This book is truly infused with a captivating and hypnotic suburban melancholy. It had such a hold on me that I found myself unable to put it down, even when I was completely frustrated with the author at times. His writing is undeniably superb, with a certain elegance and finesse. However, there were moments when I wished he would just let the story flow more freely. Instead, I often had the distinct feeling that I was reading an in-depth essay about the characters, or suburbia, or the art of writing itself, or even the modern human condition. These were, without a doubt, good essays, but essays nonetheless.

"The Sportswriter" is very much a product of its time, specifically the mid-1980s. This is evident not only in its writing style but also in its self-reflection, which can verge on being excruciatingly intense. And yet, and yet... there is an undeniable value to this book. As a writer myself, I found great enjoyment in Ford's comments on the differences between being a fiction writer and a sportswriter. I would also come across sentences that were so incredibly insightful that they would literally stop me in my tracks. And as for the melancholy that pervades the book, it is beautifully blended with a glimmer of hope. This combination perfectly suits the main character, who has endured the tragic loss of his son (this is not a spoiler), been abandoned by his wife, and is currently in a state of transition in his life that he doesn't quite understand.

Overall, "The Sportswriter" is a complex and thought-provoking work that, despite its flaws, offers a unique and engaging reading experience.

There are few things better than picking up the right book at exactly the right time in life and feeling that the writer is talking directly to you.

I’m pleased to say this was my experience with The Sportswriter. It seems to have been the same for several other Goodreads reviewers as well.

Having said that, I absolutely do not think that being an emotionally constipated, forty-ish man with unfulfilled literary ambitions is a prerequisite for enjoying the book.

The characters in the book are so convincingly drawn that they seem to come alive on the page. The dialogue and set pieces are so well rendered that you can easily picture the scenes in your mind.

Moreover, the insights offered by the author are so universal that this book should be enjoyable for anybody with a penchant for introspective novels.

It tells the story of decent, unremarkable people quietly getting on with things in a post-industrial Western society, and in doing so, it reveals the hidden depths and complexities of human nature.

Whether you are a man or a woman, young or old, you are sure to find something in this book that speaks to you.

Richard Ford's The Sportswriter kicks off his series centered around Frank Boscombe. The second installment, Independence Day, won the Pulitzer in 1996.

The Sportswriter, penned in 1985, presents us with a self-proclaimed Babbitt (from Sinclair Lewis' 1922 classic). It borrows some style but is told entirely from the protagonist's perspective. Frank, a 39-year-old divorcee with two living kids and a deceased son who still looms large, resides in suburban New Jersey. He opts for mediocrity over standing out and is part of the Divorced Men's Club, which meets for beers and avoids discussing their failed marriages.

The America Ford描绘的 still grapples with Reaganomics, with the fragile progress of the 60s and 70s beginning to unravel. Frank, in a voice reminiscent of what could have been my father during that era, describes the changes in his life over about 72 hours, from the anniversary of his son's death to Easter Sunday. We learn of his dreaminess, which contributed to his failed marriage.

Frank was once a promising writer but chose to be a sportswriter for the freedom to travel. However, at 25, he lost his sense of anticipation, crucial for a writer. His eldest son Ralph's death from Reyes disease, a mystery even in 2019, further plunged him into dreaminess.

At the start of the novel, we're at the cemetery near Frank's home, where his son is buried, and we meet his ex-wife, X. Frank still has feelings for her, but his dreaminess hinders his ability to express them. He then travels to Detroit with his girlfriend Vicki. Before leaving, a member of the Divorced Men's Club, Walter, confesses to a homosexual encounter, and Frank can only offer platitudes.

In Detroit, Frank's interview with a paralyzed former NFL player goes poorly, and the discomfort between him and Vicki grows. He insists on saying "I love you," but the distance between them widens. Their relationship eventually ends, and they return to New Jersey early. When Frank gets home, Walter is waiting for him, looking defeated.

I won't reveal the rest of the story, but it accelerates towards the end and has a curious denouement and epilogue. I enjoyed this book, despite its flaws, such as a hint of anti-Semitism, a half-formed racial conscience, and 80s misogyny. It feels sincere, and I'm eager to read Independence Day to see what becomes of Frank Bascomb. I may also compare him to other middle-American male protagonists like Philip Roth's Nathan Zuckerman, John Updike's Rabbit Angstrom, and Richard Russo's Donald "Sully" Sullivan, as they all hail from the Pennsylvania-New Jersey-New York area and have books spanning decades of their lives.

This eloquent surveyance of the general mental environment of a man recently divorced, but not going through total existential turmoil, was truly one of the more profound and entertaining first person narratives I have ever read.

It made me realize that in life, it's not merely the compiling of facts or all the things we have learned and memorized that hold significance. Instead, it's the mystery involved in the process of decrypting life's simpler problems that truly matters.

Full disclosure be damned! Let things linger, let the mystery play out!

If you choose to buy a used copy as I did, just make sure that the last page isn't ripped out. I had to finish reading it right there in the bookstore, but it was okay because I also bought a copy of the sequel to this book, Independence Day.

This experience has left a lasting impression on me, making me appreciate the beauty and complexity of life's mysteries even more.

I am firmly convinced that RF is a devotee of Walker Percy. The detachment exhibited by Frank Bascombe bears a resemblance to that of Binx Bolling. For him, "getting involved" proves to be a challenging task. I read the Bascombe trilogy in a disorderly manner as I initially delved into "Independence Day". This book showcases one of RF's alluring female characters in the form of Vicky. I think she has a certain Dolly Parton-like quality. I have a great affection for the cover photo.

Now (11-7-16), with the inclusion of "Let Me Be Frank with You", it is no longer merely a trilogy. It has expanded and evolved, presenting readers with more depth and complexity in the character of Frank Bascombe and his life's journey. The addition of this new installment likely offers fresh perspectives and storylines that will further engage and captivate fans of the series.

Whether it's the exploration of Frank's relationships, his inner turmoil, or his attempts to make sense of the world around him, each book in the series seems to contribute to a rich and multi-faceted narrative. I look forward to seeing how "Let Me Be Frank with You" fits into the overall arc of the Bascombe trilogy and what new insights it will bring.

Another book that I simply couldn't bring myself to finish. Sigh.

This particular volume is about as dry as one could possibly imagine.

The first half of the book is entirely dedicated to what's going on inside Bascombe's head.

A full 200 pages of introspection! It just doesn't hold my interest.

I found myself constantly losing focus and struggling to get through those pages.

Maybe it's just not the right book for me at this time.

But I can't help but feel a bit disappointed.

I was hoping for something more engaging and exciting.

Oh well, there are plenty of other books out there waiting to be discovered.

Hopefully, the next one will be a better fit for my reading tastes.

Have you ever wondered at what point you started to conform? Maybe you don't call it that because "conforming" sounds like defeat, but we all have that moment when we trade our big dreams for something more manageable, less painful. That's the essence of Richard Ford's The Sportswriter. A novel that, beneath its seemingly simple exterior, becomes an uncomfortable and brilliant mirror where we all see ourselves reflected.

Frank Bascombe is not a hero, and much less an anti-hero. He's a normal guy, what some would call "average". An ex-writer who now makes a living as a sportswriter, without much enthusiasm, but with enough skill to go unnoticed. We follow him during a weekend of Easter, among uncomfortable encounters, decisions that change nothing (or maybe everything) and memories that hurt more than he's willing to admit. And here lies the magic of Ford: he transforms the ordinary into something hypnotic.

What makes this novel special is Frank's voice. It's ironic, sometimes cynical, but never empty. Frank doesn't have grand speeches or universal truths to offer you; what he has is a brutal and disarming sincerity. He's like that friend who always knows what to say, even if it's not pretty. He talks about grief, about loneliness, about that delicate balance between resignation and still believing that something good might be around the corner.

Ford writes with surgical precision, but without losing the soul. His prose is like a slow camera: every detail matters, every word is where it should be. There are no artifices or narrative fireworks, and that makes it even more impactful. The light in a park, a banal conversation, a tiny gesture... everything has weight, everything tells a story.

If, like me, you pay attention to the structure of novels, you wonder why he tells us the story this way and not another, why he chooses a first-person narrator for this story and not a third-person one, or even why he narrates in the present and not in the past, in this novel you will enjoy Ford's mastery in playing with the way he constructs the story. The structure and the narration seem to reflect Frank's state of mind: a man whose life feels like an incomplete puzzle. Ford is not afraid to stop at the tiniest details, like the urban landscape or a trivial conversation, and then shock the reader with moments of deep introspection. This technique, instead of distracting, deepens the sense of existential disorientation that accompanies Frank, creating an atmosphere of loneliness that seeps into every corner of the novel. The prose flows like an intimate conversation, but every word is carefully measured, resulting in a precise but emotionally charged narrative. There's no rush to get anywhere because the destination doesn't matter as much as the journey.

And that journey is not epic or spectacular. It's life itself: a series of small moments, sometimes insignificant, that form a strange and disconcerting whole. Frank is not looking for redemption or a definitive answer to the chaos of his existence. He just wants to learn to live with what he has, with the scars left by his losses and with the questions he still doesn't know how to answer.

At the end of the book, you don't end up with a closed ending or with great epiphanies. But you do end up with something much more valuable: a feeling that life, with all its disorder and contradictions, is worth living. That the answers don't matter as much as the questions we're able to ask ourselves. That in those small moments of connection, even in the midst of the harshest loneliness, there's something that looks a lot like happiness.

And the truth is, The Sportswriter is a kind of therapy disguised as a story. It doesn't have the urgency of a plot that drags you along, but it leaves you with the feeling that you've walked beside Frank for a while. And, in the end, that's what matters: not the goal, but the step. Because, like Frank, we don't always know where we're going, but we keep moving. And in that movement, in those small daily decisions, is where we find the answers, even if they're small, ambiguous and incomplete.

Is it a book about life or about how to move forward when the meaning seems to fade away? Maybe both. What's clear is that Ford reminds us of something fundamental: we don't need to know everything. Sometimes, we just need to allow ourselves doubt, confusion. And keep walking.

So, if you ever feel that your life doesn't have the clarity of a great story, remember Frank Bascombe. He's not looking for greatness; he's just looking for peace with his own chaos. And in that, perhaps, we're all a little bit like Frank.

It’s going to take an enormous amount of effort for me to summon the willpower to pick up the Pulitzer Prize-winning sequel to this pretentious novel.

Frank Bascombe might just be one of the most loathsome characters I have ever encountered in literature. Now, having an unlikable character doesn’t necessarily have to be a negative aspect. However, in this case, it seems as though the reader is, in some minuscule way, expected to regard him as the protagonist?

No, thank you. This isn’t a character with deep flaws that one can understand or empathize with to some extent. This is a person who, by his own choice, is undeniably abhorrent. And yet, because he believes that life is ultimately futile, he deludes himself into thinking that he is a rather decent fellow.

Frank rationalizes his appalling life decisions as “dreaminess” – whatever that nebulous term is supposed to mean. He treats women as if they are mere candies to be indulged in and discarded, while simultaneously viewing them as worthless garbage.

The refrain that constantly echoed in my head throughout the entirety of this book was, “You don’t have to be a debased jerk, that’s a choice YOU made.” This book truly feels like Frank Bascombe’s own personal fantasy land, where he can justify his despicable behavior.

I gave it more than one star only because I did appreciate some of the literary fiction elements present in it. There were more than a few beautiful sentences that managed to shine through, despite the overall unappealing nature of the story.

Three days (and 450 pages) from the life of a guy going through a midlife crisis.

Of course, he has just turned 39 (I am 40) and I feel a kind of joy.

(No, I don't feel it, but I will say it all in the book I will publish before my death, but it doesn't matter that I am 40).

What exactly is your problem, friend?

You live in a nice suburb in a nice house (ask us too), you have a job you love (ask us too) and you take trips (ask us too), you have a nice girlfriend, and a wonderful relationship with your ex-wife, two wonderful children, everyone loves you, even your former father-in-law who encourages you to remarry his daughter.

Three days, from Good Friday to Easter Sunday (and fuck the symbolism), your past, your future (a serious man to visit a fortune teller weekly (!)). OK, there is a failed marriage, a dead child, a friend of yours who tells you he is gay, some old girlfriends, a Lebanese woman, a Jewish woman, variety. Somewhere there is a hint of melancholy, the scenes with your ex-wife are vivid and a memory of a lost life, which were your dreams of becoming a writer?

Somewhere it touched me, somewhere not, but I will ask again: what exactly is your problem, friend?

To notice all these things and go back to the beaches, OK, I also want to do it. (And let it not be beaches. I can live with a mountain too).

PS: At first I thought it was the translation's fault (of the recently deceased) Kallifatides, but no. What shit? We are talking about the 80s, there were many "blacks", Italians, Poles. And one homosexual.

The Sportswriter began in a truly impressive manner for me. It seemed to be thoughtful, familiar, and quintessentially American, bearing a resemblance to Stegner's Crossing to Safety.

However, as I progressed through the book, around the 250-page mark, my perception of the character started to change. I ceased to view him as thoughtful and subtle and instead began to think of him as a rather boorish, self-serving windbag. This was not helped by the fact that I would have preferred to spend more time with his ex-wife and children, who came across as charming, funny, and intelligent, rather than with his ditzy and unappealing girlfriend or his rather pathetic friends.

I also found it difficult to believe his assertion that the New Jersey suburbs were the essence of real life, as he seemed to think. In fact, I found myself longing for him to just stop talking already.

Perhaps all of this was the intended point of the story, but I couldn't help but feel that I already knew all of this. It didn't offer anything particularly new or enlightening to me.

This book takes a long and winding path to reach its destination. However, the last third of it is truly quite good.

The dialogue in the book is inconsistent and too often one-dimensional. Nevertheless, when it shines, it is extremely good, evoking memories of Phillip Roth or John Cheever in the reader's mind. In fact, and this might be a bit of a stretch, this could potentially be a modern, more empathetic retelling of Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises", and there are certain hints that suggest this is the direction Ford was headed.

Ford's protagonist, Frank Bascombe, is an existential mess who copes with life as it presents itself to him. He hasn't given up but is simply surviving.

Ford would later win the Pulitzer Prize for the follow-up to this work, 1995's "Independence Day", which clearly demonstrates his talent.

Hi, I’m Frank Bascombe.

As I enter middle age, I find myself in a dreamy, self-absorbed, and lethargic state, simply marking the time between birth and death.

My wife divorced me after becoming disillusioned with me. In an attempt to reaffirm my value, I turned to other women.

The death of our nine-year-old son was the catalyst for this change in our relationship and the resulting divorce. However, I have always been one to avoid any challenge and seek mediocrity.

Many years ago, I set out to be a novelist, but the need for a lot of thought deterred me, so I settled for being a sportswriter. Writing about sports comes easily to me as I can effortlessly spin words on simple subjects.

This talent also serves me well with the ladies. I constantly hit on them with fair success, using it as an escape from my lack of a genuine connection to anybody, thing, or place.

In my perception, New Jersey is the perfect place for me due to its ultimate blandness, which corresponds to my personality.

When it comes to women, I am not very choosy. I can approach my classy and talented ex-wife (although she never gives in) and some trashy Texas transplant and propose marriage to both on the same day, not really caring about either.

And when that doesn't work, it doesn't matter. I just move on to whoever shows up next.

Some who have read my story say that I am everyman, but other readers with a little more concern for humankind certainly hope that is not the case.