Bloody Michael Chabon

Mystery solved! I have, at long last, figured out where Hitler's been coming from all this time! I mean, it's like I've been saying--he's been making the odd cameo in my dreams for as long as I remember, but these last few months, he's been just everywhere. I'll be dreaming of something completely unrelated, like shopping in Cambridge or waiting for the bus, and suddenly, out of nowhere, Vogelfanger! or Liebestraume! (I don't know too many German words, I'm afraid. He's not the most realistic spectre going.)

At any rate, I've discovered the origin of the horrible dreams: it's bloody Michael Chabon! Thanks to Mr. Chabon, I've been tortured, murdered, inappropriately fondled, and very nearly tossed in the river Styx, to say nothing of the derisive speculations aimed at my parentage, my religion, and my politics. It's all been most undignified, I must say, and it's all been this Chabon character's doing.

See, Gail and Eliza were round today, with delicious burritos from Steamrollers. I had a Santa-Fe one, I think: guacamole, hot sauce, tomatoes, strips of tender beef, some sort of vaguely nacho-flavoured sauce, rice, beans--my tastebuds exulted, let me tell you. Primo stuff. Then, Eliza had an appointment to keep, and, left to ourselves, Gail and I started talking about books. I remembered I'd been meaning to lend her my copy of The Life of Pi, and as I was handing it over, I thought she might like The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, as well.

"It's about comic-book artists," I enthused. "I read it three times, me, three times in quick succession. I had it in the shower with me, so it's a bit crispy 'round the edges, but it's perfectly readable. It's about comic-book folks--would that interest you? It's set in the World War Two era, and--"

"Hey, World War Two! Hitler! Maybe that's where all these Hitler dreams've been coming from."

"No, they--I mean, I've had them forever, but--"

"But you said you'd been having them more, just recently."

"I have, and all!" I yelped. "Yeah, and Hitler, the Nazis, they're in there a lot. There was a description of a comic-book cover with Hitler being punched, and the main characters were all Jewish, and...and that's it! That's where I've got Hitler from!"

"Yeah, because you read it three times."

Teach me to gorge myself on books! I loved that one, though. It was brilliant. It yoinked me right in, sort of thing, kept me reading and reading. Not only did I finish it three times, but that's just since last October! I mean, granted, there's been a bit of a book shortage this year, what with my miserable finances and the library's being out of my walking range, and all, but the most I've read any other book in a single year is twice. I'll often do that, read something twice, to get the bits I missed the first time, the sneaky foreshadowing you miss when you're not expecting it. The third reading, on the other hand, that doesn't tend to come till a few years later, when I've had time to forget the details. Then, it's like having a new book all over again.

I liked this particular book because it won a Pulitzer prize, and it's good to like books that've won important awards. (Just kidding.) The appeal was all down to the characters. I recognized bits of myself in them, bad bits and good bits, and it was a glimpse of what my life might've been like, if I'd been born under a different star. There was a section where Kavalier was in Antarctica, going mad from the cold and the solitude, and it reminded me of a certain frozen hell I'd just escaped. That last winter in Umeå, there was a period of almost three months when I saw no-one but Gurgel, and hardly him, at that. It wasn't precisely the same situation, of course. It wouldn't have killed me to take an evening off work once in a while, maybe loaf about on the couch watching movies with Gurgel. Still, I liked that part, with Antarctica. I lived that part every time I read it.

I got a charge out of reading about the comic-books, too. That reminded me of a much happier time than Umeå. What happened with Kavalier and Clay, their success in the comic-book business, it read just like the fantasy I always had when I was stuck in nine-to-five hell. I'd sit around drawing every night after work, stories about space rats and mighty armies and--oh, you know the stuff. I'd be completely lost in it. I'd draw up six or seven issues of some yarn or other, fire it off to Marvel or DC, get rejected, try again, and I was utterly convinced it was only a matter of time. If I'd had much in the way of self-awareness in those days, which I didn't, I'd have seen myself as a Josef Kavalier type, a real genius. I think I might be more of a Sam Clay, unfortunately. I can draw all right, but I'm not fast enough for comics any more. The better I've gotten, the slower I've gotten, so it's illustration for me: six or seven pages a month, not twenty-two. Maybe I'll write for comics some day, and let someone else do the drawing. It'd be a blow to the ego, of course, but I'd exchange a blow to the ego for a boost to the bank account any ol' day.

At any rate, I didn't mean to get all effusive about my book-du-jour, here. I was just relieved, sort of thing, to have sussed out the whole Hitler business. Maybe he'll go away, now that I know where he's been coming from. (There, there, self; it was just a book you read. No more Nazis before bed.)