If Gwyneth Paltrow was a wiry,
indiscriminately-aged young man
with the heart of a prophet and the
social skills of a well-trained ferret,
the result would most definitely be
Hark Morner, the titular character
of Sam Lipsyte’s new novel “Hark.”
When I initially picked this book up
off the Arts desk a few weeks ago,
the rest of the writers were both
shocked and delighted that someone
had decided to dive into its bizarre
mythos. And boy, was it bizarre.
“Hark” is, without a doubt, one of
the weirdest books I’ve ever read. Off
the heels of his critically acclaimed
2004 novel “Home Land” and its
2010 follow-up “The Ask,” Lipsyte
has
established
himself
in
the
literary world as a sort of satire boy
genius, continuously challenging
his readers with underdog male
leads in scenarios that mirror our
own world, through a slightly off-
kilter lens. Lipsyte’s writing is just
as funny as it is uncomfortable, an
uncanny valley version of today’s
insane realities. The novel is equal
parts social commentary and vehicle
for Lipsyte’s most fascinating fever
dreams: a fictional “Army of the
Just” wages an anti-capitalist war
in Europe next to a talking catfish.
“Hark” surprisingly does not focus
its narrative around Hark Morner
himself, but instead on his loyal
sidekick and spiritual convert Fraz,
a middle-aged man caught in both
the whirlwind of Hark’s mythology
and also a brutal midlife crisis.
This mythology, named “Mental
Archery”
in
a
tongue-in-
cheek nod to
the new-agey
practices
of
today’s health
nuts, is never
explained
in
full
detail
throughout
the
book’s
284
pages.
We
hear
of
a
practice
called
“stringing
the
bow,”
get a hint of
“The Archer’s
Paradox,”
hear
Hark’s
call to “focus
on focus” an
estimated
hundreds
of
times,
but
never
crack
the surface of
the
pseudo-
religion’s
jargon
to
see
what’s
underneath.
Instead, the
antics of Hark
Morner
and
those around
him function
as
whatever
the
reader
imagines them to be, heightening
the satire of “Hark” to a hectic
reflection of its audience’s personal
opinions on the modern era. The
novel
almost
entirely
operates on metaphor and
allusion, its foundational
ideology resting on the
backs of proverbs like that
of William Tell shooting
an apple off a boy’s head,
of armies tightening their
bows in battle hundreds
of years ago, of anything
and everything archery-
related in the least. “Hark”
is a narrative wrapped up
in itself to the maximum
extent, an arguable feat in
world-building that works
to both the story’s benefit
and disadvantage.
The
banter
between
Fraz,
Hark
and
the
various cast members that
Lipsyte attaches to their
cause along the way is a
definitive
highlight
of
this world, full of insane
phrases
that
require
several
reads
to
fully
understand,
but
work
nonetheless. Right around
the novel’s midpoint, there
is an exchange between
Fraz and one of these
random
players,
Seth:
“‘Fraz, isn’t a fool,’ Seth
says, ‘He’s a jester. And
every smart king needs
one.’” After Hark offers
a rebuttal, Fraz explains
that he is “just a troubled
bitch.”
This small excerpt of dialogue
can give anyone the jist of what
“Hark” is at its core: a brutally
honest depiction of life among the
chaos of the modern world. In a
traditional narrative Fraz would
be a kingmaker (and is heralded as
one
by
Hark’s
devotees
later
in
the
story),
but here he is
merely
a
guy
trying not to lose
his mind in the
midst of people
just as crazy, if
not more, than
himself.
In
Fraz’s
unhappy
and
seemingly
aimless
journey
through
time,
the
novel
presents a kind
of eternal male
shrug found in
work like David
Foster Wallace’s
“Infinite
Jest,”
and not in a good
way.
Though
there are bright
spots within the
pages of “Hark,”
the
desperation
that hides behind
each
character
hangs over the
narrative like a
dark cloud.
The
base
elements
of
“Hark,” if assembled correctly, could
have made a hilarious and poignant
story much like Lipsyte’s own “The
Ask,” one that balances its brutish
humor with interesting ideas and
concepts. Yet the novel stumbles
too many times for this to fully
work. There is a difference between
making a reader uncomfortable for
a
predestined
purpose
and
prolonging
their confusion
for
seemingly
no
reason
but
to
mess
with
their
perceptions.
“Hark”
does
not walk this
line carefully,
and veers from
solid
satire
into
sad-boy
sincerity
in
a
zigzagged
pattern
that
is
nearly
impossible
to walk as a
reader.
The
book may be
a
product
of
our
time,
of
the
desperate
clamor
that
many
artists
feel
to
make
something
relevant
to
the
current
political
and
social climate.
Except Lipsyte
is too obvious in this desire, and it
is the crux that the value of “Hark”
balances on, teetering back and
forth until it falls.
“Hark”
Sam Lipsyte
Simon & Schuster
Jan. 15, 2019
BOOK REVIEW
‘Hark’ is what happens when a Sad Boy, satire and
misguided sincerity walk into a hip, new juice bar
CLARA SCOTT
Senior Arts Editor
In
a
desperate
attempt
to become even more of a
caricature of yourself, you
decide to buy a record player.
With this record player you
will officially become defined
by your owning said record
player. You talk only of your
recent record acquisitions and
how great it feels to buy music
again after stealing it for so
many years. You pretend to
like Jazz because it sounds
like something that should
be played on a record player
and because Ryan Gosling
tried to save it. You hide your
speaker from plain sight — if
you don’t own the record, it
doesn’t deserve to be heard.
You acquire a vast collection
of comedy records to show
people you have interesting
interests. You listen to Joan
Rivers before she got old and
mean, just mean. You drink
wine. You do this a lot.
You post carefully curated
Instagram stories of your
ever-expanding
record
collection, posing them next
to your candles and fairy
lights to create the perfect
#ambience. You dedicate a
corner of your room for your
record player. This corner
is very cozy. You name your
record player. The name of
your record player is Madam
Spinster. You and Madam
Spinster spend many evenings
cuddled together alongside
Ella Fitzgerald and Julian
Casablancas.
One day, Netflix reminds
you that the new Ted Bundy
documentary series is out. You
watch all of season one in one
day. You have trouble falling
asleep because you are equal
parts terrified of and attracted
to the notorious serial killer.
You eventually fall asleep
to Madame Spinster playing
“The Graduate” soundtrack.
You
go
home
for
the
weekend and stumble across
your
father’s
old
record
collection. You see a lot of
Tom Petty, then some Rolling
Stones, then some more Tom
Petty. You grab the good
ones, some David Bowie, a
Bob Dylan, leave the Tom
Petty — your dad has a thing
for him, you guess. You grab
a Beatles “White Album,”
feeling like you scored the
damn lottery. When you get
home you place the record
leaning against your dear
Madam
Spinster
in
eager
hesitation. You go to class.
You think of “Hey Jude.” You
buy an expensive coffee. You
play “Blackbird” on Spotify.
When you get home you make
a steaming mug of tea, kick
off your snow-covered boots
and slip into your fuzzy-ass
slippers that make your feet
feel equally sweaty and cozy.
You take the “White Album”
and ease the record out of its
case only to discover it is not
The Beatles’s “White Album”
but Tom Petty’s Damn the
Torpedoes.
You pass up plans to go to
Rick’s in order to hang out
with Madame Spinster and
Tom Petty. You are starting to
like him. You tell your friends
you are — cough, cough —
sick. You miss Sunday brunch
even though you woke up
at seven, went to the gym
and then sent 28 emails. It’s
Monday and you figure there
is no point leaving the house
in this weather, this climate,
this economy. So, you stay
in, contemplating Nabokov’s
essays on “Don Quixote” and
listening to Chopin records.
You spend 100 dollars on a
rare Tom Petty album from
eBay.
You discover your hair is
turning a sophisticated grey.
You find that your wardrobe is
made up solely of black button
downs and Ferragamo loafers.
Your socks are all mismatched
because you can no longer
tell what is navy and what is
black, they just look too damn
similar. You need bifocals. You
read James Joyce for fun. You
complain about your back pain
and blame it on all those years
of tennis from way back when.
You make a photo montage
of your family vacation to
Aruba set to Tom Petty’s
“American Girl.” You send
links to articles to your family
group chat with comments
like “Interesting read!” or
“Thought you’d appreciate!”
You
start
smoking,
not
cigarettes or weed, but cigars
– expensive ones, Cuban ones.
The Wall Street Journal starts
coming to your door every day
and you don’t know why, but
you read it, cover to cover.
You spend 400 dollars on U2
tickets in Chicago. You don’t
live in Chicago.
And then it hits you, like
the golf clubs you got for early
retirement. You have become
It is quite cold outside. You
are going to listen to vinyl.
DAILY HUMOR COLUMN
BECKY
PORTMAN
The worst day in American stock market history
was not in 1929, as one might expect. It actually
came in Oct. of 1987 — a day dubbed Black Monday,
when the Dow fell a steep, devastating 22 percent.
The crash began in Hong Kong, snaked through
Europe and continued west, an early example
of the complications posed by a contemporary
globalized financial system. Nothing, not 9/11 nor
the collapse of Lehman, has ever eclipsed Black
Monday, or even come close.
When the dust settled, it wasn’t entirely
obvious what caused Black
Monday.
Computerized
trading is a popular suspected
culprit. Others point to the
weak
dollar
or
previous
overvaluation.
There
isn’t
one clear, satisfying answer.
“Until now,” says the opening
sequence
of
Showtime’s
“Black Monday,” a new gonzo
comedy set a year prior to the
crash that promises its own
imagined explanation.
Mo Monroe (Don Cheadle,
“Hotel Rwanda”) is the scrappy founder of The
Jammer Group, an underdog Wall Street firm that
employs a boorish, ragtag bunch. To orchestrate a
hostile takeover of the lucrative Georgina Jeans,
Mo hires the wide-eyed Blair Plaff (Andrew
Rannells, “Girls”), fresh out of Wharton with
an algorithm that’s the talk of the trading floor.
Dawn, the firm’s head trader and lone woman,
played by the brilliant Regina Hall (“Support the
Girls”) becomes a sort of audience surrogate who
can roll her eyes at the frat bros of Wall Street and
their excesses. And, oh boy, are there excesses.
Lambo limo? Robot butler? Cocaine? Check,
check, check.
There is something about ’80s greed that feels
very interesting right now. Maybe it’s because
the embodiment of that era currently sits in the
White House. Or maybe it’s that this moment of
personal brands and soulless influencer hustle
seems sprung from a Reaganesque mythos of
individual responsibility. But “Black Monday,”
however prescient it could be, never manages to
say anything insightful about the decade beyond
big hair, Marion Barry, denim and “Let’s Make a
Deal.”
Whatever this is, it isn’t a satirical period piece
so much as it is an overly long “SNL” sketch,
replete with tedious ’80s jokes and references, a
few too many of which are anachronistic (Crystal
Pepsi came out in 1992!). Several of them mine
audience hindsight for their
humor: In the second episode,
a screenwriter shadows Mo as
research for an untitled Oliver
Stone movie about Wall Street.
Deployed with more restraint,
these would qualify as hidden
Easter eggs. On this show,
they’re akin to what might
happen if Clayton Kershaw got
his hands on a few cartons of
Eggland’s Best and decided to
practice his fastball.
This brand of television —
surreal, chaotic, irreverent — could probably be
very good. But “Black Monday” has few ambitions
beyond shock value. There are some funny jokes,
but even those are something of a statistical
inevitability given the show’s joke density — the
vast majority land flat. Tonally, “Black Monday”
hasn’t quite decided who we’re supposed to care
for and how much. And sure, this is difficult to do
when your show is about inherently unsympathetic
people in a much-despised industry. But littered
across the TV landscape are successful examples
— HBO’s “Succession,” even Showtime’s own
“Billions.” The characters on those shows are by
no means lovable, but at the very least, they’re
worth investing in.
‘Black Monday’ is very OK
TV REVIEW
SHOWTIME
“Black Monday”
Pilot
Showtime
Sundays @ 10 p.m.
MAITREYI ANANTHARAMAN
Daily Arts Writer
You discover
your hair is
turning a
sophisticated
grey. You
find that your
wardrobe is
made up solely
of black button
downs and
Ferragamo
loafers.
The book may
be a product
of our time, of
the desperate
clamor that many
artists feel to
make something
relevant to the
current political
and social climate.
5A — Wednesday, January 30, 2019
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com