Fifteen years ago, Mark Z Danielewski unleashed House of Leaves upon the world, and it wasn’t long before the horror novel became as common in dorm rooms as Bob Marley posters and Adam Sandler videotapes. The story of a family living in a house that seems to expand internally, it became a cult classic among readers who were drawn in by the author’s typographical high jinks – the fonts switched between narrators, and the word “house” was always printed in blue. Also, there were footnotes. Lots and lots of footnotes.
Danielewski’s latest book, The Familiar, Volume 1: One Rainy Day in May, finds the author up to his old tricks, only more so. The 880-page novel contains a variety of fonts, text printed in weird angles, and artwork of wildly varying quality. The sections are colour-coded. And the word “familiar” is printed in a sickly shade of mauve. It’s a lot like House of Leaves, only the storyline, if there is one, is even more difficult to follow.
The basic plot of The Familiar is this: a Los Angeles girl finds a kitten. Readers who dig deeper, though, will discover that there’s a little more to it: a Los Angeles girl finds a kitten, and then several other seemingly unrelated things happen. “Happen” might be too strong a word, actually – although the story abruptly switches locations to Singapore and Mexico at various points, it’s impossible to tell what’s going on, or why. There are also some scenes in Marfa, Texas, (in accordance, one supposes, with a law mandating the small town be mentioned in every hip novel, whether or not it makes any sense).
The heart of the story, such as it is, belongs to Xanther, a sweet but troubled 12-year-old girl living with epilepsy. Her parents have planned to surprise her with a dog, but on the way to pick it up, she and her father encounter a small kitten, sick and stranded in the rain. The sections with Xanther are by far the most interesting ones in the novel, largely because they are the only coherent ones, despite Danielewski’s insistence on punctuating them with (endless (nested (parentheses))).
Then there’s the east Los Angeles street gang, and the criminal in Singapore, and the computer scientists in Marfa, all of which may or may not be related, but since the sections are so inscrutable, it probably doesn’t matter anyway. Danielewski appears to be going for a Finnegans Wake vibe in much of the prose, which often reads like this: “How to get at the whole pluvial thing, another Anwar beaut, which Xanther remembered, pluvial, because it was like this … rainstorm going Plooey! to a town, a ville, a … Plooooooeyville!”
But Danielewski is no Joyce, and this book reads less like a novel than an art project put together by a college sophomore after his third joint. The reader is introduced to the first Singapore section with “they saysay she tutor demons, lah. saysay mice dance to her finger snap and a pelesit.” Not long after, the reader is whisked away to Marfa, where the two scientists speak to each other in what sounds like dialogue from Matrix fan fiction. (Danielewski later name-checks the science fiction film, because of course he does.)
Authors do not have a responsibility to write easy books. But the problem with The Familiar isn’t that it’s difficult; it’s that it’s unreadable. Take away the typographical gimmicks, the frequently unfathomable dialogue, and the confusing storylines that pass for a plot, and you’re essentially left with nothing. Even the epigraphs, from dependable literary stalwarts like Lady Gaga and Cypress Hill, seem thrown in for no discernible reason. (Actually, the Cypress Hill quote – “Here is something you can’t understand” – is pretty on the nose.)
The novel is just the first installment in what Danielewski claims will be a 27-book series. Readers who can make it through the first 50 pages of this one without rolling their eyes might be happy to hear that; those who are turned off by the nonsensical stoner philosophy of this volume, perhaps less so.
The Familiar is a sprawling mess of a book, and it’s hard to find anything positive to say about it besides that it’s printed beautifully. But a novel that appeals chiefly to people who like to look at books rather than read them isn’t a meaningful contribution to the world of literature, and it’s hard to imagine why Danielewski would release a book so impenetrable and willfully obtuse. “Back to senselessness,” he interjects near the end of the novel. OK, fine. But he never really left.
