I chose Moonglow as the final novel for my summer of reading
only books by Michael Chabon. Dutiful readers of this blog will recall that I
took a break to cleanse my palette with some short stories somewhere in late
August, but mostly, these four Chabon novels were the only fiction I’ve
ingested for the past several months: Wonder Boys, The Yiddish Policemen’s
Union, Telegraph Avenue, and Moonglow.
To start. It’s amazing to me how different each of these
books were, and how varied my reactions could be to writing by the same author.
I suppose experiencing an author’s oeuvre, in broad view, is much like looking
at a person’s life: a series of changing influences and expressions, many years
divided into sections, one person seemingly many different people at different
times.
This seems to be the task Michael Chabon set for himself
with Moonglow, after he spent a week with his dying grandfather, who, in his last
days, told many anecdotes from his life. Spending these final moments with his
grandfather became the spark for this novel, which reads in many ways like a
memoir and which has inspired endless debate as to its genre. People want to
know: Which parts are true? Why didn’t he just tell the story from his
grandfather’s point of view? How could he possibly know or remember some of those
details?
My book club was no different; they had questions. I chose
this for our September read and we discussed it last night. Being a writer, I
think I have more patience than perhaps others do for matters of genre. I’m
usually content to let a book be whatever it is. I don’t really care what a
book might be called, and while I was reading Moonglow, I didn’t really care
what was true and what wasn’t. I was happy to follow along with whatever Chabon
intended. It was full of tender, relatable moments and vivid details that
resonated and in the end, it struck me as a work of incredible love, of conscientious
reverence, of grudging and precocious creativity. And what memoir is entirely true anyway? We
tell our own stories from the limits of our singular viewpoint, perspective and
memory, and telling the story of someone else introduces more levels, more
gaps, more subjective interpretation.
As for plot, Moonglow unfolds as a narrator, “Mike,” spends
time with his grandfather near the end of the old man’s life. The grandfather
tells about his time in the war and brushes with the law, his intellectual
obsessions, and the complicated marriage he shared with the narrator’s
grandmother. If anything, it’s an exercise of speculation, as the narrator
expands the stories into realms he cannot have witnessed. The story has a timeline
of sorts, but it jumps around in time and place. With this, the book club also
took issue. Perhaps in this regard, the novel could be
considered a bit messy. But again, I have more patience with that, I think.
Life strikes me as a very messy business, not always lining up in an orderly
queue of experiences. Even in this occasional haphazardness, I felt the deep
chord of truth. What can I say? I got the feels from Moonglow and I found
myself thinking about my relatives who have passed and the stories they told,
and the pictures and memorabilia that remain, and the deep, deep grooves they left
in the road of my life, my story. If I were to try to tell the story of any
of them—of my recently-passed mother, say—I think it would be much like this:
things she said, things I remember, things I make up in my head. It seems to me
all fiction may fall into this very category, one universal genre, and I’ll be
thinking about Michael Chabon’s contribution to it for a good, long
while.
