Book Review: “Last Exit to Brooklyn” — Hubert Selby Jr.
I am disappointed about this one, but mostly because of myself. I don’t know Brooklyn enough to even picture it. So as I was reading, I couldn’t even make anything up in my head. My head lacked was blank which made it difficult to push through the book. I felt like I was never really sure who was talking and most of the time it seemed like they really weren’t talking about anything. But I tried. I thought: I’ve been to New York for a few days so maybe its like that. But still, never Brooklyn, and for sure not a Brooklyn set in the 50s. I know a lot has changed anyway. Gentrification, prosperity, a mixing of cultures and people, at least from what I’ve seen when Anthony Bourdain visited there on this last ever episode of No Reservations.
So to every real readers’ disappointment and dissatisfaction, I caved in and watched the movie…
Defeat — and a first for me. I just could not finish this book. No, it doesn’t feel good. But honestly the movie was not half bad, and at least I could understand it. I won’t say its a “go to”, I wouldn’t recommend it to a friend, and I would not have watched it had I not already started the story. The visuals, if any, that I managed to create in my mind while attempting to read started to make some sense, but I got a few things wrong — -wrong enough to the point where my understanding of the book changed once I saw the the movie. Granted, this only illuminates my inabilities. The muddiness of the book was simply too much, specifically because there isn’t any clarification of who is speaking and when. The dialog, the narrative, and the interactions of the characters and separation of chapters are all conjoined into one long running paragraph. It was this lack of distinction that forced me to give up entirely. Characters blended together in the written prose, but in the movie I could visually make sense of them and their multifaceted roles. I could make sense of their interplay. I could grasp the underlying homosexual tendencies of the cast (and there were many). I could understand the time period — -the degeneracy, the drugs, and the desperation. I can see why Bourdain liked it and recommended it. I’m not there yet. On multiple levels, this Brooklyn squad was just managing to get by. Whether it be the next kick of the drugs, the next sexual (but purposely) subdued embrace (or overtly exotic embrace), or the next dollar earned. Everyone was struggling in some way or form. Work, money, relationships, desires, you name it.
Perhaps I should go back and finish reading the damn thing just to fully understand the feeling of struggle the characters felt. Perhaps that’s just what the author had indented. For the people written into this story, there isn’t anywhere else to go. Brooklyn is all they know and have. I on the other hand had an escape. And although Brooklyn may not be today what it once was in this book, maybe its ideology still exists. Even the famous people who’ve managed to escape Brooklyn still flock back. Its still apart of them, and maybe in some form, they can never truly leave. But who’s to say — -I’ve never been there.
What I am left feeling overall though is a general uneasiness. For a while reading these books over the past six months brought me a sense of peace, purpose, and a motivation to settling into literature in order to find meaning in my own life. I could tell this book began making me uneasy as I grew more accustom to setting it down and leaving it on the shelf than picking it up and turning its pages. Maybe my own life and its weekly ups and down affected my stance and pushed me toward not enjoying the book, but I also have a feeling that Selby wrote this book specifically to make the reader feel uneasy, just as the lower class Brooklyn townies felt. I’ve heard not all of his books come off this way, and that this novel just reads differently than his other works. I might have to put that to the test and do the research myself. But the brusque prose here makes me leery. In reading and in writing I tend to gravitate away from “everyman” style of prose. I find myself searching for what I don’t fully understand written in a form that intrigues and occasionally confuses me, but retains my interest. Last Exit to Brooklyn is not an elegant piece, but it stupefied me in a more aggressive fashion than more sophisticated books, one that I did not like or enjoy. On a long weaving journey down the road of learning to love literature, I guess I will just have to pass over these speed bumps on occasion, taking a little more time to get through them.
A little music for your ears from two Brooklyn natives:
