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430 pages, Hardcover
First published November 22, 2016
"How are you?" Mrs Outcault said very loudly.
Mr. Casamonaca nodded genially and made a looping benedictory gesture in the air, just in front of his face, more ornate than a cross, as if he were a priest in a sect whose symbol was the holy coat hanger of God.
"Sign language," Mrs. Outcault explained. "Poor thing's deaf as a boot. I heard he was struck by lightning, though I can't say for sure."
With his long pallid fingers and his nails manicured to a moonlike luster, Mr. Casamonaca continued to draw things across the space between him and my mother. The regular rippling of a corrugated roof. The outline of a jellyfish. The downward spiral of water in a toilet bowl.
Mrs. Outcault nodded emphatically. "Oh yes," she said. "I know. You're so right."
"What's he saying?"
"I have no idea," Mrs. Outcault said through a tight smile. She kept on nodding. "It isn't real sign language at all. Just something he made up. He never learned to speak English very well, and in the past few years he's lost the ability to read and write in Italian."
"He - Then how did he write a play?"
"He dictated it to your mother, which is why she has been so involved in all this. Using those crazy signs of his."
"My mom doesn't know sign language."
"Apparently, she is fluent in Mr. Casamonaca's."
My mother watched Mr. Casamonaca's hands and fingers explain the behavior of skyrockets, the opening of a beer can, and the proper means for setting a golf ball on a tee.
"It looks like he's just making it up as he goes along," she said.
"That is a popular theory," said Mrs. Outcault.
”You think this explains everything,” my grandfather said. He freighted the word explains with as much contempt as it would bear before exiling it from his mouth. “Me and your grandmother. Your mother. My time in prison. The war.” He turned from the window.
In his eyes, through the haze of hydromorophone, I saw a flash of something I took, based on the historical record, for anger. “You think it explains you.”
“It explains a lot,” I said.
“It explains nothing.”
“It explains a little.” (Moonglow page 239-240)
In preparing this memoir, I have stuck to facts except when facts refused to confirm with memory, narrative purpose, or the truth as I prefer to understand it. Whatever liberties have been taken with names, dates, places, events, and conversations, or with identities, motivations, and interrelationships of family members and historical personages, the reader is assured that they have been taken with due abandon.What a brilliant Author's Note! Moonglow may be a memoir of the author's grandfather, but Chabon has always been a wizard at telling stories. Now, right at the start of the book, he gives due notice that he will let nothing—not even fact—stand in the way of a good one. His grandfather leaps off these pages as tearaway, mischief-maker, jail-bird, space-nut, special operations officer in WW2, inventor, failed businessman, businessman again, and elderly Don Quixote battling a pet-eating python in a Florida retirement village. To impress a Dulcinea, naturally; from beginning to end, he shows a fine capacity for love and making love, even if his marriage to the author's grandmother, a Holocaust survivor and fiery actress, was by no means plain sailing. Chabon brings scene after scene to life with his marvelous gift for description, such as this V2 attack in London during the war:
The physics of the rocket's detonation had sucked the show windows from the front of Selfridges. The windows had been decorated for the season with ice floes and ice mountains of pasteboard and sequins. A frolic of pasteboard Eskimos and penguins. The aurora borealis or australis in arcs of colored foil. A mannequin Father Christmas in Scott Expedition drag. Now the sidewalk was buried in snowbanks of shattered glass. Christmas trees lay scattered like tenpins. Their needles drifted down onto my grandfather's hat and the epaulets of his greatcoat. When he hung up his trousers that night before bed, cellophane snowflakes snowed down from the upturned cuffs. Pasteboard Eskimos and penguins, headless, torn in half, continued their inaccurate cohabitation. Father Christmas was found the next morning in a dovecote on a nearby rooftop, intact and unharmed apart from a holiday frosting of pigeon shit.I got the book two years ago as a review copy from Amazon Vine. When I finally opened it, I kicked myself for not having done so sooner; it felt like digging into one of those cornucopia of stories I devoured as a boy. But then, roughly halfway through, I suddenly realized that I did not particularly want to read any more. Nothing had changed; I'd just had enough. So what was the problem? Perhaps my difficulty with classification is a clue. Is it fiction (which I enjoy) or a non-fiction memoir (which generally I don't)? Because of its many brilliant free-standing episodes, I have put it on my "stories" shelf, but does it also add up to be a novel? It works in the moment, but does it also work as a 400-page whole?
"We've has a very cold winter," the old priest said. He was sitting up front, next to Gatto. Everyone agrees that this was unquestionably the case. "I gave out the pews and reredos and so forth. The beautiful oak pulpit, which a professor-doctor from Tübingen dated to the thirteenth century. I told them to take the crucifix too. It was quite large. Used prudently, it might have heated a dozen homes for a night or two. But there they drew the line. They were shocked, I think. I tried to explain that if He would give His life to save their souls, He would not mind parting with His image to warm their bones." He shook his head, looking at the ruin of his church. "Of course, in the end it went to waste."