Motherless Brooklyn is one of the best books I've read this year. Like all great mystery novels, a murder that needs to be solved lies at its core, but Motherless Brooklyn is so much more than that. For one, it has one of the most unforgettable characters I've ever encountered in Lionel Essrog, who is a detective with Tourette's Syndrome. His random outbursts, his need to twist words, his obsessive compulsions, and his tics form a large portion of this novel. That being said, they rarely control the novel. They are instead brilliantly integrated into its flow, with one or two exceptions where his story really does take the focus for an extended period of time.

Perhaps Lethem's most brilliant achievement (and it is no small achievement) in this book is that he finds ways to make you laugh without at all making fun of someone with Tourette's. Numerous times throughout the book, Lionel has Tourettic outbursts at really inconvenient times, or times that would otherwise call for strict seriousness, and these scenes are laugh out loud funny. True comedic gold. Over the course of this book you grow to love Lionel, in stark contrast to the book itself (i.e his reality), where no one seems to. I think that's a wonderful, tragic thing.

A tremendous mystery novel on its own, Motherless Brooklyn is perhaps most memorable for everything else it has to offer. It's an education on how we treat those who are different than us. It's a masterful dive into the mind and world of someone living with Tourette's Syndrome. It's about friendship, brotherly love, idolatry, and New York culture. It's about love, loss, grief, revenge, and conspiracy. It's about things not being what they seem, and in Motherless Brooklyn, as in life, so little of the world is really what it seems.

Every few months a book gets past my quality control screening. I ought to stop beating myself up over that fact. Generally I am happy to outsource my opinions about books not yet read to smarter people; I must have lapsed this time out, tempted by the $0.3333 price tag for a recognized yet unknown author with a sexy name. I had a strong desire to drop this text at page 30, but my inexperience with positively negative reviews naively committed myself to reading the whole damn thing merely for the sake of the authority which such completionism would grant this here review.

First-person novels are difficult to write well and even more difficult for me to enjoy--the claustrophobia and extreme constriction of the novelistic world, squeezed as it is through a pair of unknowing eyes, tends toward a poverty of possibility. Contemporary novels, should they be deemed literary--and there is no clear evidence that Motherless Brooklyn be intended as a non-genre novel--cannot employ a first-person narrator without taking into account the realism brought to bear during the modernist period of literature--the consciousness-realism of Woolf, Faulkner, Joyce, et al. What Lethem fails to do, and what causes this reader to choke, is to integrate the protagonist and the first-person narrator into a coherent unity. The narrator who says "I" appears in the text as something distinct from the character whose experiences are recorded by that "I"; this "I"'s position of enunciation is never accounted for--i.e., why is he telling us this? The protagonist has Tourette's Syndrome, but apparently the narrator does not. The echolalia is always faithfully recorded within the dialogue, the narrator frequently describes physical Tourettic tics, but nothing of Tourette's appears among the words of the narrator. Being as Tourette's has a linguistic form of appearance, one might desire that the novelist make something novelistic out of this clay, that some wild dance of language might appear, that something echoing "meaningfulness" might be intimated among the meaningless barking of the Tourettic compulsion. Instead, what we get is a meaningless and relentless reminder that the protagonist has Tourette's even if the novel would suggest that he may just as well not have had Tourette's. Lethem's tic is as meaningless as Essrog's.

Perhaps this meaninglessness is intentional; that Essrog's meaningless bursts of language are a microscopic echo of the macroscopic meaninglessness of the contemporary novel. Or some similar bullshit. Such-like I've not come across since being bored silly by American Psycho in the mid-90's. Lethem provides, perhaps, a tip of the hat towards saving his primary imagery by occasionally half-heartedly suggesting similes for Tourette's--paranoia, generalizations, insomnia--but such reminders that we are reading a novelist's creation only press home the dullness with which he works his material.

In other words, if you are fascinated by the spectacle of Tourette's Syndrome and think that a novelist might have an imaginative insight into the experience--"How does it feel?"--you will want to look elsewhere. Motherless Brooklyn is an opportunity wasted.




__________
An excellent response to my review and comments below, can be found in Friend Drew's review.

It is very rare for me to despise a novel like I despised this one. I don't even know where to begin. As the title and cover indicate, it aims at some sort of evocation of Brooklyn, which I suppose is necessary so that Lethem can continue to be the Brooklyn institution that he is. The problem is that his Brooklyn and his characters resemble nothing that has ever existed anywhere (although it did remind me of "Sleepers" a little bit). I think I'm especially bitter because I've recently read "Lush Life" and know how well a crime can be used as a window into a city. But the crime here is a window into nothing more than a deeply stupid detective story, peopled by wooden and lifeless characters, and taking place in the "old," "real" Brooklyn that we're all supposed to be nostalgic about.

If any Lethem fans read this review and disagree with me I would love to hear why. Explain to me how the "love story" between Lionel and Kimmery makes any sense at all. Or whether the whole Zendo storyline resembles anything that could happen in reality. And since it does not (which is not necessarily bad: cf. "Yiddish Policemen's Union," which is a much better but strikingly similar version of the same basic conceit), what it is supposed to do, because it is certainly not interesting.

I'd always planned on really loving this book, not sure why or how that started but it was probably when Fortress of Solitude came out and I really loved that (really loved the first half, anyway) and a bunch of people told me Motherless Brooklyn was even better. It sounded like something I'd like a lot, so I've tried every few years since then but could never make it in past the beginning. This time, though, I did, and read the whole thing pretty quickly and without too much groaning or whining or carrying on.

I feel unkind giving this two stars and thought about three, but my ratings don't pretend to be fair and I dock a point for disappointed expectations. This book wasn't unpleasant to read but I just didn't get the pleasure from it that most people seem to, that I'd planned in advance for myself. The descriptions of Carroll Gardens and other locations were good, and Lionel Essrog was a reasonably sympathetic, interesting narrator. However, the Tourette's stuff got old, which I could see was the point, but that didn't make it any less tiresome. It's like the old problem of trying to write about someone being bored without the book being boring: you have to be a genius to pull that off, and for me it didn't happen here. I get how my having to slog through the same redundantly self-reflexive thoughts and predictable actions over and over is supposed to mimic Lionel's own frustration with his disorder, but I didn't feel like it gave me an enhanced view of what having Tourette's might be like; it was just a drag at a certain point, and felt more like authorial shtick than a genuine character's tic.

This all would've totally been fine except that I didn't find the storyline particularly interesting. I didn't care much if he solved the mystery, and when he did there wasn't anything satisfying or particularly compelling about it for me. None of the characters had ever interested me much, so I didn't care if anyone lived or died and wasn't invested in what they'd done in the past or might do next. Nothing in the book surprised me or revealed anything I was excited to know. But I didn't dislike it, and only got severely annoyed with it once (on page 283, when Lethem destroys what's been a great scene by concluding with an infuriating bit of nineties-era pseudo-comedic schlock that makes the whole book seem like a lame sitcom pilot and turns Lionel into a cardboard character complete with a lame catchphrase).

Most other normal warm-blooded human beings love and cherish this book, so clearly there's some part of me that's just dead inside. Counter to my high expectations and best intentions, Motherless Brooklyn and I just didn't really connect, and while it wasn't a bad book at all I didn't especially like it, so my rating stands: "it was ok."

Lionel Essrog is an unforgettable character. Like all fictional detectives he has one defining characteristic; something which sets him apart: Lionel has Tourette's Syndrome. This turns out to be an asset for him when he sets out to find his mentor's killer because everyone assumes he is stupid. What works for him as a detective unfortunately undermines his effectiveness as the protagonist and narrator. The virtuosity demonstrated by Lethem, as he joyfully strings syllables together for Lionel to spurt, becomes a distraction as the story unfolds: Imagine the incessant clickety-clack of Miss Marple's knitting needles in your ears



or Philip Marlowe blowing smoke rings in your face.

  
I found myself reading Lionel's utterances out loud to more fully appreciate them. This just made a thin plot thinner. I wish Lethem would resurrect Lionel for a sequel, another story grounded in Brooklyn but without the constraints of the detective genre, because both Lionel and the borough where he lives came vividly to life. I just talked myself into giving this three and a half stars.

11 year update: My feelings for this book need no update - wordsmithing magic. The big change is that I saw Ed Norton's movie of the book a few months ago, and while it was an adequate murder mystery, it can't hold a candle to the book. In fact, other than sharing some of the same characters and the Tourette's-afflicted protagonist, not much of the story remains the same. Ed Norton did a great job simulating the Tourette's tics, but my Lionel Essrog was just not there.

Wow, what a novel. I can see why some readers think that the resolution of the crime was too perfunctory and tacked on in the last chapter, but to me it feels just right. Lionel's interior story was so much more interesting to me than the crime mystery. And the final sentence couldn't have been better! I'll be pondering on Lionel Essrog for a long time. Edward Norton has written the screenplay (set in the 50's) and will direct and star in it. I think he could do a brilliant job, but as a big fan of the book I wish the script stuck with the 1990's setting. Also, knowing that an important part of the Lionel character is his size, I can see Vince Vaughn in the part - big, twitchy, compulsive, melancholy. Edward Norton would be a good fit for Frank Minna. When I really, really, really love a book I can't help casting it.

Beautifully written and atmospheric, Motherless Brooklyn is an unusual noir detective story: the protagonist has Tourette's syndrome, and it's set in the 1990s. Lethem's mystery is full of menacing and comedic characters and very different from the movie. It keeps you guessing until the very end, when it's solved too easily.

TESTADIPAZZO


Edward Norton acquistò i diritti del romanzo alla sua uscita, e gli ci sono voluti vent’anni per realizzarlo. Questa è la sua seconda regia, quasi 20 anni dopo la prima. Lionel sulla pagina è ben più giovane di Norton. L’intera vicenda nel film viene spostata agli anni Cinquanta invece che a metà ’90. Qui Norton è con Bruce Willis che interpreta Frank Minna.

I motherless, i senza madre sono i quattro pseudo investigatori privati, incluso Lionel, l’io narrante, orfani che provengono dallo stesso istituto, che lavorano per Frank Minna, che viene ucciso pressoché all’inizio e nominato ossessivamente per tutto il resto del romanzo in quanto i quattro, ma soprattutto Lionel, l’io narrante, si impegnano a scoprire chi è il suo assassino.


Norton impegnato nella regia del film presentato pochi giorni fa alla Festa del Cinema di Roma , film d’apertura dell’edizione 2019.

Ho detto ossessivamente perché Lionel, l’io narrante, soffre della sindrome di Tourette. Ecco un assaggio:
Vi siete ormai accorti che rapporto tutto alla mia Tourette? Già, avete indovinato, è un tic. Contare è un sintomo, ma è un sintomo anche contare i sintomi, un tic plus ultra. Ho una meta-Tourette. Penso ai tic, con la mente che vortica, i pensieri che si protendono per toccare ogni possibile sintomo. Toccare i tocchi. Contare i conti. Pensare i pensieri. Riferire i riferimenti alla Tourette. È un po’ come parlare del telefono al telefono, o spedire una lettera descrivendo la localizzazione delle varie caselle postali.


Norton/Lionel con Gugu Mbatha-Raw che interpreta un personaggio diverso dal romanzo. Il fatto è che Norton s’è innamorato del personaggio e ha voluto interpretarlo a ogni costo: ma intorno s’è dovuto inventare una trama diversa e più robusta per giustificare l’impresa (e la spesa).

Strana scelta questa di Lethem: mettere al centro della narrazione un personaggio ossessivo maniacale, ecolalico, che borbotta, bofonchia, rimbrotta, scimmiotta, si agita a scatti, muove le mani, ripete parole e gesti senza riuscire a frenarsi, un tic tira l’altro, tic mentali verbali e fisici, pulisce la polvere con una mano mentre con l’altra da buffetti sulla spalla del suo interlocutore salvo poi leccare quella spalla o tentare di baciare in fronte quell’interlocutore.


Bruce Willis, ben più elegante del piccolo boss di strada (neppure quartiere) del romanzo.

E niente viene risparmiato al lettore, ogni pagina è infarcita di corsivi che rappresentano il sonoro della Tourette:
Don't know from Zendo, Ken-like Zung Fu, Feng Shui master, Fungo bastard, Zen masturbation, Eat me!,
in lingua originale, nella traduzione invece:
Pierogi kumquat fonosushi! Picnic trimoniale! Trimonio Insaziabile! Addolcito fonopierogi! oppure Monaco monco Zendo! Monaco Monaco prendo! o ancora Zinzedi zenzuda! Mostro Pierogi maestro zen zelante. Zapping zazen Zsa Zsa. Zsa Zsa Gabordi (le citazioni provengono dalla stessa pagina).


Norton spiega una scena a Willem Dafoe.

E con un protagonista così voler scrivere un giallo, o thriller, o noir, una detective story, ambientata tra Brooklyn e Manhattan durante l’epoca Giuliani (due mandati, dal 1993 al 2001, ma qui siamo negli anni Novanta, dell’11 settembre non v’è eco, il romanzo è stato pubblicato nel 1999), a metà tra la burla e il motteggio, lo scherzo e l’esperimento, forse sofisticato, forse pirotecnico.


Edward Norton/Lionel impegnato nella sua attività di pseudo investigatore a scoprire il mistero della morte del suo mentore.

Riuscito il tentativo? Dal mio punto di vista direi di no. A giudicare dal successo e dai premi, invece, sì.
Lo spunto di partenza è bello: i quattro orfani che vivono nell’istituto raccattati/adottati da Frank Minna, un po’ piccolo malavitoso un po’ fallito. E anche il personaggio di Lionel è piuttosto originale: peccato che Lethem si limiti alla superficie, alla descrizione dei comportamenti da sindrome di Tourette senza tentare approfondimenti.


Alec Baldwin, altro interprete del film.

Parallelamente la trama investigativa è piuttosto piatta e scialba, per giunta conclusa con un banale spiegone. I delitti rimangono tutti fuori campo, scelta consapevole, ovvio, ma che riduce la tensione.

PS
Testadipazzo è il soprannome che Minna ha appiccicato a Lionel, un po’ per affetto un po’ per disprezzo. La prima edizione italiana uscì proprio con quel titolo, Testadipazzo.

Motherless Brooklyn is a beautifully written novel about a complicated man named Lionel Essrog who is an orphan and a sufferer of Tourette's. As we all know about Tourette's, the syndrome causes you to spurt out words (sometimes profanity) during periods of stress in order to ease an internal undying mental angst. Lionel also suffers from OCD and the infinite need to count things...to mix words in his head and regurgitate them in order to sort through the chaos that is everday life for a hood in Brooklyn, New York.

Lionel is a Minna man, a supposed brainless strong-arm for a man named Frank Minna. When Minna is killed, this story becomes a classic detective novel, as Lionel takes it upon himelf to solve the case of his dead boss, mentor, and father-figure.

" I cut the sandwich into six equal pieces, taking unexpectedly deep pleasure in the texture of the kaiser roll's resistance to the knife's dull teeth, and arranged the pieces so they were equidistant on the plate. I returned the knife to my counter, then centered plate, candle, and drink on the table in a way that soothed my grieving Tourette's. If I didn't stem my syndrome's needs, I would never clear a space in which my own sorrow could dwell."

I love this book because it's set in NYC and romanticizes (in the way that makes your mouth water for a pepperoni-and-provolone hero with peppers inside) and villifies Brooklyn at the same time. The dialogue reminds me of an old Humphrey Bogart movie--The Big Sleep (the R. Chandler novel was quoted more than once in the book) or the Maltese Falcon, or even, the more contemporary movie (loathed by many, liked by me) "Brick." It was similar to "The Curious Incident..." in that it was a mystery told from the perspective of a mentally handicapped protagonist--and by walking in his shoes we learn more about what it would be like to suffer from the syndrome ourselves.

The character of Essrog was also a bit reminiscent of Nic Cage in the movie "Matchstick Men" but much more loveable and complex. This novel was BORN to be a fantastic movie (as now being filmed by/with Ed Norton? (thanks Beth). Can't wait to see it. It would also make a great series of novels.

I think it was ok. The writing was good but the story just didn't do it for me. This is being made into a movie and maybe I'll like that better (but that never usually happens). This book gets good reviews so I think it just wasn't my cup of tea.

Il punto di forza di questo romanzo è sicuramente il protagonista, Lionel Essrog, affetto dalla sindrome di Tourette (le cui ossessioni impareremo a conoscere nel corso del libro), a cui è impossibile non affezionarsi.
Molto meno memorabile invece la trama noir.
Inoltre, se il rapporto tra Lionel e il suo mentore, Frank Minna, è ben approfondito, lo stesso non si può dire dei suoi legami con gli altri "orfani".
Insomma, una lettura piacevole, anche se, devo ammetterlo, mi aspettavo qualcosina in più. Però Testadipazzo non si può non amare.

“Tourette's is just one big lifetime of tag, really. The world (or my brain---same thing) appoints me it, again and again. So I tag back. Can it do otherwise? If you've ever been it you know the answer.”
― Jonathan Lethem, Motherless Brooklyn



A kinda egg-sandwich surprise, hardboilded detective novel. I'm still a bit unsure of what exactly was all tossed in (is that lemongrass?). Zen masters? Check. Tourette's? Check. Man-crushes and awkward touches? Check check. Prince (or the Artist Formerly Known AS Prince)? Also, check check checkaramadingdong.

Look fair weather readers, I like Lethem (see four stars...I couldn't stop at three), just like I like Chabon. Actually, almost exactly like I like Chabon. There is a certain dance, jig, and Brooklyn-hipster style to both their writing, complete with their shared fetishes (comic books, vinyl chairs, bad hair, crappy cars, carnival food, odd screwballs).

They seem to be barycentric binaries or orbs ORBiting the same point in space; two prose vultures circling the same diseased zip code of literary space-time. So, yes, I enjoyed it. But also felt like I was robbed a bit, like a bit of the potential for this novel got skimmed off into some dark, back-room, and I was left holding less than a royal flush. I was treated to a comic when I wanted a novel, a girl when I wanted a woman, a joke when I wanted a koan.