Omensetter’s Luck by William H. Gass
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I owned this book for nearly 40 years, tried to read it a couple of times, failed to engage, put it down, and repeat. Finally picked it up again and fell into it, with some determination, only to have the old paperback fall to pieces. Ordered another copy and willed myself to finish it. This is not the kind of book that makes me rhapsodic, though I can admire the complexity of it and the writer’s complete engagement with language. There were parts of it, like Pimber’s death, that were moving and beautiful. The late chapters also struck me as strong and compelling; the search for Pimber and the recovery of his body comprised a drama I admired. But the words. I do not care for wordplay that is an end in itself, nor for puns, nor for stream of consciousness as this book represents it. When I compare this to Virginia Woolf it appears messy and erratic. Her idea of consciousness is a stream of awareness that touches on many things lightly in the space of a moment. Gass’s idea of consciousness is so forced that a person would have to spend all energy on having this kaleidoscope of thoughts in order to bring it off, and such a person would collapse from exhaustion. As this book does, for me. The very long first chapter of Furber’s section nearly made me abandon my reading; but I had bought a new copy and knew that it was a revered novel, and so I pushed on. That chapter is the low point of the book for me. What follows restores some sense of drama. But what Gass offers in the way of story he takes away, as if he is afeared someone will catch him committing the sin of having a plot. Omensetter is not convicted of Pimber’s murder, the son does not die, the revered Furber has his change of heart as easily as anything, and the whole exercise fades into gauze. This is a great book, and I am aware of that, but no book appeals to everybody.