An Unlikely Book Selection

It was in February 2019, my first vacation in 3 years, that I picked up Less by Andrew Sean Greer. I’m not sure what drew me to it: probably the cover. There is something relatable about Less, in his suit (a well-cut suit gives the impression of competency and reliability) in freefall (unable to get his shit together) scribbling away (in denial of an impending missed deadline). So very relatable.

I have a confession to make: I don’t enjoy fiction, for the most part. There is so much bad fiction out there, hiding behind a pretty cover. I have trust issues. If it is good fiction, then it means exploring humanity, and humanity is filled with uncomfortable, sometimes downright awful moments. I don’t like uncomfortable, sometimes downright awful moments in my real life, I most definitely don’t seek them out in my free time. It’s like horror movies: I just don’t get the concept of voluntarily spending time and money in order to be scared shitless. Not my jam. Which is why it is weird that of all the books in the Carturesti Carusel bookstore in Bucharest, I chose Less. The first paragraph alone makes it obvious that this is good fiction, of the most acutely relatable (aka uncomfortable) kind.

From where I sit, the story of Arthur Less is not so bad.

Look at him: seated primly on the hotel lobby’s plush round sofa, blue suit and white shirt, legs knee-crossed so that one polished loafer hangs free of its heel. The pose of a young man. His slim shadow is, in fact, still that of his younger self, but at nearly fifty he is like those bronze statues in public parks that, despite one lucky knee rubbed raw by schoolchildren, discolor beautifully until they match the trees. So has Arthur Less, once pink and gold with youth, faded like the sofa he sits on, tapping one finger on his knee and staring at the grandfather clock. The long patrician nose perennially burned by the sun (even in cloudy New York October). The washed-out blond hair too long on the top, too short on the sides – portrait of his grandfather. Those same watery blue eyes. Listen: you might hear anxiety ticking, ticking, ticking away as he stares at that clock, which unfortunately is not ticking itself. It stopped fifteen years ago. Arthur Less is not aware of this; he still believes, at his ripe age, that escorts for literary events arrive on time and bell-boys reliably wind the lobby clocks. He wears no watch; his faith is fast. It is mere coincidence that the clock stopped at half past six, almost exactly the hour when he is to be taken to tonight’s event. The poor man does not know it, but the time is already quarter to seven.

And just like that, I knew: I was Arthur Less and he was I. Not, of course, on the surface level: I am not a guy, I do not attend literary events (although maybe I should), I do not own a blue suit (but I do have a blue dress) and at the time, I was nearing 40, not 50 (thank goodness). But that first introductory paragraph triggered the prickling feeling of recognition and coming home that comes from good fiction. Standing in that beautiful bookstore in Bucharest, I was self-aware enough to acknowledge that I did not have the fortitude to read Less while on vacation. But I had to buy it.

Bought it I did, then it stayed on my bookshelves untouched. I wasn’t ready to read something that would mirror myself back to me. Then the pandemic hit, and I was cutoff from the world. I distracted myself by reading hundreds of non-fiction books. By 2021, I was so lonely, I was ready for any form of connection – even connection with myself. Less called to me, inviting me to explore my connection with its protagonist.

The first two chapters stung: I saw so much of myself in Arthur Less. I put the book down for a few weeks, long enough to remember how crushing my loneliness was. I picked it up again, and then, to my surprise, I fell in love with Arthur Less. To my even bigger surprise, I laughed. Giggles, snorts and belly-laughs, the laughs that switch to tears. All of the laughs.

Less is uncomfortable because it is true and the truth is often ridiculous and absurd. By accepting that Arthur Less is me and I am him, I joined him in his journey of self-discovery, and by laughing with him, I learned to laugh with myself. What a gift.

Less: Synopsis

From the back jacket copy –

Who says you can’t run away from your problems?

Arthur Less is a failed novelist about to turn fifty. A wedding invitation arrives in the post: it is from an ex-boyfriend of nine years who is engaged to someone else. Arthur can’t say yes – it would be too awkward; he can’t say no – it would look like defeat. So he begins to accept the invitations on his desk to half-baked literary events around the world.

Less’s journey takes him to New York, Mexico, Italy, Germany, Paris, Morocco, India and Japan, running away from the regrets of his past, the shock of being fired by his publishing house, and his looming birthday. The more physical distance Less puts between himself and his regular life, the more he opens himself up to remembering all his stories, including the ones he is ashamed of. His self-acceptance does not however translate into self-awareness, thank goodness for us, his readers. The funniest of all the chapters is set in Berlin, where he has been hired to teach a 6-week literature course in German… only he does not speak the language nearly as well as he thinks he does. Furthermore, to the dismay of the traditional university department, his primary teaching objective is to convey to students that art is alive, if only we ignore academia and its wasteland of theories and give ourselves permission to test drive art, just like we would test out a new car prior to purchase. Despite a never-ending stream of hilarious misunderstandings, students and administrators alike find his inability to be anything other than himself so endearing that he concludes his teaching sojourn with the university’s assurances that he will be invited back the following year.

Without giving away any spoilers, the ending is one that comforts: we close out this chapter of Arthur’s life, confident that he has grown-up and grown into his skin. We leave him in a moment of grace, about to step through the doorway of second chances.

When Fiction is Truth

To me, the scene that cemented my oneness with Less occurred mid-book. Arthur Less is in Paris, days before his 50th birthday, and he runs into Finley Dwyer, an author who has earned all the accolades Less has been nominated for but never won.

 « Maybe I am a bad writer. »

Finley waves this idea away, or perhaps it is the salmon croquettes a waiter is offering. « No, you are a very good writer. ‘Kalipso’ was a chef d’œuvre. So beautiful, Arthur. I admired it a lot. »

Now Less is stumped. He probes his weaknesses. Too magniloquent? Too spoony? « Too old? » he ventures.

 « We’re all over fifty, Arthur. It’s not that you’re- »

 « Wait, I’m still- »

 « -a bad writer. » Finley pauses for effect. « It’s that you are a bad gay. »

Less can think of nothing to say; this attack comes on an undefended flank.

 « It is our duty to show something beautiful from our world. The gay world. But in your books, you make the characters suffer without reward. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were Republican.‘Kalipso’ was beautiful. So full of sorrow. But so incredibly self-hating. A man washes ashore and has a gay affair for years. But then he leaves to go find his wife! You have to do better. For us. Inspire us, Arthur. Aim higher. I’m so sorry to talk this way, but it had to be said. »

At last Less manages to speak: « A bad gay? »

Finley fingers a book on the bookcase. « I’m not the only one who feels this way. It’s been a topic of discussion. »

« But… but… but it’s Odysseus, » Less says. « Returning to Penelope. That’s just how the story goes. »

 « Don’t forget where you come from, Arthur. »

 « Camden, Delaware. »

Finley touches Arthur’s arm, and it feels like an electric shock. « You write what you are compelled to. As we all do. »

 « Am I being gay boycotted? »

 « I saw you stand there, and I had to take this opportunity to let you know, because no one else has been kind enough. » He smiles and repeats: « Kind enough to say something to you, as I have now. »

And Less feels it swelling up within him, the phrase he does not want to say and yet, somehow, by the cruel checkmate logic of conversation, is compelled to say:

  « Thank you. »

Finley removes the book from the bookshelf and exits into the crowd as he opens it to the dedication page. Perhaps it is dedicated to him. A ceramic chandelier of blue cherubs hangs above them all and casts more shadows than light. Less stands below it, experiencing that Wonderland sensation of having been shrunk, by Finley Dwyer, into a tiny version of himself; he could pass through the smallest door now, but into what garden? The Garden of Bad Gays. Who knew there was such a thing? Here, all this time, Less thought he was merely a bad writer. A bad lover, a bad friend, a bad son. Apparently the condition is worse; he is bad at being himself. ‘At least’, he thinks, looking across the room to where Finley is amusing the hostess, ‘I’m not short.’

I love this scene so much. We have all been there, or at least I have:

• A social gathering where you end up talking to the one person who knows you the best, but whom you rather dislike;
• Complimentary feedback that is just a primer for the motherload of truth;
• A motherload of truth that we didn’t see coming;
• The mortification of realizing this truth has been known and discussed by many, before it is known by oneself;
• The self-satisfaction of the person bursting the known-to-others blind spot;
• Saying a polite thank-you without any feelings of thankfulness.

What I appreciate the most is that, having placed the readers firmly alongside Arthur during this excruciating conversation, author Andrew Sean Greer nevertheless gives us one more paragraph to bring us deeper into Arthur’s mind so that there is no risk that we misunderstand the importance of this scene. Two things surprised me about this paragraph – confirmation that Greer was correct to include it. Firstly, despite relating so strongly to this scene that I pictured myself at that party standing next to Arthur, and despite an over-familiarity with self-hatred, I hadn’t fully clocked that Finley’s feedback was that Arthur was “bad at being himself”. Secondly, while I have been on the receiving end of Finleyesque feedback more often than I care to remember, the surprise I felt at Arthur’s inner monologue helped me realize that I had never reacted as Arthur/Greer had done: by taking the time to go one paragraph further, feeling all the feelings, and translating the feedback into a core learning. In fact, my tendency to block any and all feelings was perpetuating the very cycle of self-denial that each feedback had tried to burst. I was, in fact, very bad at being myself! I am not sure I would have ever accepted that about myself, had Arthur Less not shared his own struggles.

Finley accuses Less of being a bad gay, for not putting out something beautiful from their world. Great works have been written from a place of self-hatred, but the greatest works are always written from a place of love. Less is one such book: it is so filled with truth and love, that there is no ‘our’ world or ‘their’ world. I am not gay, not a man, and not fifty, but I am Arthur Less and he is me. I carry him in my heart now, always.

TDLR Punchline

For all the humour (critics describe Less as a satire comedy novel), this book explores identity, aging, grief, and the fear that stops us from taking care of those relationships that contain love. It is a book about love, and it is written with love.

If only all fiction were as good as Less!