A ghost haunts American literature and it is that of John Cheever. And it is right that it should be so and its presence—spectral but so solid—is manifested every time a medium evokes in writing the ectoplasm of ‘Homo Suburbanis’. You already know: odyssey swimmers and lost in every sense and rural husbands in suburban landscapes. And in 1993 Donald Antrim (Florida, 1958) was no stranger to such a spell for this, his first novel. And he was not the only one: generational colleagues such as Jeffrey Eugenides with ‘The Virgin Suicides’ and Rick Moody with ‘The Ice Storm’ did the same with the materials/modals of the creator of the Shady Hill and Bullet Park residential complexes. NOVEL ‘Vote Mr. Robinson for a better world’ Author Donald Antrim Editorial La Fuga Year 2024 Pages 180 Price 19.50 euros 4But Antrim went further, bringing it closer to the entropic territory of the first George Saunders, of Don DeLillo from ‘Ruido White’ and Thomas Pynchon from ‘The Auction of Lot 49’, and the latest JG Ballard. Add a touch of surreal realism practiced by Donald Barthelme and thus Antrim deposited the first ballot for a sort of trilogy that would continue with a fraternal nightmare in ‘The Hundred Brothers’ and complex and self-conscious psychoanalysis in ‘The Verifier’ (in Tusquets) and then move on to story with the functionally dysfunctional characters of ‘Another Manhattan’ and the ‘memoir’ about a self-destructive mother ‘Life After’ (in Chai). His latest book, from 2021, is ‘One Friday in April’: the chronicle of his various addictions, psychotic break and near suicide. And, somehow, after all, what came after is already, first of all, in ‘Vote Mr. Robinson for a better world’: a novel of formation (of a writer) and deformation (of a character) Rampant fetishism, ultraviolence, ‘new age’ delusions, political ambition and the militarized home Apollonian and Dionysian satire on the ‘American way of life’, Antrim’s debut is arranged as a lousy comedy customs where—in a small beach community—rampant fetishism, unleashed ultra-violence, ‘new Age’ delusions, political ambition, monosyllabic sexual conversations, militarized families on a war footing in streets where the police no longer dare (and who needed when there are so many neighbors/vigilantes with a thirst for blood first and justice later). And, oh, in the first pages Mayor Jim Kunkel’s limbs are tied to four cars and everything speeds up and everyone seems to dance to the music of Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Lottery’ blaring with the volume at 11. Pete Robinson —teacher of school specialized in the history of torture and self-appointed “scribe of the people” — is the one who, from the basement/bunker of his house where he has built a replica of the former chamber of the Inquisition, proposes himself as savior. Or something like that. And the truth is that it is difficult to think of him as someone efficient once he has assumed the burden of his position. Because it is clear that the turbulent and righteous Robinson is not completely in his right mind (and, oh, what happened to little Sarah Miller?) as he thinks about launching his campaign with the slogans, in capital letters, of PETE ROBINSON SO THAT THERE IS PEACE ON EARTH or PETE ROBINSON, A STEP TOWARDS PARADISE. Although, finally, more humble and realistic, it conforms to the title of this novel and fulfills – as Cheever did first – what Antrim proposed: to make the absurd something that seems too similar to the most normal thing in the world, of a better world.
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