Tiller and Val take in Victor’s Peking duck risotto and explode into carnal place, with Val “afterward torching me in our Thunderdome bed like I was one particular of Victor Jr.’s cardamom crème brûlées in advance of cracking through the candied shell to my whipped-custard main.” (Waiter, can I have an order of that risotto to go?)
It is overkill. Reading through “My Year Overseas,” one particular starts to experience, as Pete Townshend wrote in a new Who music, “over-full, normally sated, puffed up, elated.” The way too-muchness of foods in new fiction reminds me of a letter Lionel Trilling wrote to Norman Mailer in 1959, deploring the “new inclination to explicitness about sex” in novels.
Trilling acknowledged Mailer’s level, that intercourse is absolutely necessary in fiction, but wrote: “Put it that I am in favor of a good deal of explicitness for 10, maybe 12 yrs then everybody shut up.” That is much more or a lot less how I truly feel about the landslide of food in novels circa 2021. I would have vastly much more authority on this topic if my own composing weren’t complete of metaphors drawn from the dinner table.
In his past novels, Lee’s narrators have usually been aged. This satisfies him in print, at minimum, he’s an old soul. It is amongst the negatives of “My Yr Abroad” that Tiller almost never seems like a believable 20-yr-old. Granted, he’s been through a whole lot. But Lee offers him so numerous groaning observations (“We’re beasts of our personal burdens, which never ever lighten”) that he’s difficult to acquire very seriously. There’s no lightness in him. He’s all brakes and no fuel.
Even more challenging to acquire very seriously is this novel’s large expose, the second when we uncover what took place to Tiller on the junket abroad, the “harrowing journey” he refers to in the very first chapter. I can’t give the important scene away, but it’s nuts.
Lee provides a tableau that could have been concocted by Peter Greenaway for his Grand Guignol film “The Prepare dinner, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover,” or by Ian Fleming in an deserted novel titled “The Spy Who Spatchcocked Me.” Suffice it to say that you will by no means appear at dungeons, mortars and pestles, thongs, hairnets, curry, tennis umpires’ chairs and Jacques Lacan’s composing in the similar way.