I’ve got an interesting history with this novel. If you go use the
search box on my Ex Libris
Reviews site, you’ll see that a guest reviewer reviewed this book in
the most glowing terms some years ago. A guest reviewer who never
reviewed another book for me, whose initials were JB, and who, oddly,
shares an e-mail address with John Blumenthal, the author of the book. I
discovered this a few months ago, when Mr. Blumenthal sent me some e-mail
asking if I’d like a review copy.

A digression: every so often, someone will contact me asking if I’d like
a review copy of something or other. I almost always say no; life is too
short to spend my time reading books I don’t like, and if I accept a
review copy I feel like I need to read it. I’ve gotten burned that way a
couple of times, and now I’m fairly cautious.

Anyway, I called Mr. Blumenthal on his imposture, and he not only ‘fessed
up but did so so handsomely that I
agreed to read his book and tell you all what I think of it. And now
I’ve read it, and I’m at somewhat of a loss as to what to say about it,
as it’s really not my usual thing.

So let me tell you a little about it.

To begin with, it’s a novel in the proper sense: it’s about characters
and how they change. Most of the fiction I read–indeed, most genre
fiction in general–falls into the romance category: stories that are
remote in place or time and concern adventure, heroism, mystery, and so
forth. This, on the other hand, strikes me as more a Woody Allen/John
Updike sort of thing. (That’s not a compliment, by the way…the one
time I tried to read an Updike novel, I failed.)

It’s a novel about a screenwriter named Martin Dorfman. He’s sold six
scripts, none of which have managed to be filmed. He’s trying to sell a
seventh script. He’s worried that his career is nearly over. And he’s
nauseated. Seriously, deeply, falling-down nauseated. He’s sick. His
doctor can’t find anything wrong with him. The specialists can’t find
anything wrong with him. His doctor thinks that his trouble is all
stress-induced. His father (a retired doctor) thinks it’s neurological.
Unless it’s stomach cancer. The tests are all negative. He tries other
doctors. He tries a variety of alternative medical regimens. Nothing
works. He’s getting no better, and neither is his career. Meanwhile,
he’s reminiscing about growing up with a father for whom death by
bacillus lurks around every door.

I find it very difficult to judge this book. It’s supposed to be funny,
and in places I found it so–but Dorfman’s upbringing and world are very
different from mine. I suspect that I don’t have the background to appreciate
where he’s exagerating and where he’s telling the plain truth–and where
for those in the know it’s laugh or cry. (What can I say, I grew up in a
functional family.) I suspect it would be funnier if I came from the
right background.

So did I enjoy it? Yes, somewhat. It was mildly engaging, and I was
genuinely curious to see how it came out–I have no quarrel with Mr.
Blumenthal’s story-telling skills. While the book necessarily included
the discussion of a plethora of bodily functions and symptoms, it wasn’t
nearly as gross as I feared it would be. And I do have to congratulate
Mr. Blumenthal on Martin’s liaison with the Other Woman–his handling of
it was delightfully refreshing (I can say no more with spoiling it).

Will I re-read it, ever? Probably not.

But if you’re the sort who likes books about neurotic people struggling
to overcome both their own neuroses and those they inherited from their
parents, you might like this. It’s not my cup of tea, so I suppose the
fact that I found it mildly entertaining anyway can be taken as high praise.