Bernard Malamud's The Tenants, published in 1971, is the fraught story of the novelist Harry Lesser, last remaining tenant of a dilapidated New York apartment building. His landlord wants to demolish the old and get on with building something new, but Harry is exercising his statutory rights as a tenant and can't, under the law, be evicted. Harry is in the final stages of writing a novel and, fearing the disruptive effects that packing up and moving will have on his creative process, has decided to stay where the work was conceived until it is completed, ignoring his landlord's mounting desperation and not-so-subtle campaign of harassment, and resisting steadily increasing offers of cash to get the hell out. Harry, alone in a building with thirty rental units, discovers one day that he is not alone, that another writer is using one of the vacant apartments for creative purposes. Willie Spearmint, a young black man with a chip on his shoulder and the spirit and anger to back it up, is writing a work about the Black experience in America. The two meet and start talking about creativity and the art of writing. Unavoidably, they are drawn into each other’s lives, and it is at this point that Harry's fate is sealed, because Willie asks him to read his work and comment on it. The clash that ensues is one that goes far beyond different approaches to writing. Harry preaches form and structure to a young man whose world has no use for either, and the result is a schism that attains its pinnacle when Harry falls in love with Willie's white girlfriend Irene, ultimately stealing her away from the other man. Malamud's tale of conflicting desires and irreconcilable cultural differences is a thinly veiled allegory that draws inspiration from the racial tensions of the late 1960s. The war between Harry Lesser and Willie Spearmint is about more than a woman, or words and how to get them down on paper, and eventually explodes into violence and vindictiveness. The Tenants is not among Malamud’s best works, though it might be his bravest and most audacious. Some of the action is forced and the reader loses patience with Harry when his insistence that he must stay in a building that is falling to pieces around him begins to seem unreasonable. But the power of the book is undeniable. In 1971 Malamud is suggesting that if we don’t quickly curb our passions and behave rationally, we will one day wake up to a reality where the success of one race will depend upon the failure of the other. When that happens can the destruction of our civilization be far behind? It is amazing and disconcerting to see that this story remains as relevant in 2013 as the day it was published.

La passione.
La passione che ti tiene 'arpionato' ad un luogo, ad una persona; la passione che non ti fa progredire perché temi che quello che verrà sarà meno bello e appassionante di quello che è; la passione che non ti fa vedere nulla al di là del tuo ristretto orizzonte e tutto quello che si affaccia di nuovo da quell'orizzonte lo vivi come una minaccia a quanto 'conquistato'.
La passione che ti può annullare.
Che Bernard Malamud sia un grande scrittore non lo scopro certo io però mi fa piacere ribadirlo.

Okay, I'll admit I never imagined myself writing the sentence "Snoop Dogg would later star in an adaptation of Bernard Malamud's sixth novel" but not only can I write that, it's true. And Dylan McDermott was in it, too! I don't know how Snoop Dogg sees it fitting into his oddly lengthy filmography but just the fact that it exists, someone thought to ask him to play a role and he agreed is the kind of oddly delightful fact I didn't expect to find out today.

But they made it in 2005, unfortunately thirty years too late for for Malamud to see the results of a book released in 1971 (he died in 1986) although he may have had mixed feelings on the resoundingly negative reviews the few critics who bothered to review it gave the film. In a way, its an interesting premise for a pair of actors, especially if they enjoy yelling at each other. Its also a borderline problematic novel and probably Malamud's most awkward reading experience.

The setup is thus: Harry Lesser is a struggling Jewish writer working on his third novel. His first novel didn't sell well, the second got turned into a movie and he's been working on the third for a decade now. The money from the second book is starting to run out but he's stuck on the ending, which he wants to be absolutely perfect because he feels this book is going to be his masterpiece. He's also royally ticking off his landlord, who would like him out because he wants to sell the building. However, Harry lives in a rent-controlled apartment and refuses to leave (or take a buy-out) because he feels like moving from the place where he's been working on the book for so long would disrupt his process, especially when he feels so close to the end and thus he can't afford to leave. So, he resides in a building by himself, writing on a daily basis while his landlord pleads for him to go.

Then one day he hears the sound of another typewriter in the building and finds a black man using an empty apartment as a makeshift writing space. This is Willie Spearmint, who is attempting to find his way through his first novel (or short stories, he's got a bunch of stuff going on). Upon finding out that he's sharing a building with another writer, he asks for advice while bringing Harry partway into his life even though he's not a huge fan of white people, especially Jews. This of course leads to complications, none of which are resolved neatly and only partially involve women.

There's problems all through this setup and even the charming dismissal of "Oh, its of its time" isn't going to be enough to wallpaper over those problems. Malamud does his best to portray Spearmint as an actual person as opposed to what a white dude's impression of what a black man is like but something feels off from the start with Spearmint's default angry black man stance and novel written in the hip language of the streets. He never comes across as an unintelligent person, instead obsessed with getting his vision of the black experience down on paper in language that he feels is authentic to that experience . . . he may be a frustrated amateur but Malamud makes it clear he has talent even if Lesser isn't quite capable of giving him good advice. But no matter how hard Malamud tries he never quite feels like a real person, something that extends to almost everyone else in the novel as Lesser interacts with Spearmint's friends (including an awkward moment that is the closest we'll probably ever get to Malamud writing a rap battle) who seem black and proud in exactly the way a writer would expect them to be.

Its never totally cringe-worthy and with Lesser's personality defects there's plenty of blame to go around. The novel seems to come the most alive when its detailing the struggles that writers go through in trying to capture the thoughts and images in their head and convey it to the printed page with the right combination of words. I can relate to Lesser's endless struggle to grasp at a fitting ending to a long process (and definitely to a nightmarish event that occurs late in the novel) as much as Spearmint's frustrations when your ambitions haven't quite caught up to your abilities and knowing you aren't producing your best work. As long the focus remains there the novel feels thoughtful even as the narrative itself seems to disintegrate.

But the heart of the novel is supposed to be the culture clash and the results of that are dicey. The complications of Spearmint's white girlfriend Irene unsure of which man she wants to be with almost feels like Malamud indulging in cliches and while he tries to give her a chance to explain herself he rarely comes across as anything but an object of desire for both men to possess. In the meantime its Willie shouting at Harry how he doesn't understand black culture as the situation between the two men sharply escalates between two men who don't seem too sure how fighting works.

The later fragmentation of the narration seems to suggest Malamud even realized that continuing with events in a straightforward manner wasn't the best approach and as Lesser feels increasingly pressured his surroundings feel more intense and surreal. The action becomes more metaphorical as the book reflects the pressure of trying to figuring out how to end all of this in a way that either involves violence or doesn't resolve anything. Intriguingly, he goes for an approach that incorporates both and isn't entirely satisfying because things have become fairly abstract by that point (the last paragraph hit me for some reason, even though its mostly the same word repeated over and over).

A bit of a strange digression for Malamud, at times it comes close to him reading Philip Roth novels and thinking, "Well, I could try this, too". Its thoughtful and he's clearly trying but it feels so locked into its time that its appearance is like a time traveler being dumped back a century from where he started. They might be using the same words, but they're still not speaking the same language.

Finally a fiction that has me addicted. I picked this up to take with me on my current trip, which has me bopping all over the place in airplanes and capable of working only as long as my computer battery lasts. It is with great pleasure that I see the battery power run out so I can get back to this book. About a couple of writers living in a run down tenement house, this book is original and captivating, both from the point of view of the fiction writer's life and addiction and from the point of view of a comment on human nature and society and relations between the races. In the early pages I was immediately struck by Malamud's style. I was at once attracted to it and also a little disappointed. The word play for word play's sake was too much of the Joycean imitation that we saw so often in the mid years of last century. That mixed with certain Hemingway touches was perhaps an original mix, but ultimately I felt derivative. As I read on, however, I am finding that these stylistic touches tend to disappear, and I am now wondering if they were in fact done on purpose by Malamud within the context of the expression of the main character, a fiction writer in his mid-30s. I'll have to re-read the early pages to figure that out, but only once I've got to the end, which will be soon. There are a few other aspects that date the book, particularly the sex and drug bits (yet more!) that were almost obligatory at the time. But there is an intelligence, a beauty of lightly bringing to life the characters and environment through perfectly executed details of narrative, that make this book so enticing and engaging to read. I'm drawn forth unable to imagine where it is leading. While I general do not like fiction stories about writers, self-reflective stories within the literati world - what seemed to constitute much of the 'literary books' of the last few decades - this one is perfect. Let's see if it continues thus.... After starting two works of fiction that ultimately bored me, this book reminds me of why I love reading fiction!

On the other hand, having now finished reading the book I have removed a star, and give it four stars. The end of the book was less than satisfactory for me. It left me with the feeling a little bit of reading a shaggy dog story. Also, the conclusion on those Joycean word plays and Hemingway-like so called simple sentences that are actually complicated and stop you up, is that it was not done "on purpose," but was part of Malamud's own adopted style. Still, I loved the book.

Non è Bernard Malamud, mi son detta dopo il primo capitolo. Non può essere lo stesso scrittore che mi ha presentato Morris Bober. Lo stile è senza fronzoli, l’atmosfera è cupa ma la voce è diversa, più potente, disperata, senza pietà.
Sono qui, a New York, all’angolo tra la Trentunesima Strada e la Terza Avenue e guardo questo palazzo fatiscente che attende d’esser demolito: un edificio di mattoni sbiaditi, costruito all’inizio del 900, in cui hanno abitato almeno 35 famiglie prima di raggiungere un compromesso con il proprietario, il signor Levenspiel. La maggior parte degli inquilini ha incassato la liquidazione ed è andata via. Harry Lesser no. Gli altri edifici si sgretolano intorno a lui ma Harry non demorde. Bianco, ebreo, scapolo, 36 anni di cui dieci trascorsi cercando di scrivere il capolavoro della vita, il romanzo che lo riscatterà dall’ultima disastrosa pubblicazione. È uno scrittore di professione, un abitudinario: quello che sarà il suo grande capolavoro è stato concepito in quest’appartamento al sesto piano ed è qui che verrà finito. Non c’è dubbio.
La casa è dov’è il mio libro.
Poi, un mattino presto, il silenzio del palazzo viene interrotto dal ticchettio di una vecchia macchina da scrivere.

https://librinvaligia.blogspot.com/20...

Meh. A Jew and a Black are writers and they hate each other and they treat women like objects. Yawn. What happened, Malamud?

Very enjoyable story of two writers taking up in a slated-for-demolition building in NYC in the 60s. Much racial tension, well written. The end's a little dreamy, which makes sense, given the narration, but leaves me a little confused.

Still enjoyed

Beautifully written when focused on the Jewish writer but as soon as it veers off onto the black writer, Malamud’s lack of real understanding of the character creates a figure as thin as the ones in that character’s own fictitious book. If Malamud is trying to show these characters fighting instead of uniting, he needs to stop wanting us to take one side so much.

In the process of "deaccessioning" some of my books--*gulp*--I came across this one, and surprisingly, through research of old journal entries, learned that this was not required reading for a class, but something I chose to buy, along with "Lovingkindness" by Anne Roiphe, as research for my collegiate "novel thesis" about a Jewish American family. This one did not touch me as much as "Lovingkindness," perhaps due to self-centered reasons both on my part and Malamud's--he was writing of male writers competing with each other during Black/Jewish tensions in Brooklyn, where Roiphe was writing about Jewish women struggling with religious expression, which is much more personal to me. Still, "The Tenants" sheds important light on a shifting period of American ethnic history.

La prosa magistral de Malamud crea un escenario vívido donde el lector se sumerge en los desafíos y aspiraciones de los personajes principales, el escritor Harry Lesser y el pintor Willie Spearmint. La exploración de las luchas creativas y las complejidades de la amistad brinda una profundidad inigualable a la trama.

La fuerza de "Los Inquilinos" radica en la habilidad de Malamud para tejer temas como la búsqueda de la identidad y el propósito, en el contexto de la Nueva York.

Aunque la obra es indudablemente poderosa, podría criticarse la densidad de la narrativa en ciertos momentos. Algunos lectores podrían sentirse abrumados por la complejidad de los temas y las capas de significado que ofrece Malamud. Sin embargo, esta densidad también contribuye a la riqueza de la historia, ofreciendo una experiencia de lectura que invita a la reflexión.

What an incredible book. I mean, the characters are nothing more (yet, sometimes, something more) than racial caricatures straight out of a Dave Berg "Lighter Side of..." comic strip from the 70s but Malamud uses them to teach so much about the craft of writing - the art, the fear, the envy - that it will make you sick (in a good way).

I wouldn't agree with the jacket copy saying that this is/was his best work to date (Come on!, to quote Gob Bluth, I mean, but, hello, The Natural set an unusually high bar for any and all concerned) but it will (it might) keep you turning pages.

Note: I gave my reading of it the Fight Club twist - Harry and Willie are, well, the same man working at two typewriters in a crumbling building (building=brain, body, confidence, whatever, etcetera).