Click on the title to link to a "Wikipedia" entry for the doings of Albany-cycle author William Kennedy.
Book Review
Roscoe, William Kennedy, Viking Press, New York, 2002
Recently, in reviewing an early William Kennedy Albany-cycle novel, “Ironweed” I mentioned that he was my kind of writer. I will let what I stated there stand on that score here. Here is what I said:
“William Kennedy is, at least in his Albany stories, my kind of writer. He writes about the trials and tribulations of the Irish diaspora as it penetrated the rough and tumble of American urban WASP-run society, for good or evil. I know these people, my people, their follies and foibles like the back of my hand. Check. Kennedy writes, as here with the main characters Fran Phelan and Helen Archer two down at the heels sorts, about that pervasive hold that Catholicism has even on its most debased sons and daughters, saint and sinner alike. I know those characteristics all too well. Check. He writes about that place in class society where the working class meets the lumpen-proletariat-the thieves, grifters, drifters and con men- the human dust. I know that place well, much better than I would ever let on. Check. He writes about the sorrows and dangers of the effects alcohol on working class families. I know that place too. Check. And so on. Oh, by the way, did I mention that he also, at some point, was an editor of some sort associated with the late Hunter S. Thompson down in Puerto Rico. I know that mad man’s work well. He remains something of a muse for me. Check.”
That said, this little novel from a time that somewhat overlaps "Ironweed", the period between World War I and the the end of World War II, the heyday for retail print and radio-driven politics, and of the vote by bought vote, in the American cities, especially in the Northeast and especially among the rough and ready, up and coming Irish who took over administration of the lower levels of the bourgeois state from its traditional guardians, the WASPs, in this period. Needless to say, any Irish kid, even today, can read this thing without a decoder and without blinking an eye as to what is going on at the street level of politics.
The plot itself is fairly familiar now- a loose configuration of up and coming Irish and others, glued together by fix-it man (essential to all politics, including revolutionary politics) Roscoe, who solves the underlying mystery caused by the apparent suicide of the token WASP in the crowd (a Fitzgibbon, as in previous writings, of course). That put a dent in the key link in the chain that ran the political machine in Albany at that time. Add in the usually obligatory thwarted, distorted love interest for the now rotund, but still sexually active, Roscoe, (here she is half-Jewish, although that is not mandatory with Kennedy as he seems to favor the elusive WASP princesses for the love interest to set the snare for the up and coming Irish)), the usual low-rent shenanigans of bourgeois politics, democratic or republican, a long look at the seamy side of the gambling-driven chicken fights (a description of which you will get more than you ever needed to know) and you have another nice Kennedy piece. As good as "Ironweed"? No, that is the standard by which to judge a Kennedy work and still the number one contender from this reviewer's vantage point.
Book Review
Roscoe, William Kennedy, Viking Press, New York, 2002
Recently, in reviewing an early William Kennedy Albany-cycle novel, “Ironweed” I mentioned that he was my kind of writer. I will let what I stated there stand on that score here. Here is what I said:
“William Kennedy is, at least in his Albany stories, my kind of writer. He writes about the trials and tribulations of the Irish diaspora as it penetrated the rough and tumble of American urban WASP-run society, for good or evil. I know these people, my people, their follies and foibles like the back of my hand. Check. Kennedy writes, as here with the main characters Fran Phelan and Helen Archer two down at the heels sorts, about that pervasive hold that Catholicism has even on its most debased sons and daughters, saint and sinner alike. I know those characteristics all too well. Check. He writes about that place in class society where the working class meets the lumpen-proletariat-the thieves, grifters, drifters and con men- the human dust. I know that place well, much better than I would ever let on. Check. He writes about the sorrows and dangers of the effects alcohol on working class families. I know that place too. Check. And so on. Oh, by the way, did I mention that he also, at some point, was an editor of some sort associated with the late Hunter S. Thompson down in Puerto Rico. I know that mad man’s work well. He remains something of a muse for me. Check.”
That said, this little novel from a time that somewhat overlaps "Ironweed", the period between World War I and the the end of World War II, the heyday for retail print and radio-driven politics, and of the vote by bought vote, in the American cities, especially in the Northeast and especially among the rough and ready, up and coming Irish who took over administration of the lower levels of the bourgeois state from its traditional guardians, the WASPs, in this period. Needless to say, any Irish kid, even today, can read this thing without a decoder and without blinking an eye as to what is going on at the street level of politics.
The plot itself is fairly familiar now- a loose configuration of up and coming Irish and others, glued together by fix-it man (essential to all politics, including revolutionary politics) Roscoe, who solves the underlying mystery caused by the apparent suicide of the token WASP in the crowd (a Fitzgibbon, as in previous writings, of course). That put a dent in the key link in the chain that ran the political machine in Albany at that time. Add in the usually obligatory thwarted, distorted love interest for the now rotund, but still sexually active, Roscoe, (here she is half-Jewish, although that is not mandatory with Kennedy as he seems to favor the elusive WASP princesses for the love interest to set the snare for the up and coming Irish)), the usual low-rent shenanigans of bourgeois politics, democratic or republican, a long look at the seamy side of the gambling-driven chicken fights (a description of which you will get more than you ever needed to know) and you have another nice Kennedy piece. As good as "Ironweed"? No, that is the standard by which to judge a Kennedy work and still the number one contender from this reviewer's vantage point.
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