It's perhaps of little consequence to mention, as the book directly touches upon it numerous times. However, for the sake of saying something, anything at all, even if it need not be said, I'll point it out regardless. This book is about attempting to feel alive in the midst of the ordinary. Or perhaps it should be e-ve-ry-day-ness, the word expounded in a fatigued and bored fashion.

It appears to me as a precursor to postmodern novelists such as Pynchon and DeLillo, with its emphasis on the fictional that seems vividly alive (the movies) and the real that seems lifeless (the everyday).

The protagonist at one point remarks on how often, when conversing with others, he suddenly realizes that everyone is dead. I think this is because whatever they discuss lacks any framework, is not plotted out, and holds no meaning within a broader context. In contrast to the movies, that is. And of course, this is the curse of those movies, a curse not often enough recognized amid the banter of violence, pornography, and so on. They make life seem dull by comparison. Binx, the moviegoer, makes this evident early on.

Other people, so I have read, cherish memorable moments in their lives: the time one climbed the Parthenon at sunrise, the summer night one met a lonely girl in Central Park and achieved a sweet and natural relationship, as they say in books. I too once met a girl in Central Park, but it is not much to remember. What I remember is the time John Wayne killed three men with a carbine as he was falling to the dusty street in Stagecoach, and the time the kitten found Orson Welles in the doorway in The Third Man.

I'm reminded of Tom McCarthy's novel Remainder, in which the protagonist's every action starts to feel fake and unreal after witnessing the perfect way De Niro opens and closes a fridge on-screen. I sometimes have a similar feeling, a keen awareness that everything I consider important in my life is at best a second-hand experience, a narrative already distorted by its narrator, a happening already distorted by at least one lens. It makes me feel as if I can never reach the core of it all (whatever \\"it\\" may be). Or, as Ezra Furman sings in one of his songs: \\"There's a song at the heart of it all and we all try hard just to write it down but you can't write it down.\\"

All of that is, of course, somewhat tangential, a personal message to make you feel that this \\"review\\" (a dreadful word to attach to art) is not written by an automaton - as will soon, I'm sure, be the norm.

The moviegoer is always on \\"the search\\", a search for, as Percy himself notes somewhere, \\"a heightened aura of reality\\". He describes the search as \\"what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life\\", so yes, heightened, and in that sense, it is almost religious. Unsurprisingly, he soon hits upon the question of God (we're still in the very beginning of the book here) and points out that everyone in America either believes (98%), or is atheistic or agnostic (2%): everyone has made up their mind. There are no seekers.

This is one of the curious aspects of this small book: the theoretical framework is largely established after the first 30 pages or so, and only then does the narrative - which isn't really a narrative - commence Binx's wanderjahr to prove the points that have already been forcefully made. He wanders around aimlessly, his indecision and nonchalance in stark contrast to his clear philosophy of life, yet at the same time in accordance and harmony, not truly paradoxical. There is something defeatist in Binx from the start, a sense that the everydayness is all-encompassing, a map covering the entire territory. It is an everydayness that could easily veer into becoming a spectacle or even a form of chronic depression (in his girlfriend Kate's case), depending on your perspective.

The biggest and most interesting paradox is that Binx is wandering, striving to crawl out from beneath that map that covers his territory, only to become anxious when he does. He is constantly afraid of becoming unstuck in time and place. This is why he has to talk to someone at the movie theater before the show, so that the film is not one that \\"might be shown anywhere and at any time\\". Or why he wants to know the history of Chicago's train station - \\"who built the damn station, the circumstances of the building, details of the wrangling between city officials and the railroad\\" - when he arrives there. It is, of course, not really a paradox, but rather the bind of modern times, caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, as they say; caught not only between everydayness and oblivion, but also within the further realization that they are essentially one and the same thing. And from this conflation of the two comes the apathy, the defeatist attitude, the aimless wandering. It could never have been any other way.

This novel is truly disturbing on multiple levels. It has left me with a strange feeling, as if I should wash my hands repeatedly. I find it extremely difficult to determine where Percy stands on crucial aspects such as equality, racial justice, or any social issue for that matter. One wonders if this novel is actually an indictment.

However, in spite of all these concerns and uncertainties, I must admit that I thought it was a very good novel. There is something about it that keeps pulling me in and makes me want to explore its depths further.

For anyone who believes that this novel is their "best of all time", I have to share that my all-time favorite is Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin. That particular novel has had a profound impact on me and continues to resonate within my soul.

**This review contains spoilers**

In the 1960s, in the vibrant city of New Orleans, there is a 30-year-old man named Jack "Binx" Bolling. He hails from a prosperous background and earns his living as a stockbroker. He has a penchant for girls and, most importantly, he adores going to the movies... a great deal. However, Binx is far from happy. He feels trapped, lacking direction and purpose. The problem is that he has no idea where to turn or what to do next. His distant cousin, Kate Cutrer, is in a similar situation. She is also stuck, mainly due to her severe psychological issues. There is a connection between them. They understand each other, and their destinies seem to be intertwined.

I absolutely loved this book and these characters. It wasn't because they were perfect; in fact, it was because they were flawed. I could identify with them, and I believe most people can. That's precisely why this book is beloved by so many. It makes you reflect on why you are in your current situation, why you are engaged in what you are doing, and what you ultimately desire from life. And, by the way, the writing is simply superb. "The Moviegoer" truly deserves to be called an American Classic. It is included on both Time Magazine's and the Modern Library's top 100 novels of the 20th century. It was also the winner of the 1962 National Book Award.

I was initially inclined to rate this book three stars. However, after reflecting on it for a few days, I came to the realization that this book truly grated on my nerves. In fact, I didn't really enjoy it that much or look forward to picking it up each night. As a result, I downgraded it to two stars. Maybe, at best, it could be a 2.5.

Our attention is centered on Binx Bolling, perhaps the most distinctive name in literary history. A 30-year-old man residing in Gentilly, a suburb of New Orleans, he works as a stock and bond broker, managing his uncle's brokerage firm. He has a penchant for watching movies at the cinema and engaging in relationships and flings with his secretaries.

I suppose the most fitting way to describe Binx is by using his own words: he is "somewhere and not anywhere." He frequently alludes to his concept of "the search," in which he endeavors to find his path in life and perhaps seek his identity and the meaning of life within. He is at a proverbial crossroads in life, struggling to break free from the tedium of existence.

"…and when I awake, I awake in the grip of everydayness. Everydayness is the enemy. No search is possible."

Of course, all this is profound stuff. However, the main issue I had with the book was the execution of pretty much everything else. Oh, Percy can indeed construct a beautiful sentence here and there in genuine prose. But simultaneously, this book is so lacking in direction, meandering, and ordinary. (I loathe using the word "boring" to describe a book as it doesn't specify or quantify anything, but this is precisely the word that suits this book.)

In other words, this is like watered-down philosophy, not the kind of philosophical read that I enjoy at all. With Binx as our narrator, he rambles on and on about this and that, attempting to make everything sound so profound, deep, and self-important, but it simply doesn't have the power to make one care either way. In other words, this book is as lost as Binx.

I liked the setting itself, and there were some aspects here and there that I liked. But overall, this one was mostly a disappointment.

"The Moviegoer" is a book that, to be honest, I didn't really like. However, I can understand why it is so beloved by others. It seems to have become a classic, having been written in the 1960s. One aspect that I did appreciate was the setting, which was 1960s New Orleans. The descriptions of places like the French Quarter, The Elysian Fields, and Bourbon Street were quite vivid. Of course, I'm a bit biased as I've been to New Orleans a few times and really love the city.

The title refers to how the protagonist, Binx, spends a significant amount of his free time watching movies at the local cinema, wherever that might be. Sadly, although I've seen my fair share of classic films, I only recognized about a quarter of the movies mentioned in the book. But I do like the concept.

To start with, maybe I missed something, but I reread the first couple of chapters to make sure that Binx's ethnicity was never clearly defined. It seemed to be implied through discussions of his family members. Kate's last name seemed to suggest she was white. Her last name is different from Binx's, so they're not blood siblings. Binx mentions "Negroes" he meets, but what about himself? Without being able to clearly visualize the character, it was difficult for me to really like him.

The book does have great descriptions and musings about the inner world of Binx. It's an introverted book, more of an inner monologue. It might seem the opposite, following a rather mundane plot of a man trying to find himself while taking care of his manic-depressive sister Kate. Some other things happen too. He's a broker, likes what he does, and is good at it. He's also made it a point to have sexual relationships with his last three secretaries.

But, in the end, all of that is rather irrelevant. The book has a weak plot, the characterization is mediocre, and not much really happens that's of great interest. The synopsis makes it seem like there's some important event, a "fateful" Mardi Gras before his thirtieth birthday during which he makes a decision that even "puts Kate at risk". But it's not nearly as dramatic as that. Plus, it doesn't even happen until the last quarter of the novel. And as I already mentioned, the core of this book is really in the interiors of the mind - existential pondering and philosophical ideas.

If Walker Percy had focused more on these aspects rather than spending so much time distracting us with Binx's unimpressive daily activities, I might have recommended this book more highly. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

#NationalBookAward #NewOrleans #Racism

Invoking Kierkegaard in the epigraph should orient you toward how this will go.

I don't have an extremely large amount to say, but I have never really written "reviews" as much as just typed out a bunch of text. I will adhere to that tradition. Three sections from the book are presented. I believe they capture the essence best.

1.

"But things have suddenly changed. My peaceful existence in Gentilly has been complicated. This morning, for the first time in years, the possibility of a search occurred to me. I dreamed of the war, not quite dreamed but woke with the taste of it in my mouth, the queasy-quince taste of 1951 and the Orient. I remembered the first time the search occurred to me. I came to myself under a chindolea bush. Everything is upside-down for me, as I shall explain later. What are generally considered to be the best times are for me the worst times, and that worst of times was one of the best. My shoulder didn't hurt but it was pressed hard against the ground as if somebody sat on me. Six inches from my nose a dung beetle was scratching around under the leaves. As I watched, an immense curiosity awoke in me. I was onto something. I vowed that if I ever got out of this fix, I would pursue the search. Naturally, as soon as I recovered and got home, I forgot all about it. But this morning when I got up, I dressed as usual and began as usual to put my belongings into my pockets: wallet, notebook (for writing down occasional thoughts), pencil, keys, handkerchief, pocket slide rule (for calculating percentage returns on principal). They looked both unfamiliar and at the same time full of clues. I stood in the center of the room and gazed at the little pile, sighting through a hole made by thumb and forefinger. What was unfamiliar about them was that I could see them. They might have belonged to someone else. A man can look at this little pile on his bureau for thirty years and never once see it. It is as invisible as his own hand. Once I saw it, however, the search became possible. I bathed, shaved, dressed carefully, and sat at my desk and poked through the little pile in search of a clue just as the detective on television pokes through the dead man's possessions, using his pencil as a poker."

2.

"Then it is that the idea of the search occurs to me. I become absorbed and for a minute or so forget about the girl. What is the nature of the search? you ask. Really it is very simple, at least for a fellow like me; so simple that it is easily overlooked. The search is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life. This morning, for example, I felt as if I had come to myself on a strange island. And what does such a castaway do? Why, he pokes around the neighborhood and he doesn't miss a trick. To become aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair. The movies are onto the search, but they screw it up. The search always ends in despair. They like to show a fellow coming to himself in a strange place—but what does he do? He takes up with the local librarian, sets about proving to the local children what a nice fellow he is, and settles down with a vengeance. In two weeks' time he is so sunk in everydayness that he might just as well be dead. What do you seek—God? you ask with a smile. I hesitate to answer, since all other Americans have settled the matter for themselves and to give such an answer would amount to setting myself a goal which everyone else has reached—and therefore raising a question in which no one has the slightest interest. Who wants to be dead last among one hundred and eighty million Americans? For, as everyone knows, the polls report that 98% of Americans believe in God and the remaining 2% are atheists and agnostics—which leaves not a single percentage point for a seeker. For myself, I enjoy answering polls as much as anyone and take pleasure in giving intelligent replies to all questions. Truthfully, it is the fear of exposing my own ignorance which constrains me from mentioning the object of my search. For, to begin with, I cannot even answer this, the simplest and most basic of all questions: Am I, in my search, a hundred miles ahead of my fellow Americans or a hundred miles behind them? That is to say: Have 98% of Americans already found what I seek or are they so sunk in everydayness that not even the possibility of a search has occurred to them? On my honor, I do not know the answer."

3.

"Tonight, Thursday night, I carry out a successful experiment in repetition. Fourteen years ago, when I was a sophomore, I saw a western at a moviehouse on Freret Street, a place frequented by students and known to them as the Armpit. The movie was The Oxbow Incident and it was quite good. It was about this time of year I saw it, for I remember the smell of privet when I came out and the camphor berries popping underfoot. (All movies smell of a neighborhood and a season: I saw All Quiet on the Western Front, one of my first, in Arcola, Mississippi, in August of 1941, and the noble deeds were done, not merely fittingly but inevitably, in the thick singing darkness of Delta summer and in the fragrance of cottonseed meal.) Yesterday evening I noticed in the Picayune that another western was playing at the same theater. So up I went, by car to my aunt's house, then up St. Charles in a streetcar with Kate so we can walk through the campus. Nothing had changed. There we sat, I in the same seat I think, and afterwards came out into the smell of privet. Camphor berries popped underfoot on the same section of broken pavement. A successful repetition. What is a repetition? A repetition is the re-enactment of past experience toward the end of isolating the time segment which has lapsed in order that it, the lapsed time, can be savored of itself and without the usual adulteration of events that clog time like peanuts in brittle. Last week, for example, I experienced an accidental repetition. I picked up a German-language weekly in the library. In it I noticed an advertisement for Nivea Creme, showing a woman with a grainy face turned up to the sun. Then I remembered that twenty years ago I saw the same advertisement in a magazine on my father's desk, the same woman, the same grainy face, the same Nivea Creme. The events of the intervening twenty years were neutralized, the thirty million deaths, the countless torturings, uprootings and wanderings to and fro. Nothing of consequence could have happened because Nivea Creme was exactly as it was before. There remained only time itself, like a yard of smooth peanut brittle. How, then, tasted my own fourteen years since The Oxbow Incident? As usual it eluded me. There was this: a mockery about the old seats, their plywood split, their bottoms slashed, but enduring nevertheless as if they had waited to see what I had done with my fourteen years. There was this also: a secret sense of wonder about the enduring, about all the nights, the rainy summer nights at twelve and one and two o'clock when the seats endured alone in the empty theater. The enduring is something which must be accounted for. One cannot simply shrug it off."

This is my all-time favorite novel. It tells the story of Binx Bolling, a successful and socially prominent New Orleans stockbroker from an old and wealthy family. It shows how he confronts his life during the week of Carnival leading up to his thirtieth birthday on Ash Wednesday. Binx is an enthusiastic and successful womanizer, yet he truly loves his stepcousin Kate, who suffers from manic depression.

The book reveals that a life dedicated to pursuing happiness is nearly doomed to failure. Happiness, both as a concept and a reality, is elusive and hard to hold onto. Instead, we should strive for a life of vigilant and intelligent interaction with those around us. This will involve both pain and pleasure, but it offers the possibility of authenticity. "Joy and sadness come by turns, I know now. Beauty and bravery make you sad, and victory breaks your heart, but life goes on, and on we go..."

The six or seven main characters (about the right number) demonstrate the numerous ways of dealing with the world and with each other. We're not certain how the lives of Binx, Kate, and the others "turn out," but we witness how the world impacts them and they impact the world. In a sense, this is a very modern novel.

For example, there's a scene where Kate comes to Binx at 3:00 in the morning. Binx has been alerted by his aunt that this might happen, so he's sitting at the bus stop in front of his house when Kate's taxi arrives. They discuss their lives and their potential marriage, and as dawn approaches, Kate's illness returns.

"Ohhhh," Kate groans, now herself again, "I'm so afraid."

"I know."

"What am I going to do?"

"You mean right now?"

"Yes."

"First we'll go to my car. Then we'll drive to the French Market and get some coffee. Then we'll go home."

"Is everything going to be all right?"

"Yes."

"Tell me. Say it."

"Everything is going to be all right."

In an older, more classical literature, "Everything is going to be all right" would have a specific meaning: I'll ensure the bills are paid, your power-hungry brother won't harm your sons, and the crops will be harvested every year. Binx knows he can't provide such an assurance because life isn't that simple. I believe his "Everything is going to be all right" means that things might go well or they might not, but Binx will face it all with Kate, regardless of the difficulties of standing by her side. In this case, I'm convinced that "Everything is going to be all right" is functionally equivalent to "I love you." And in the contemporary world, perhaps that's the best we can do, and perhaps it's enough.

For me, this was truly the quintessential tale of two distinct halves.

For the initial 100 pages, I found myself slogging through the lives of these people. I was bored to tears, not having any particular liking or disliking for a single character. I was completely uninvested in their stories. There was a 29-year-old existentialist, a 25-year-old manic depressive, a 32-year-old frat boy who had turned lawyer, and a well-meaning yet interfering matriarch.

And then, suddenly, boom! It all started to click. It was as if a magic wand of meaningfulness had been waved over the final half of the book. This was my very first experience with Mr. Percy, and I'm certain it won't be my last.

My favorite take-aways from the book are as follows.

"They all think any minute I'm going to commit suicide. What a joke. The truth of course is the exact opposite: suicide is the only thing that keeps me alive. When everything else fails, all I have to do is consider suicide and in two seconds I'm as cheerful as a nit-wit. But if I could NOT kill myself - ah then. I would." ~ Kate, pg. 195

"Christians talk about the horror of sin, but they have overlooked something. They keep talking as if everyone were a great sinner, when the truth is that nowadays one is hardly up to it. There is very little sin in the depths of the malaise. The highest moment of a malaisian's life can be that moment when he manages to sin like a proper human." ~ Binx, pg. 200

I would rate this book a 3-turned-4, and I'm filled with happiness at having discovered a new author.

Awakened this morning a little before five, I simply couldn't get back to sleep. So, I quietly went downstairs, made a cup of coffee, and then finished reading The Moviegoer, the novel by Walker Percy that I had begun reading a few days ago.

The Moviegoer is often described as a philosophical novel, and sometimes as a stream of consciousness novel. However, I prefer to call it "contemplative fiction." It delves into the quest for purpose and meaning in life, as well as the angst that accompanies that search. It's sort of like a Southern fiction version of Waiting For Godot by Beckett. The story is truly compelling, with its quirky characters and engaging plot.

The book is set along the Gulf Coast, ranging from the Garden District of New Orleans to Ship Island near Biloxi. If you're from the region, have ever been there, or have even just passed through, you'll recognize all of the places and references. Released in 1961, it was the surprise winner of the National Book Award, which firmly established Walker Percy as one of the great Southern writers.

Pilgrims progress for the perfectly mediocre and sentimental, the easily horrified: my people. We’re damned good people. Rise.

My people, those who are often seen as the perfectly mediocre and sentimental, and yet so easily horrified. But let me tell you, we are damned good people. We may not be the flashiest or the most extraordinary, but our hearts are in the right place. We have a kindness and a compassion that runs deep within us.

We rise, despite our flaws and our insecurities. We rise because we know that there is more to life than just being average. We rise because we have dreams and aspirations, just like anyone else. We may take a different path, but that doesn't mean our journey is any less important.

So, to all the perfectly mediocre and sentimental, the easily horrified people out there, remember this: you are damned good people. Rise above the expectations of others and believe in yourself. Because in the end, it is our character and our spirit that will carry us through.

This seems to be one of those inexplicably underrated books.

I'm truly delighted that I happened to come across it. It was included in the modern library's 100 best novels. The description mentioned that in winning the National Book Award for fiction in 1962, it defeated no less formidable competition than Catch 22, Revolutionary Road, and Franny and Zooey. It is a well-deserved winner.

William Styron was on the panel for that modern library 100 novels list. I wouldn't be surprised to find out that he put this book forward. It presents such a harrowing portrayal of depression, yet it is done with such a light, complex, and human touch.

There are some novelists who have the ability to touch upon something deep within me, and it literally takes my breath away. If there are a few such moments in a novel, I am deeply satisfied with the book. Walter Percy reaches inside me in every chapter of this novel. It's a kind of magic that makes me feel as if I'm experiencing a real life.

The last two pages, where Binx is guiding Kate through what she has to do and his careful love for her is so astonishingly beautiful. Honestly, I can't remember a better ending to a book. Durability in popular opinion is often a mark of quality, but not in this case.

This book is a hidden gem that deserves more recognition and appreciation.

The Moviegoer is an absolute gem of a read. Although it starts off rather slowly, by the middle of the book, I was completely hooked. It's truly remarkable how every single paragraph seems to be filled to the brim with subtext that beautifully captures the atmosphere of a particular situation. Whether it's the ease, unease, tension, or malaise, you can feel it all so tangibly in each and every scene. And this is of utmost importance because this book is all about the significance of place and time. It's about that delicate dance on the edge of the knife that prevents you from becoming just Anyone, Anywhere. The main character skillfully weaves his way through various social situations, attempting to remain firmly grounded in reality while not having too much of an impact on it. It's almost as if he is like a ghost, observing but not fully participating. I must say, this is the first existentialist novel that hasn't left me feeling completely despondent. In fact, it's quite the opposite, and that's definitely a very good thing.