tI am continuing to read Ann Patchett on the strength of her radio interviews and the beautiful things that she says about the writing process and the writer’s life. Her first novel The Patron Saint of Liars did not blow me away—she had a good story, some lovely themes, and a nifty idea for perspective—but I wasn’t left feeling moved or changed, which is what I expect when I finish a novel. I felt the same way when I put down Patchett’s second novel Taft, which is to say that I didn’t feel much. I want to like her books; I really, really, really want to like her books, because I adore her as an author, but beyond having good story ideas and interesting figures for characters, her novels lack the depth, complexity, or challenges of what I might term “good” literature. Ugh, I hate that Patchett’s fiction drives me to make distinctions like this. I consider a novel good if it makes me think and question myself and the world, if it forces me to see myself and the world differently, if the words are strung together beautifully, if it challenges me intellectually, if it sits with me for days and I have to talk to someone else about it rather than carrying the weight of what I’ve experienced, the new things I’ve thought and felt, around with me—I don’t have to “like” it, but I want to appreciate what it’s trying to do. Patchett’s novels are so far falling short.tTaft is the story of John Nickel, a black (yes, a white woman of privilege writing from the “I” perspective of a Southern black man—ambitious or stupid?) bar manager and former jazz drummer, and what happens when he takes in two white teenage lost souls, Fay and her drug-abusing, drug-dealing younger brother Carl. Their father, the titular Taft, is dead and they have moved from the poor, rural town of Coalfield to Memphis with their non-present mother to live with their well-off aunt and uncle. When the story opens John’s ex-girlfriend Marion has taken their son Franklin (yes, another president’s name) to Miami, seemingly out of maliciousness toward John. The reader learns that John was not thrilled when he learned of Marion’s pregnancy—refused to marry her, ran around with other women, and generally saw fatherhood as interfering with his go-as-you-please musician lifestyle. When Franklin was born, John softened and since then has been trying to atone for his initial reaction—asking Marion to marry him, still running around with other women, and giving up drumming for the “stability” of running a blues bar. The reader can see that John’s sympathy for Fay and Carl, his involvement in their troubles, goes beyond just simple kindness; he has embraced the role of father. If he cannot be father to Franklin, then we will play it out with Fay and Carl.tRefreshingly, this is a story about fatherhood. It’s actually a story about black fatherhood, which has been significantly documented (for its lack thereof) in American culture. One of the few thought-provoking, memorable moments in the novel describes the day spent between John and Franklin when Marion comes back from Miami for a visit. Muses John: “Boys with their fathers who don’t belong to their fathers, I can spot them anywhere. They’re taking tours of the pyramid, playing Putt-Putt golf at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. They’re filling up the zoo, carrying cotton candy and a bag of carmeled corn, balloons, and a thirty-five dollar stuffed yak from the gift shop. Custody day, I used to think to myself when I passed them. . . . It wasn’t until just that moment that I had feelings for every father who had tried to endear himself in the few hours he had, every father who wanted his kid to go home and tell his mother about how great the day had been. The kid’s life is screwed up and I’m the one who did it. That’s what us custody fathers think. If I can make it look like Disneyland for a while, then more power to me.” This passage is nicely written by Patchett, and presents a sentiment and perspective so often ignored in our focus (still) on the relationship between mother and child. I wish I could say that there were more moments like this, but the book just doesn’t stick with me. Like the Patron Saint of Liars, it feels like a writing workshop exercise. Write from a perspective that is the total opposite of you; frame a story in flashback. There’s ways in which the novel feels perfect, like the over-produced album, where you see the potential of the band, but want the raw stage show to really “feel” them, and there’s ways in which it is just messy. How do all of these things come together? The lives of poor rural Tennessee kids, imagined flashbacks of the selfless father Taft, an ex-jazz musician, a young black American teenager getting swept up in gang culture, a white kid descending into drugs, a single black mother, interracial relationships, etc. etc. etc? There’s a lot that Patchett covers, but not one thing very deeply—she sacrifices depth for suggestion. Ann Patchett’s novels are good, but not great.
Taft is Ann Patchett's second novel out of an oeuvre of six (plus a few non-fiction works). To date, I had read all her other novels; this was my final one to read. If you've followed my previous reviews, you know by now that I love her work, but I have to say this is my least favorite.Patchett has a formula—that is not a bad thing. She twists the stories so well that it's difficult to lump them into any single category. Patchett likes to throw total strangers into a bowl and see how they mix. In Taft, she tells the tale of a single-father black man in Memphis who manages a bar. "A girl walked into the bar." is the first line. I was immediately expecting a bit of humor, but there was little humor to be had.The story is told mainly in first person. Ok, so first person black man in Memphis told by a lovely white woman who did not grow up in Memphis. That is an undertaking. The voice of the primary character (whose name we don't learn until halfway through the book) does not come across to me as a black man. In fact, I didn't even know he was supposed to be black until a hundred pages in. I may have missed it, but none the less, it was not obvious. The character (John) didn't sound black, he sometimes sounded like a 30-year old Holden Caulfield.It's possibly unfair to judge an author's early works against her later works; becoming a better writer is always the goal. However, this novel did not draw me in as her other works do. I might have put it down after 50 pages if I wasn't such a big fan of hers. About half way through, I really started to care about the characters and I think the novel had a good (not great) finish. It is well-foreshadowed which created a certain degree of suspense. The title character, Taft (not the hero), is the deceased father of "the girl who walked into the bar." Patchett does a back and forth thing with "John" and "Taft" that is effective but confusing. It picks up the pace of the book, but the two story lines did not seem of equal importance for such a literary task. All in all, I can't give this novel more than 3 Stars. I'm glad I didn't read it before I read Bel Canto and State of Wonder—I might have been turned off. In any case, I still love Ann Patchett's work, and I am eager for her next novel.
What do You think about Taft (2003)?
This is a lovely little read about the parallels of two men who never met and never will. A young black man (John)who runs a bar and is trying to make sense of his life after making sacrifices for love and family and a white man (Taft) who has children young and is working hard to try and make ends meet. When Taft dies suddenly is family is thrown into chaos and his two young children cross paths with John and their lives become entwined, complicated and simple as both men are haunted by the other. This book was recommended by Suzy at Riverbend, though now out of print run (so can be purchased cheaply) it is apparently one of the authors'favoured books so I thought I would give it a go!
—Liz
In Taft, Patchett takes on the character of a black man. And does it well, as best as I can tell. In her notes about this book, she says she tried out narration from many different characters' points of view and when she tried John Nickel's it fell into place. She also considers this novel the poor stepchild, the forgotten one, compared to her other books.It's a remarkable tale, about a young white girl, Fay Taft, who asks to be a waitress at the bar managed by Nickel. He hires her, finds she is a good worker, and soon finds that she has a brother, Carl, about a year younger than Fay. Nickel becomes fond of them both, and finds himself avoiding his feelings about Fay. When she wants more from him the urge becomes that much more difficult to resist. Yet what really starts to consume Nickel is the siblings' father. It was his death that caused Fay and Carl to move away from their hometown, with their mother, and to live with an aunt and uncle in Memphis. Their lives were clearly turned upside down by the death of this parent. Nickel begins to think about who he was, what he was like, and he creates little scenes in his head about the kind of father Taft was. While he thinks about Taft he also works to bring his own young son home to Memphis. It is as much a story about being a father as anything else.An absorbing story about the recent south, the continuation of prejudices and the accommodations made for them, about the nature of love, about fatherhood.
—Judith
Some of the other reviews mentioned how it wasn't as good as her other books but this one was written 20 years ago. Naturally, she has evolved as an author. It's classic Patchett characterization. The reader gets to know the characters intimately and then is invested in what happens to each. It's written in first person--the narrator is a young black man--a bold move on Patchett's part, but I thought, well done . . . I'm an old white woman so maybe I do not know what I am talking about. The underlying theme of parenting, specifically fatherhood, made it all the more endearing. I liked it. It was worth the read.
—Linda Fagioli-Katsiotas
