Though peopled by a large, diverse cast, the book's main character is the accordion itself. In a country which has been enriched by multiculturalism, a term that makes the author cringe, "The accordion was the immigrants' instrument. For people who came from all over the world to this country, the accordion was small, light, inexpensive. You could play music on it easily. Even as an amateur, you could work out some sort of recognizable tune. You could carry some of your culture with you," explains Proulx from her home in Wyoming.
The green accordion changes hands over time and as Proulx's Frenchman Charles Gagnon finds, "By the time he was sixteen this accordion irked him greatly-it did not have enough volume, it could barely be heard so much air poured out of the cracked bellows, it had an unprepossessing appearance, yes, it resembled a stiff rag, a dead turkey."
Proulx doesn't play the accordion, but she understands it. "It became an object of ridicule for class reasons. It stood for the old folk and their old ways, their peasant hands and stooped backs, their limited language skills. Younger generations could funnel their feelings into hatred of the accordion, a joke instrument. It's easier to laugh at the instrument than at your own people."
The author's black humor also makes the reader laugh even while sensing a pang of loss. As each foreigner evolves, as America becomes home, the accordion and all it represents becomes heavy baggage. Karl Messermacher, son of first-generation German immigrants, makes himself over and explains to his relatives, " 'Call me Charlie. I changed my name. Charlie Sharp. That's me. Listen. I'm no German. I was born right here in Ioway.' "
While she is writing about America, Proulx is also articulating the life of an outsider. She's one herself and writes from the outside looking in, almost like displaying an array of photographs. "I'm very fond of photographs," she admits. "In junk shops and books, I'm quite drawn to them. My own stance is one of observation. I even like the slides friends bring back from their travels. I'm interested in what other people see, their own eyes and vision."
She is a dispassionate observer but a ferocious writer. "During the actual writing, I'm at work 16 hours a day seven days a week until it's done. I'm quite single-minded about the writing. It's work."
Her work and the process of writing it is fair game, but Proulx's personal life is not. She guards her privacy, the well from which her work springs. Although grateful for the recognition her awards have brought her, the attendant readings and interviews have worn her out. She will make appearances through October to promote Accordion Crimes but then, "That's it," she says, sounding more like a boxer about to throw in the towel than a prize-winning novelist. "I will never do another one. The whole process makes writers into stars which may be gratifying for three weeks, but the writer knows he's just a plain, ordinary person whose ability comes from a silent, quiet private time, not in posturing around, leaping about on stage, or managing witty remarks for interviewers. It eats up an immense amount of time. Writers are generally shy and retiring people. In a sense it's like someone continually ransacking your personal life."
She needs the "long, wonderful, empty silence" of Wyoming where she has produced her last three books. "The long sight lines, that long shoot of the eye to a distant horizon for some reason frees thoughts and images for me more than anywhere else. I love northern New England, but the trees get in the way of thinking for me."
In a way she is like one of her own headstrong characters, forging ahead and doing things her own way. Proulx, who published her first book Heart Songs when she was in her fifties, does not believe in writing or living to someone else's agenda. "Readers often ask me why don't you write about women, implying that if you are a woman, that's all you can write about. Writers can write about anything they want, any sex they want, any place they want." She sighs. "The worst piece of advice given to young writers is to write about what you know. What folly, what nonsense! Use your imagination. That's all writers have got. In a very awful way, this demand that you write about your own experience is to ask you to smother what's genuinely interesting about youÑyour mind and how it works."
What makes the writer interesting makes the readers interesting, too. Proulx demands a lot from her audience. "I depend on readers very heavily for a sense of continuity, for communication, for their own perceptions. Since so many of us are immigrants, I hope Accordion Crimes will resonate, not as a moral and didactic lesson but in terms of here we are and we came from over here, and the unspoken question, so, how was it for you?"
For the author, enduring literature is, to use another buzzword, interactive, but while Proulx finds Net surfing "splendidly useful, I don't see the proper home of the novel on the little screen. The book is a perfect form, a physical thing that you can carry with you, that survives power outages and doesn't need batteries. It's simple, it's aesthetically pleasing, and you can use it use again and again." The same can be said of the accordion, which turns out to be as resonant as our forefathers-and Proulx-knew it to be.
Ellen Kanner is a freelance writer in Miami, Florida and a frequent contributor to this publication. She can be reached at ellen_kanner@bookpage.com
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