Product Description

The Anthologist is narrated by Paul Chowder -- a once-in-a-while-published kind of poet who is writing the introduction to a new anthology of poetry. He's having a hard time getting started because his career is floundering, his girlfriend Roz has recently left him, and he is thinking about the great poets throughout history who have suffered far worse and deserve to feel sorry for themselves. He has also promised to reveal many wonderful secrets and tips and tricks about poetry, and it looks like the introduction will be a little longer than he'd thought.

What unfolds is a wholly entertaining and beguiling love story about poetry: from Tennyson, Swinburne, and Yeats to the moderns (Roethke, Bogan, Merwin) to the staff of The New Yorker, what Paul reveals is astonishing and makes one realize how incredibly important poetry is to our lives. At the same time, Paul barely manages to realize all of this himself, and the result is a tenderly romantic, hilarious, and inspired novel.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #3318 in Books
• Published on: 2009-09-08
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Hardcover
• 256 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9781416572442
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
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From Publishers Weekly
Starred Review. In Baker's lovely 10th novel, readers are introduced to Paul Chowder, a study in failure, at a very dark time in his life. He has lost the two things that he values most: his girlfriend, Roz, and his ability to write. The looming introduction to an anthology of poems he owes a friend, credit card debt and frequent finger injuries aren't helping either. Chowder narrates in a professorial and often very funny stream of consciousness as he relates his woes and shares his knowledge of poetry, and though a desire to learn about verse will certainly make the novel more accessible and interesting, it isn't a prerequisite to enjoying it. Chowder's interest in poetry extends beyond meter and enjambment; alongside discussions of craft, he explores the often sordid lives of poets (Poe, Tennyson and Rothke are just some of the poets who figuratively and literally haunt Chowder). And when he isn't missing Roz or waxing on poetics, he busies himself with a slow and strangely compelling attempt at cleaning up his office. Baker pulls off an original and touching story, demonstrating his remarkable writing ability while putting it under a microscope. (Sept.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

From The New Yorker
Paul Chowder is a free-verse poet of some repute who has compiled an anthology titled “Only Rhyme” but can’t manage to bang out the introduction. His struggle has sent his girlfriend, Roz, packing, and we can see why he’s no fun to live with. On the page, though, he’s an erudite, unpretentious, and often hilarious companion who mentions Ludacris in the same line as Kipling, and who compares anthologists to “that blond bitch-goddess on ‘Project Runway.’ ” While Paul’s peregrinations, which recall Baker’s “U and I” but with poetry on the pedestal instead of Updike, are a textbook case of avoidance, they are also an earnest exploration of poetic rhythm and what it has to do with baby talk, music, crossword puzzles—and his longing for Roz. “Only Rhyme” began with Paul’s impulse to collect, but it ends up meaning “Only connect.”

From The Washington Post
From The Washington Post's Book World/washingtonpost.com Reviewed by David Kirby Poet Paul Chowder, the narrator of Nicholson Baker's "The Anthologist," has a vision of himself on a ladder: Above him are such recent poets laureate as Billy Collins and Ted Kooser, and below is a gaggle of energetic young writers. Off to the side, critic Helen Vendler films their ascent from her dirigible. The climb is steep, the air is cold, and it has taken Chowder years to reach the ladder's middle. "What if I just loosened my grip," he thinks, "and fell to one side, and just -- fffshhhooooow. Let go. Would that be such a bad thing?" Mildly depressed Chowder behaves the way a lot of people think poets should. But he isn't suicidal. He simply thinks of his own self-inflicted death the way he thinks of everything else, and I do mean everything else. Like characters in such earlier Baker novels as "The Mezzanine" and "Room Temperature," Chowder isn't afraid of the trivial. Indeed, in this witty satire of literary culture, he confers importance on just about whatever pops into his mind by letting his thoughts billow and accumulate. As he natters on about the poor quality of today's brooms or what he'd do if he had a ponytail ("which I don't"), he grows on the reader the way Humbert Humbert or Holden Caulfield does. Or Stuart Smalley, the weepy optimist Al Franken played on "Saturday Night Live." Paul Chowder is endearingly goofy, in other words, like other fictional poets: Percy Dovetonsils, say, from the old "Ernie Kovacs Show," the martini-sipping versifier who lisped "Leslie the Mean Animal Trainer." Problem is, Chowder isn't goofy enough. He's too linear to be a decent poet. He thinks he'll turn his life around if he can just write the introduction to an anthology called "Only Rhyme": He'll be paid $7,000 and possibly win back his estranged sweetheart, Roz, who's had it with his dithering. What's odd about the project (other than that inflated fee, which is certain proof that "The Anthologist" isn't based on actual publishing practices) is that while Chowder is promoting rhyming poetry, he himself is a free-verse poet, or was, now that his publishing days are over. And his favorite poets -- Mary Oliver, W.S. Merwin, Elizabeth Bishop -- rely more on metaphor than rhyme. Having forgotten how poetry works, he obsesses on its formal qualities. In true Baker style, pages of analysis ensue, replete with charts and even musical annotations. Readers are likely to think either, "You know, I kind of like this guy" or "What a chowderhead." With the concentration of a mohel, Chowder focuses on the mechanics of poetry and neglects what Emerson called "lustres," sparky images and aphorisms that pierce the seal set on the human spirit by time and care. "A snowflake will go through a pine board, if projected with force enough," Emerson wrote, and while meter may account for the force in much poetry, the snowflake is just as necessary. Everyone has a poem-making mind, though, including Chowder: He observes that the grapevines and the brambles in his back yard have "a little gentlemen's agreement going, like the railroad companies and the real-estate speculators in the old days, whereby they progressed together up the hill and into the yard." And there's a mourning dove "who blows through his thumbs to make that sound." That's not poetry, but that's how poems begin. It's the way a child thinks, but Paul Chowder is all grown-up. "Why do I," he asks himself, "who can't make a couplet worth a roasted peanut these days, want poetry to do what I can't make it do?" Art is the deliberate transformed by the accidental, and Chowder proves that grown-ups don't like accidents. Well, they like happy accidents. And he has one: At a conference in Switzerland, a stranger asks him how poems are written, and out of nowhere Chowder recalls a car trip in which tree shadows splash over a car's windshield. Bingo! That one little image jump-starts his versifying mind, and on the plane home he writes 23 poems. In his kitchen again, he sits down and writes the introduction to "Only Rhyme." He asks Roz to move back in. Suddenly, things are looking up. Soon, Chowder is having another vision: "September comes, and sleepy undergraduates all over the country are walking their diagonal paths to writing classes with Only Rhyme zipped away in their backpacks." At last, he'll have power and influence, not to mention royalties. But you student poets out there, remember what Paul Chowder learns only at the end: A lot of poems rhyme, but the great ones don't only rhyme.
Copyright 2009, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.

Customer Reviews

Seductive, educational, moving, masterly
Baker conducts a tour of English-language poetry that barely overlapped the one course I took in college, defining terms and citing examples heretofore unfamiliar, but sifted through the persona of his rambling, engaging narrator. In a way I was Baker's ideal reader for this novel.

I'd appreciated his gift for minute, vivid (poetic?) observations ever since "The Mezzanine," but I feel less squeamish about his nerdiness when it's presented to me in the guise of a fictional narrator. We can condescend to Paul Chowder, a self-absorbed, isolated middle-aged poet, while enjoying his opinions on rhyme, his observations of the world around him and finally being moved by the pain of his separation from the woman known only as Roz. So having just finished the last chapter, I'm eager to find out more about poets Louise Bogan, Charles Simic and James Fenton without first needing an antidote to Baker's prissiness.

At the same time I was impressed with the subtle cues Baker provides to reflect his protagonist's hurt at Roz's departure, cues the import of which even Chowder is unaware. The breezy narrator is made to betray his state of mind through small acts and thoughts, making especially poignant what might be a merely routine plot device. Thus the character becomes fully dimensional.

Baker is masterly in intertwining his fictional narrative with observations on poetry that may, or may not, be strictly his. In fact I'm sure they're not 100% his own, and that gives them a freedom to be simplistic or warped or limited in a way that I'm sure Baker wouldn't have wanted to fly under his own name. But his discussion of various poets and their methods doesn't require that we agree, only that we follow his train of thought--and he makes it easy for us to do so--while engaging us with the subject. The novel is, finally, an easy and quick read, much like the short lyric poems that it particularly extols, though, like those poems, it has much more heft than its ease leads us to expect.

Poetry lovers, rejoice!
Here comes a book for those who exult in word play and delight in the beauty of phrases that trip off the tongue.

Here is a volume that savors and celebrates verse as a many splendored thing. Here is a book that zestfully reminds us of the bond between poetry and music: meter, rhythm, cadence. Here is a book that delves into the fleshy history of poetry, especially the counterbalance between rhyme and free verse.

Here is a novel that bursts with vignettes about Alfred Lord Tennyson, Christina Rossetti, Mina Loy, Theodore Roethke, Sara Teasdale, Edgar Allen Poe, James Wright, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and so on. In fact, the title character -- the narrator, the protagonist, the anthologist -- is so caught up in poetry and poets that he occasionally indulges in thinking/imagining he's almost rubbed shoulders with one of these deceased greats.

Happily for us who relish full exercise of the creative mind, Nicholson Baker isn't one of those authors who writes the same book again and again. His questing, restless brain treats his readers to a variety of subjects using both fiction and non-fiction. I still have the paperback copy of The Mezzanine I bought years ago, and it is still one of my favorite reads. Now The Anthologist: A Novel, a book I've been eagerly awaiting, has arrived and I'm happy to report it is everything I'd hoped. Baker, the astute observer and prolific sharer of life's minutiae, sets us squarely into the summer of one Paul Chowder, a poet apparently once on the short list for the post of Poet Laureate of the United States. It seems only fitting to introduce Chowder and his predicament with a little original four-beat verse -- said form he proclaims to be "the soul of English poetry":

Paul Chowder suffers writer's block;
He'd rather swat a shuttlecock,
or take a walk, or nail a floor,
or dish some poets' tragic lore
than finish his anthology
and pen more free-verse poetry.

Procrastinating's costing Paul --
Stopping him from scaling his wall;
His pretty lady Roz is gone,
his funds he's almost all withdrawn.

Too aimlessly, or so it seems,
His day he spends on scansion schemes
And dishing Poe, Whitman, Loy, Pound,
Lowell, Bishop, and more renown'd.

What, we ask, will become of Paul?
Like Millay, will he tumble'n fall?
Or will his mundane, cautious life
Do more than cut him with a knife:
Lay fertile ground for fresh verse "plums"?
Dispatch, too, his ling'ring doldrums?

Paul Chowder is a bit of a shlub, by his own account. Actually, he comes across as a rather loveable, lumpy, middle-aged guy who's at loose ends. He putters, often displays a short attention span, gabs and gossips (at least to us, on paper) and can get a little bawdy. Since Roz, his long-time live-in girlfriend left, he's slept with his books. Professionally, he just cannot apply himself to churning out the forty-page introduction to his anthology, ONLY RHYME. And, in fact, he, sensitive soul he often is, is conflicted about who, for space reasons, he had to leave out of his anthology. He wonders whether this reluctance to exclude some deserving poets is fueling his writer's block.

If it were not for Paul's slump, he wouldn't be addressing us. He would be diligently adding page after page to his formal introduction, or he would be writing his "plums." (Paul calls non-rhyming verse "plums" and he explains more about that in his ponderings.) Instead, as Paul himself states in the opening paragraph, "...I'm going to try to tell you everything I know. Well, not everything I know, because a lot of what I know, you know. But everything I know about poetry. All my tips and tricks and woes and worries are going to come tumbling out before you."

One can imagine that Paul Chowder is a considerable part of Baker who may not write the same book again and again, but whose desire to investigate and discuss a myriad of topics often leads him to write works with a loose major theme and plenty of elbow room for "digressions." THE ANTHOLOGIST is perfect for unleashing that propensity. It is a wise, funny, somewhat unorthodox primer for poets and would-be-poets that arguably teaches as much or more than starchy textbooks.

This goes on my Top Books of 2009 list. I hope you'll find it as delightful as I have. Oh, and maybe write a few "plums" or rhymes of your own while you are spending time with Paul Chowder....

"Why did I, who can't make a couplet worth a roasted peanut these days, want poetry to do what I can't make it do?"
(4.5 stars) The sly humor of the cover, with its luscious plum, sets the tone for this rich, iconoclastic novel about poetry and the writing life. Paul Chowder, the speaker, has achieved modest success by writing "plums...That's what I call a poem that doesn't rhyme." He has just compiled an anthology of poetry, though choosing the poems for the anthology was, for him, "like [being] that blond bitch-goddess on Project Runway," and he must now write the forty-page introduction. His publisher is desperate for it, and Chowder has writer's block.

Regarding himself as "study in failure," Chowder contemplates his life. Roz, his love for the past eight years, has finally had enough of his dithering and has left him; he is in debt; his house needs repairs; and he cannot focus on anything long enough to act. As he thinks about his unwritten introduction, he skitters from perceptive comments about poetry and the creative life to mundane annoyances, juxtaposing unlikely subjects which keep the reader surprised and entertained. In two successive sentences, for example, he remarks that "You have to suffer to be a human being who can help people understand suffering. I have a mouse in my kitchen."

In a voice so "human" he sounds like an alterego for author Nicholson Baker, Chowder demystifies poetry--and plums--making often hilarious comments about the structure of language, the history of poetry, the lives of famous poets, and his own struggles. His free-flowing, not-quite-stream-of-consciousness style allows him to connect contemporary culture (and the reader) with the most serious academic subjects: "Friends," he thinks is probably better, more uplifting for the human spirit, than ninety-nine percent of the poetry or drama or fiction or history ever published."

Not satiric and not anti-academic, so much as "anti-ponderous" and "anti-pompous," Chowder is a true believer in the importance of good poetry and its ability to connect directly with our essential human nature, conveying unique visions of the world in a unique "music." His emphasis on rhyme is ironic, however, since he, himself, has had more success with free verse. He sees the rhythm of poetry as "a strolling rhythm. Or a dancing rhythm. A gavotte, a minuet, even a waltz," with inner quadruplets, the four-beat line being "the soul of English poetry." He illustrates the various meters, and he sets some poems to music, providing the musical notation. Poetry, in essence, is something that must be felt and heard as music, and the reader must join in its song if it is to be effective.

Chock full of "a-ha" moments, the novel is a treasure trove of information and observation about poetry and poets, told with robust humor and an awareness that, for many readers of this book, dead poets may be more interesting for their lives than for their writing. The novel entertains on every page, and the author is constantly aware that his audience is not a college classroom. As Paul Chowder (through Nicholson Baker) emphasizes the sounds of poetry and their parallels in music, dance, and even baby-talk, he provides an accessible "hook" for readers who may not have read poetry recently, and by demystifying it, he encourages contemporary readers to discover or rediscover its joys. n Mary Whipple