Well, I’ve finally finished reading The Mysteries of Pittsburgh by Michael Chabon. Although I am a very slow reader, that was not the reason it took me so long to finish this one. First and foremost, I took a two week break in order to bring our library OPAC online. It was a priority to get it running smoothly before the students came back, which they did on Monday. Once the First-Day-of-School frenzy subsided, I was able to jump back into the book.

Right away, however, I remembered my second reason for putting it down. Crying. Now, before you jump to conclusions and call me an insensitive prick, let me say outright that I am neither opposed to nor am I a stranger to crying. I’ve had my share of good cries in my life, some of them over petty things, some over loss, some out of fear. I think crying is a great form of catharsis–a perfect way to physically purge your body of emotional stress. Also, I feel that I am a great shoulder. I understand that to have been pushed to cry, one must have had some sort of breakdown. Whether the breakdown is tremendous or minute doesn’t matter. And so I am always ready to offer that shoulder when necessary.

That said, back to my second problem with The Mysteries of Pittsburgh. Crying. The main character, Art Bechstein, cries for what I believe are far too many no good reasons. The one cry that really pushed me over, however, was during a dinner with his dad. Dad, a Jewish mobster, makes what I will concede was an insensitive remark about Art’s current state of “slack.” (I’m dredging up that old term from the 90s that refers to the state of doing nothing significant with one’s life.) He says,

“Well, I have to confess that I don’t–I don’t trust you anymore. Art, you’ve become a very strange young man…. I don’t know what to think of you. I love you, of course, but–look what you’re doing this summer. What are you doing this summer? Working at that ridiculous bookstore. I can’t believe you’re satisfied by that kind of job.” (105-6)

I agree that it’s not the kind of thing any of us would be thrilled to hear. But all of a sudden, at the table in this crowded posh restaurant, Art starts bawling. This was, I believe, the third time Art had cried.

So I put it down to work on my database. During that two week hiatus, I gradually forgot about the crying. But, get this, when I pick it up again, I don’t get five pages into it before Art’s crying again. This time he’s at a bar with his new friend, Cleveland:

“I like you, Bechstein,” [Cleveland] said, which made me blush, and I felt tears come to my eyes. “For Christ’s sake, don’t cry, Bechstein. I don’t like you that much. Let’s go get some pickled eggs.” (112)

Cleveland was by far my favorite character. Anyway, I know I’m making too big a deal out of it, but my main problem is that I never once felt that the circumstances warranted tears. I mean, in that bar scene, why? (Okay, they’d been drinking all night–it’s quite possible he’s blubberingly drunk.) I just don’t get it. Give me some reason why he’s crying, no matter how petty it might be, and swear I’ll buy it.

Still though, I won’t judge the novel by this one minor irritation. Chabon is, honestly, a genius with words. Here’s an example, taken just before Art cries in the bar:

Cleveland and I drank until the bar closed. It was a hot night, and the ceiling fans ruffled our hair and tore the cigarette smoke into little scraps. (111)

What a great description. I just love the way he builds these sentences. The ending made me pleasantly uncomfortable and certainly made me question some of my own beliefs. I think now I might go exchange some old books at Half Price for a copy of his newest one, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. I think that would be a nice contrast, going from his first novel to his most recent.

Anyway, try it, I dare you. It’s quick a read, unless you put it down for two weeks.