Bueno, cariño,

I'm going to finish this. I feel this message is so long. I've had a glass of sauvignon blanc from New Zealand. I just want to say that I can't overcome the long journey that all of us take in life. And the strangest thing is that we'll never know that life consists of that, right? Neither science, nor technology, nor mysticism nor religion.

I no longer seek underlying causes. Now I want obvious things. When I saw you this afternoon, at first it was like looking out the window of a plane and seeing another one pass by. You see it, but in reality you can't appreciate the distance that separates you from it, except that it's very far away. But in the end, you got very close. For the first time in a long time, you behaved well, as I told you in my previous message, or maybe I told you in high school. In any case, one last thing occurred to me, and then I'm going to bed.

Do you remember once when you took the boys when they were little to see a baseball game? In Philadelphia, I think. Charlie and I were on his boat, somewhere, and you took them there. Surely you remember. And a batter, I think, hit a ball that came all the way to you. Surely you remember that, dear. And Paul said that you simply raised your arm and caught it with your hand. He said that everyone around stood up and applauded you, and that then your hand swelled up a lot. But he added that you were very happy. That you couldn't stop smiling, he said. And when he told me that, I thought: That's the man I thought I had married. Not because you were able to catch a ball, but because you didn't need more than that to be happy. I realized that when I married you, I thought I could make you happy in that way. I really believed it. Things made you happy back then. I think you gave the ball to Paul and he kept it somewhere. So well, life takes many turns.

A Digressive, Long-Winded, Over-Adjectived, Frequently-Hyphenated Contemplation of the Middle-Aged, Middle-Classed, Middle-of-the-Road American...

Frank Bascombe sets out to meet his ex-wife. Five incredibly tedious reading hours later, and nearly a third of the way through the book, he still hasn't arrived. But he has digressed endlessly on those topics that seem to preoccupy the white, middle-class, middle-aged American male - their health, their inability to understand their children, their ex-wives (almost always multiple), their sexual prowess or lack thereof, and the way the country is going downhill. I admit defeat - I can't take any more.

I feared from the start that I would struggle with this book. Right away, Ford puts our narrator into an existential crisis mode after being diagnosed with prostate cancer, fearing that he is not ready to face his maker. Five hours later, I unsympathetically thought that he shouldn't worry - he has plenty of time left since he has the ability to turn every hour into a yawning eternity of angst. It took me four days to read those five hours' worth because I had to keep stopping to remind myself that life isn't a dismal wasteland of pretentious emptiness - or at least, if it is, then I prefer my own pretentious emptiness to that of the tediously self-obsessed Frank Bascombe.

Each line of sparse and unrealistic dialogue is separated by two or three paragraphs analyzing the previous one and anticipating the next, while every noun is preceded by approximately eight, usually hyphenated, increasingly convoluted and contrived, unnecessary adjectives...

...elderly, handsome, mustachioed, silver-haired, capitalist-looking gentleman in safari attire...

...a fetid, lightless, tin-sided back-country prison...

...a smirky, blond, slightly hard-edged, cigarette-smoking former Goucher girl... (What on earth is a Goucher girl? All those words and yet he still fails to convey his meaning.)

And frankly, until I tried to read this book, I thought I was fairly fluent in American. After all, I managed Twain's dialect in Huckleberry Finn and Steinbeck's in The Grapes of Wrath. But it seems not. Even my Kindle's built-in US-English dictionary didn't recognize more than half of the words I looked up. Has he invented this language? Or is it a kind of slang that was fashionable a decade or so ago and has now been forgotten? Whatever it is, if it's comprehensible to Americans, that's what matters, of course, but I think I'd have to wait for the translation to become available. Though I'm in no hurry for it...

...skint black hair...

...business lunch and afternoon plat-map confab...

...against every millage to extend services to the boondocks...

My life in Haddam always lacked the true resident's naive, relief-seeking socked-in-ed-ness(!!!)...

It's not just the made-up words and jargon related to the property market that pose a problem for the non-US reader; it's also his use of brands as a shortcut to description - fine if the brands mean something to the reader, otherwise irritating. And he constantly does the same with what I assume are cultural references...

He knows I bleed Michigan blue but doesn't really know what that means. (Nope, nor me.)

This means a living room the size of a fifties tract home. (So... tiny? Huge? Average?)

Mike frowns over at me. He doesn't know what Kalamazoo means, or why it would be so side-splittingly hilarious. (Again, nope - pity, because by that stage I could have used a laugh.)

I'm not blaming the book for being 'too' American - why shouldn't it be? - but it did make it impossible for me to get into any kind of reading flow since I was constantly either looking things up or trying to figure out the meaning from the context. I'm quite sure that was a large part of why I found it such a stultifying read, but I'd have tolerated it if I'd felt the book was shedding light on anything that interested me. But I'm afraid the trials of the well-off educated American male don't, particularly. Shall I eat wheat-grain or indulge my wicked side with a 'furter? Let me list all the things I wear so you can understand my social position. I spent $2000 on Thanksgiving lunch - cool, eh?

Buried beneath the pile of unnecessary wordiness, there is probably some insight into what it means to be middle-aged, middle-classed, middle-of-the-road, and male in Millennium America, and there may even be bits that are funny. Sadly, I lost my ability to laugh at around page 5, but I'm hoping it may return now that I've abandoned it. Is there a plot or a story? Not that I noticed, but maybe it becomes a gripping read once he gets to the meeting with his ex-wife, if he ever does. I guess I'll never know...

So how did it fare on the Great American Novel Quest? *laughs hollowly* I think we all know the answer to that one...

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James Joyce, in his renowned work ULYSSES, penned a staggering 700 pages dedicated to描绘 just one day in the life of an ordinary Dubliner. In a similar vein, Ford has written 500 pages chronicling three days in the life of an ordinary American. This American, named Frank Bascomb, is a self-reflective individual who also adheres to the essential values of most Americans - the pursuit of money and its attendant benefits.

I first encountered this novel fourteen years ago, a year after its publication. Given its abundance of topical details, especially those related to the 2000 Gore-Bush presidential contest, it has aged remarkably well as an introduction to the 21st century. It is the third installment in a series of four Frank Bascomb novels. In this particular one, Frank is now in his late 50s and still engaged in selling real estate along the New Jersey coast. He has received a diagnosis of prostate cancer, with an uncertain prognosis, and this specter of death looms large over every aspect of his perspective.

The novel is essentially a first-person monologue that spans three days during Thanksgiving. It's possible that some readers may grow impatient with Frank's seemingly endless digressions. He ruminates on his children, both his present and former wives, his real estate work, his opinions of politicians and aging friends, references to books he has read (such as THE GREAT GATSBY), a sense of being immobilized, and an almost obsessive preoccupation with death. The novel repeatedly circles back to these concerns. At Thanksgiving, Frank wonders if he has much to be grateful for. He poses the questions to himself: "Do I have a heart at all? Do I see good as even a possibility?"

These questions remain open to debate, as the world around Frank is充斥着 greed, wealth, and a mindless society rife with random violence. Frank's dilemma is that he is inextricably caught up in this society. Although he can critique it, he finds himself unable to extricate himself from it. And perhaps, deep down, he doesn't really want to. His life is filled with a litany of events - house showings, coming to terms with his two sharp-tongued adult children, getting his vandalized car repaired, unresolved pain from his former wife and the death of a third child, a present wife who leaves him, brief drinking interludes, and troublesome neighbors. All of these provide a constant backdrop of white noise, serving as a distraction. Frank is not a particularly happy man, but he is a busy one.

Despite all of this, there is still a glimmer of hope for change. If that possibility were to disappear, then Frank despondently contemplates a "Permanent Period" lying ahead - "if we hang on too long where life doesn't grow different, there's more of it until the lights go dim." In the present, Frank does have some astute insights. For instance, he compares realtors with novelists, stating that both "make up importance from life-run-rampant just by choosing, changing, and telling. Realtors make importance by selling, which is better paying than the novelist's deal and probably not as hard to do well." Importance, after all, is synonymous with meaning and significance.

Frank's realtor partner is Mike, a Tibetan refugee - an unlikely pairing. Mike is a Buddhist and offers Frank spiritual advice, but it fails to make a lasting impression on him. Frank believes that Mike's advice has been compromised by his own buying and selling activities and his embrace of the materialistic American dream.

The novel concludes with Frank boarding a flight to the Mayo Clinic for a new diagnosis of his cancer. Throughout the novel, Frank has, quite literally, been up in the air. Now, as he touches down on the tarmac, he faces a new land, a new territory in front of him. It is yet another, and perhaps inconclusive, assessment of the "lay of the land." Even if a reader becomes impatient with the seemingly endless details, Frank, like any good realtor or novelist, has provided his client/reader with a full disclosure of all the details.

Ford returns to his most famous character.

The frustrated writer who, after being a sports journalist, becomes a successful real estate agent.

The life problems of Bascombe are intertwined with the days before and after Thanksgiving Thursday of the new millennium.

This story likely delves deep into the psyche of Bascombe, exploring his past disappointments as a writer and his newfound success in the real estate world.

We can expect to see how his experiences in both fields have shaped him and how he copes with the various challenges that come his way.

The mention of Thanksgiving Thursday adds a touch of significance, perhaps暗示着 a time of reflection and change for Bascombe.

As the story unfolds, we will surely be drawn into the complex web of his life, eager to see how he navigates through his problems and what the future holds for him.

Overall, this return to the character of Bascombe promises to be an engaging and thought-provoking read.

I've truly relished each and every book in the Frank Bascombe series to an even greater extent than the previous one, and I have an absolute fondness for the very first book!

I not only read this particular installment but also listened to the audio version subsequent to that. The person reading has a younger Clint Eastwood-like gravelly voice, which is just perfect. It's so captivating that I'm extremely tempted to simply turn this book over and commence reading it all over again.

"Why do we think we know anything?" This thought-provoking question lingers in my mind as I engage with the story. It makes me reflect on the nature of knowledge and our often unfounded assumptions. The Frank Bascombe series continues to be a source of great entertainment and intellectual stimulation for me.

It was extremely difficult to get into this book. I simply couldn't establish any connection with the characters. The entire story seemed to revolve solely around real estate in New Jersey. What? I managed to read about 50 pages, but then I just gave up.

Perhaps it was the lack of engaging character development that made it so uninteresting for me. Or maybe the subject matter of New Jersey real estate just didn't hold my attention. Whatever the reason, I found myself constantly losing focus and having no desire to continue reading.

I had high hopes for this book at the beginning, but unfortunately, it failed to deliver. Maybe it would be more appealing to someone with a greater interest in real estate or who has a personal connection to New Jersey. But for me, it was a disappointment.

Frank Bascombe is now older, and he is confronting the challenge of prostate cancer. He also finds himself getting a little tired.

That pretty much sums it up. The writing in this novel is beautiful, characteristic of Richard Ford. Here, all the details contribute to shaping the character. At the beginning, the novel appears to be brilliant.

However, as the story progresses, about three quarters of the way through, I start to wonder if Bascombe is losing his momentum. I question if Ford is simply turning the handle of his Frank Bascombe money machine one more time.

Adding to this, there is an over-the-top ending. As a result, I am left with the thought that perhaps Ford shouldn't have bothered making this a trilogy.

It makes me wonder if the story would have been more effective if it had been told in a different way or left as a standalone work.

Nonetheless, despite my reservations, the novel still has its strengths, and Richard Ford's writing style is undeniably engaging.

It will be interesting to see how readers respond to this installment and if it lives up to the expectations set by the previous books in the trilogy.

Only time will tell if this addition to the Frank Bascombe series is a worthy contribution or if it falls short of the mark.

4.5 stars, if I could.

I have repeatedly stated that I do not believe in the existence of the so-called Great American Novel. However, if such a thing were to exist, this book would most definitely meet the criteria. The writing is truly remarkable. At times, it can be a bit overwhelming with the sheer amount of details, but one must trust the author because every single one of them serves a specific purpose. There are moments when it is so funny that you can't help but chuckle out loud, and then there are other times when it can be heartbreaking, yet in a non-sentimental and profound way. It provides deep insights into mankind in general, a particular man, and the American way of life, flaws and all.

I read the first two Bascombe novels prior to joining GoodReads. So, I'm not entirely certain if my feelings towards those two novels were exactly the same as they are for this one. But I'm inclined to believe that they were. This book has truly left a lasting impression on me, and I would highly recommend it to anyone looking for a well-written and thought-provoking read.

Richard Ford makes a comeback with the story of Frank Bascombe, the protagonist from The Sportswriter and Independence Day, now presented in The Lay of the Land.

Although this installment contains more action compared to the previous two, it remains predominantly a stream of consciousness musing that flows directly from Frank's mind onto the page.

Frank is now 55 and in what he terms as "The Permanent Period" of life. It's a stage where one is sailing towards the sunset, not necessarily smoothly, but at least with a certain sense of security, knowing that one can no longer mess everything up completely. However, at the moment, Frank's permanent period isn't going so smoothly. His second wife, Sally, has just left him for her first husband who was presumed dead for decades. His son, Paul, seems to hold a grudge against him. His daughter, Clarissa, is constantly around. And to top it off, his prostate is filled with radioactive bbs that were inserted to deal with his recently diagnosed cancer.

Despite all this, Frank continues to ramble, meticulously considering every little detail and sharing every bit of it. On the surface, this might sound dull, but it's far from it. The writing is truly outstanding. I was particularly enamored with the descriptions of people. For instance, there's this one - "A great potato-schnozzed, coat-hangar-shouldered galoot who years ago played defensive end for the Scarlet Knights, has soulful mahogany eyes deep set in bony blue-shaded sockets and always smells like a cigarette."

I relished every moment spent with Frank in all three novels. You can envision hanging out with him and gently stroking his hair as he rambled on and on. Maybe, if he were in person, you might zone out once in a while, but when you returned, he'd still be talking, and his words would still be as beautiful as ever.

Bland drivel, bland meanderings, just plain bland. I was duped into attempting another of this author's works by a so-called "friend". Sadly, this one was no improvement. I managed to plow through 80 pages (far more than it merited, but I felt obligated to the friendship to give it a shot).

Yes, you can call it a spoiler, but I truly wish you would understand that friends don't pressure friends to read junk!

The writing was lackluster, the story failed to engage, and I found myself constantly looking for an excuse to put the book down. It was a waste of my time and energy.

I think it's important to be honest with our friends when it comes to recommending books. We should only suggest works that we truly believe are worth reading, not just because we want to share something with them.

From now on, I'll be more cautious about taking book recommendations from others, and I'll make sure to do my own research before diving into a new read.

Heebie Jeebies in the Permanent Period is a captivating novel that delves into the life of an upper-middle class, white, male American residing on the east coast as he confronts the final third of his existence. One might assume this is a well-trodden path, considering works like Philip Roth's Everyman. However, Ford does an excellent job of staking his claim and has a great deal to offer.

My only gripe with the book is that it could have been more concise. It is a rather thick volume, and certain sections progress at a sluggish pace.

The story unfolds during a bustling Thanksgiving holiday in 2000. The turn of the millennium and the undecided presidential election enhance the precarious nature of Bascomb's life. In the months leading up to the novel's setting, his otherwise content and loving wife has abandoned him for a long-lost and presumed dead former husband. He has also been diagnosed and treated for prostate cancer. His sole realty associate is contemplating plans to depart from Bascomb's agency. Additionally, he is engaged in a cold war with his neighbors and has troublesome relationships with his first wife and his adult son and daughter. To top it off, he still harbors unresolved grief over the death of his eldest son years ago.

Ford is a virtuoso at constructing these subterranean rivers within a character who cherishes tranquility. Throughout the book, these rivers converge and surge, flooding the landscape and washing away his emotional defenses. Frank attempts to maintain a sense of equilibrium, but Ford torments him like a Greek god, compelling him to break down and confront his own - and by extension, our own - desperation.

This is the last installment in the Frank Bascombe series, and I find myself filled with a sense of sadness as I come to the end. It's a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, there is a certain humor that pervades the story, making me smile at times. But on the other hand, there is a deep sadness and poignancy that really tugs at the heartstrings.

Richard Ford has an uncanny ability to observe and understand the angst of middle-aged men. He portrays them with such authenticity, showing how their youthful dreams have perhaps never quite been realized, yet they are still muddling through life as best they can.

The character of Frank Bascombe is a complex and relatable one. Through his experiences, we see the struggles, the joys, and the disappointments that come with growing older. It's a journey that many of us can identify with, and it makes for a truly engaging and thought-provoking read.

Overall, I have thoroughly enjoyed this series and will be sad to say goodbye to Frank Bascombe. Richard Ford has created a world and characters that will stay with me for a long time to come.