon is also the conduit for some of the most disturbing scenes in the novel: After one epileptic fit, he has a hallucinatory conversation with a severed and decaying pig head, and things only get darker from there. Everyone remembers the catastrophe of Piggy. It’s time to put some shine on Simon, the best of us. Rest well, king! Read if you like: The show “Yellowjackets”; “The Hunger Games,” by Suzanne Collins; “Animal Farm,” by George Orwell. We hope you’ve enjoyed this newsletter, which is made possible through subscriber support. Subscribe to The New York Times. Friendly reminder: Check your local library for books! Many libraries allow you to reserve copies online. Like this email? Sign-up here or forward it to your friends. Have a suggestion or two on how we can improve it? Let us know at books@nytimes.com. Plunge further into books at The New York Times or our reading recommendations.
|
