If you have read some of my past posts, then you might know about the unique creative relationship that I had with my older sister when I was a kid. But I have an older brother, too. Unfortunately, he couldn't draw, and so he was left out of a lot of our exclusive imaginary animal cartoon strips and skits. (If memory serves me correctly, I think we did let him play a skunk character from time to time). But that does not mean that he was lacking in talent. He could (and I'm sure still can) write very funny dialogue, and so over time, I developed a different creative relationship with my bro. He would write the comic strips, and I would illustrate them. (I will go into more detail about one specific strip in a future post). He also wrote hilarious radio plays very reminiscent of Monty Python, which we would act out, and tape on a tape recorder. Much to his chagrin, I still have those tapes, and still laugh when I play them. Just the mere mention of those tapes makes my brother shudder.
But other than those creative collaborations, and some interesting sports games (we created an awesome badminton game called "kill") we were never very close. He's a very private, introverted guy, and quite frankly, hard to reach (not unlike our father). For example, growing up, we never got into any discussions about the books we were reading. I was a voracious reader, but never felt compelled to share my favourite books with my brother, nor he with me. All I can recall from those days is that he had a great fondness for Kurt Vonnegut.
As adults, we are even less close. He's quite conservative, married with three young kids, and has a very demanding stressful job as a social worker. I'm a married flaky artist with two cats. But just recently, something utterly amazing has happened to our relationship. A few months ago, I was reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, and I just happened to bring it over with me while I was visiting him and his family. He saw it in my posession, and mentioned that he had just recently read the book, too. I was stunned. We seem to have such different viewpoints on so many things; how could it be that he would read (and enjoy) a book that I was enjoying so much, as well? I thought that it was just a fluke, some freak of nature, and let it go.
Then a couple of weeks ago on another of my visits, we got into the dicussion of books again. He asked me, "Have you ever heard of the author Jonatham Lethem?" Wh-wh-wh-whaaat???? Apparently, of his own volition, he had just recently read The Fortress of Solitude. Just about the same time that I had been reading it. This was no fluke.
So we sat down and started talking, really talking, about the book. He absolutely loved it. For whatever reason, it really spoke to him. I think this has a lot to do with the fact that before he became a social worker, he studied music. Music has always been a big part of his life. He can play the piano and organ, he can sing, and he's composed some of his own music. So the fact that music played such a great role in the book, really meant a lot to him. He could understand the language and references that I did not relate to. He got very passionate as he was explaining to me how at the end of the novel, when Dylan Ebdus is in the car with his father, and Brian Eno's song How can moments go so slowly? was playing on the radio, that he understood entirely what that moment was about. My brother, the reserved introvert, got up and exclaimed with big bright eyes, "I had to go and see if I still had the album!" And then he went to his collection and showed me the actual album that had that song. "See? I still had it!"
Sadly, I did not have the same elated experience reading the book. Was it because I didn't connect with all the obscure music references? More than likely. How about that fact that I just wasn't a big comic book fan? No doubt, that had something to do with it, too. And the fact that I was not a guy? For sure. This is, I really think, a guy's novel; a coming-of-age novel in my time of growing up, that I apparently had no part of.
I mentioned to my brother about my disappointment in Lethem's shallow treatment of Dylan's mother, how I wanted to learn more about that relationship. For whatever reason, this was not an issue with my brother. I also mentioned my disappointment in what I saw as a relatively unexplored relationship between Dylan and his friend Mingus, and the obvious bisexual or homosexual undertones. My brother felt that no more exploration was needed; lots of guys experiment like that when they are young.
What we did agree upon was the confusing element of the powerful ring, and exactly what it meant in relation to the rest of the story. But my brother did appreciate how the ring's powers changed over time, and he wanted to understand the significance of that change.
We talked some more about Jonathan Lethem's writing, and I promised that the next time I saw him (at Christmas) that I would lend him Lethem's novel that I really enjoyed, Motherless Brooklyn. At the end of our conversation my brother also mentioned that he had recently tried to read Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, but just didn't have enough time to get through it, because he had signed it out from the library as he does with all his books (he doesn't buy books recklessly the way I do), and he didn't manage to finish it before the due date. I think I know what I'm getting him for Christmas.
So we didn't see eye to eye on the The Fortress of Solitude. He enjoyed it much more than I did. But actually, I think I enjoyed it even more. For although Jonathan Lethem let me down with his novel, he did something even more amazing than writing a coming-of-age story for the new millennium. He brought my brother and I together, for a brief period of time, talking and connecting and truly appreciating each other's thoughts, and each other's company as adults.
Thank you, Jonathan Lethem, for briefly letting me into my brother's fortress.
