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Executive Times |
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2007 Book Reviews |
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You Don’t
Love Me Yet by Jonathan Lethem |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Meanderings For a break
from Shakespeare in the Park this summer, consider reading Jonathan Lethem’s
latest novel, You Don’t
Love Me Yet. This romantic farce has many of the elements of a
Shakespearean comedy, and you don’t have to sit on the grass if you don’t
want to. Set in She walked Jules Harvey to
the gallery’s entrance, a precinct of chaos. The Annoyance’s photographer, a hulking blond in a leather jacket,
slugged shoulder-loads of equipment from his double-parked van in through the
doorway Just inside, “Jules,” said Jules Harvey nodded, his expression serene. Perhaps to him the episode
on the sidewalk was a reasonable prelude to introduction. He dithered his hands, peering into the gallery’s dimmed
recesses. “I’ll just have a look. . . there’s no hurry . “Lucinda can show you the
complaint office.” Jules Harvey trailed
Lucinda into the small maze of carrels. One of “Wait in there,” Lucinda
told Jules Harvey, nodding at another empty cubicle. “You can listen, just don’t pick up the phone.” “Sure.” “Complaints,” she said into
the phone. “Say something so I know
it’s you,” said the voice she recognized. Lucinda had to catch her
breath. “We’d be happy to register any dissatisfaction you’ve experienced,
sir.” “I had to hang up on that
other girl three times,” the caller said. “There’s no need for that
now, sir.” “Yes, I can hear it’s you.” “Yes.” None of the other
complainers interested Lucinda at all. They’d roused her curiosity for the
first days, a week at most. After ten days she felt herself turning into a
recording instrument. The complainers spoke of their husbands and wives and
lovers and children, from cubicles of their own they whispered their despair
at being employed, they called to disparage the quality of restaurants and
hotels and limousines, they whined of difficulties moving their bowels or
persuading anyone to read their screenplays or poetry. They fished for her
sympathy Using Falmouth’s scripted lines she dealt with them crisply,
addressing them as ma’am and sir, cutting them off before they’d become
familiar. The only one that mattered was the brilliant complainer, who
interested her entirely too much. His words were like a pulse detected in a
vast dead carcass. They seemed born as he spoke them, blooming in the secret
space between his voice and Lucinda’s ears. “Here’s the thing,” he
said. “I’ve been thinking about it since we hung up. When I was younger I
used to love women’s bodies. I’d drive myself crazy picturing them. It was
like women themselves were just the keepers of these glorious animals I
wanted to pet. I kept trying to push them out of the way so I could get to
this agenda I had with their, you know—flesh.” Lucinda was grateful now
for the gallery’s infestation by the journalists. “Later,” the complainer
went on, “I realized it wasn’t women’s bodies I loved, it was women, actual
women. I know that doesn’t seem like much of an accomplishment. But women
became my actual friends.” “That doesn’t sound like a
problem,” whispered Lucinda. “For a while it wasn’t. For
a while I was happy to have sex with the bodies of my friends. But eventually
it wore me down. I couldn’t remember what I loved about the bodies because
I’d become too fond of the women. It was like a vicious triangle.” Jules Harvey’s baseball cap
and gleaming lenses rose on the horizon of her carrel. Lucinda turned away
pretended she hadn’t noticed. Thinking of “Same as always,” said the
complainer. “Nostalgia, except it’s not just regular nostalgia. More like
nostalgia vu. Longing for longing, instead of for the thing in question.” Lucinda printed
L-O-N-G-I-N-G, shielding the pad from view with her shoulder. When she
turned, however, she saw Jules Harvey padding in his high-tops through the
doorway, through the gallery front. “Women’s bodies don’t
interest you anymore?” she asked. She instantly regretted a question which
sounded too interested. “I can’t even think about
women’s bodies clearly now, that’s what I’m trying to explain. All I can
think about is particular women. Their faces, their words. The bodies are
totally eclipsed. It’s like I can’t see the sun anymore. I used to have a
sense of purpose in life.” “A guy stuck his face in my armpit a few minutes ago,” she
whispered. “A total stranger, at a restaurant.” “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” “I’m in shock, I guess. He crept up while I was sitting
with my eyes closed.” “See, there’s a person with priorities.” “I don’t think he’s much of a person at all.” “I bet you he’s a leader in his field. Those types thrive
in the modern world.” “He’s not as assertive as you’re imagining. He drifts
around like a human dandelion. I should have knocked his block off, but he’s
too sad-looking.” “Now you’re making me jealous. I’m sure I’m twice as
sad-looking as your dandelion man—” “Can I call you later?” Lucinda whispered. “What?” “Give me your number. I can’t talk now.” “Is that a good idea?” “I’ll explain later. I have to start taking complaints.” “I thought that’s what we were doing.” “Yes, but—” “I’ll call you,” he said, and hung up. Lethem is a
fine writer, and You Don’t
Love Me Yet allows readers to see many of the ways in which he can have
fun and share it with the rest of us. Take a light hearted approach to this,
and you’ll come away with the most satisfaction. Steve Hopkins,
June 25, 2007 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the July 2007
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/You
Don't Love Me Yet.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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