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The Size of Thoughts
The Size of Thoughts
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Oh what a bookish, language-obsessed, pursuer and rescuer of small moments is Nicholson Baker! Those not similarly afflicted would do well to whistle by his latest offering on the far side of the street, eyes averted and ears firmly cottoned. So great are the crafty seductions of The Size of Thoughts that once entered, all is lost: unsuspecting, you are drawn slowly, irreversibly, and willingly it would seem down to the musty and dimly lit lumber room, wherein Baker dons the cloak of the scholar and conducts his odd experiments in linguistic "lateral access."
Of course the journey down this garden path begins innocently enough. At first there is only the minor indignity of cackling loudly on your commute bus as Baker investigates the unannounced changes of mind we all experience, as when, for example, he discovers that quite inexplicably it is no longer his burning desire "to live in an apartment furnished with forklifts and backhoes." Then there is the disquieting moment of near-self recognition as Baker writes about a fascination with model airplanes and pretty much confesses that he thinks a model is more beautiful in its unbuilt, museum-like, exploded view than in its completed form.
Your unease is quickly allayed, however, by an informative essay about the intricate workings of the modern movie projector, which by the way (and this is partly the point), is not at all like the old-fashioned projectors that movie-makers continue to portray in their modern-day movies. Then there is the hymn to the lowly clipper (fingernail and toenail) . . .
Some of these views are familiar; you've seen them, in isolated glimpses, in Atlantic magazine or the New Yorker. None seems the worse for a second look. And you notice that in the aggregate they have a peculiar effect: you are beginning to see commonplace details and everyday objects in uncommon relief, you are ruminating about these observations, and your ruminations come in startling phrases that are not your own. Could they be Baker's?
Yes, Baker's sensibility has overshadowed yours. So you read "Mlack," the gatherings of undeleted words at the bottom of the last screen-page of Baker's novel Room Temperature, and you ignore his audacity in presenting this as publishable writing and see instead the humor and beauty of this found poem. Or you re-read "Discards," an article about library card catalogs of all things, and you forget the fact that, because of this piece, librarians you care about still tremble at the mention of Baker's name, and you bang your head on the table in admiration. Or you marvel at "Books as Furniture," wish you had written it, know you could have if only you'd thought of it, and, in your present mood, actually think you might have thought of it.
Then at last you come to "Lumber." What the hell is lumber? The greatest working out of a literary obsession in years? A respectful, homage/send-up of scholarly pursuits? An expose of Alexander Pope's massive plagiarsims? A crabwalk through hundreds of years of literary history following the wispiest of threadsÑthe use of the word "lumber" (but not, of course, in its common American usage as a term for dressed timber)? All of these and more, you decide. You realize this will require another reading, perhaps several. You begin to plan your week. You think you will wait a day or two and then . . . well, all right, maybe you'll start this afternoon.
So, gentle reader, if peculiar turns of mind, small obsessions writ large, a love of language and literature, and a strange and disarming sense of humor aren't for you, then, by all means, pass by.
Alden Mudge is on the staff of the California Council for the Humanities.
©1996, ProMotion, inc.
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