The Bottom Line: If you generally like the works of Irving, Vonnegut, Adams, and Moore and pick up their books on the “brand name” alone, you can add McPhee to your list.
Jenny McPhee is an extraordinarily unlucky author. What terrible timing it is to have written a wonderful, existential and life-questioning first novel and then to have it published in August of 2001. You couldn’t do much worse if you had invested your life savings in dot.coms in March of 2000. After all, what commodity has the least value in this jingoistic, self-centered, morally assured, “post 911” literary environment than gentle, romantic, comical consideration of the cosmic questions of the universe and our place in it. What an unfortunate time for one’s first novel to be published. I don’t know whether it’s better or worse that the novel is particularly good.
To say that THE CENTER OF THINGS is a remarkable first novel is easy, trite, and perhaps a little misleading, as the book jacket reveals that Ms. McPhee has had some considerable writing experience both solo and with her siblings. This work is simply her first venturing out into the wide world of the dramatic fiction BY HERSELF and its clarity, professionalism and layering proves that she was kept inside way too long.
As a point-of-reference for my strong appreciation of this book, I will disclose that my four favorite modern fiction writers are John Irving, Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Adams, and Christopher Moore. I enjoy the work of these “modern greats” because it is always layered and entwined with characters, situations, and circumstances that at first feel incredibly random and improbable but which slowly and inexorably come together in a logical and tightly wound conclusion. Different pieces of the literary puzzle fall into places with satisfying clicks like the tumblers on a grand lock, eventually opening and revealing a completed and fully-resolved story. This book is nearly as good as some of the aforementioned authors penultimate works, though it lacks quite the depth, breadth, and scope of their very best. It is NOT at the level of GARP, SLAUGHTERHOUSE FIVE, or COYOTE BLUE, but it can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the likes of WIDOW FOR A DAY, CAT’S CRADLE, or the HITCHHIKER’S series.
What is especially pleasing about THE CENTER OF THINGS is that it manages to intertwine a clear appreciation of the horrid trade of the tabloid journalist with a strong element of physics and cosmic studies. Both of these have been subjects of recent fiction and non-fiction works, but never (to my knowledge) together. Tabloidism is a profession that has benefited from a fair amount of re-examination of late, having been the subject of Irving’s recent novel THE FOUTH HAND and has undoubtedly become a part of our literary cultural fabric, much as the police investigator and the private detective did in eras past. Cosmetology and the study of “the really big picture” is a regular player on the non-fiction best-seller lists these days, but when explored by novelists is usually absent the intellectual and academic slant that this book provides. While Adam’s “42” is a useful and valuable perspective on “the question of life, the universe, and everything” it’s hard to compare it to the studies of Hawkings, Bohr, Born or Einstein. McPhee manages to blend a wonderful story of the two arenas without ever appearing to be pandering to current trends or interests.
At 246 pages of loosely spaced text, it is a light read that left me hoping that this author has more to offer. A few clues seem to indicate that the bulk of the story was written in 1999, leading me to wonder if there might not be other works-in-progress getting attention while this first novel made its way to press. We can only hope. I recommend THE CENTER OF THINGS highly and suspect that we have not heard the last of Jenny McPhee, in spite of her terribly bad publishing luck.
Recommended:
