Ann Quin, Tripticks (1972)

SIGH. OKAY, I'VE READ ANN QUIN'S LAST NOVEL. WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME, BLOOD?

I suppose you could argue that each of her novels represents a significant departure from the last one, but this may be the most radical of all. Specifically, here we have a buzzy, caffeinated, postmodern...text, jittering here and there in what often feels like a Burroughs-esque cut-up kind of way. There are actual pop-culture references here, which there never were in any of her previous books. It feels like Quin is writing in a very self-consciously "American" idiom.

So what's it all about, then? Well you may ask, although, as I may have indicated above when I called it a "text," it's an open question as to whether we should really call it a "novel." Well, okay, no it isn't, not really, the form being astonishingly Protean, but there's not much to talk about, plot-wise. Dude's going on a sort-of road trip through a surreal America, chasing after his ex-wife (or his "No. 1 X-Wife," as he calls her) and her lover with plans to murder one or both of them, OR MAYBE THEY'RE AFTER HIM, whatever. There are plenty of digressions--it's nothing but digressions, really--to bits about his former in-laws and his relationships, notably with his second wife and another woman--and a whole lotta nonsense. And, you know, satire of the sort you'd expect in a thing like this, of consumerism, religion, radical politics, etc. Also, there are amusingly crude illustrations by someone named Carol Annand. And there you go.

You know, I would LOVE to be able to say that here, at last, we have Quin's masterpiece; a novel that justifies her entire career. So...do you think I'm going to say that? What kind of odds do you give me? Look. Sorry. I'm really sorry. This whole thing has turned out to be rather dispiriting, but I think Quin's obscurity is due to the fact that she's not a very good writer. I'm sorry she committed suicide--that just makes the whole thing even more depressing--but there you have it. Tripticks is vaguely amusing in brief spurts, but as a whole it's just tiresome, and it feels very awkwardly self-conscious in its would-be "hipness." The satire is toothless. I don't recommend it.

For reference, here's how I'd rate each of Quin's novels, on a five-star scale:

Berg ***

Three **

Passages **1/2

Tripticks **1/2

Not a great record. So why did I read them all? This is a perfectly legitimate question that is extremely difficult to answer. I'm aware that I look a little perverse here. The initial impetus for reading them was pretty compelling: a little-known author writes four cultishly-adored (in some quarters) experimental novels and then kills herself? That's something I have to check out. And then as for the actual reading process: well, Berg showed promise, Three could've just been an aberration, and after Passages it would've felt weird not to read the last one.

The whole situation is probably also analogous to the way I used to play bad RPGs because, hey, I like RPGs; therefore, I must like every RPG. QED! I like avant-garde fiction; therefore...

"Hey, you asshole! Where do you get off comparing Ann Quin to Lufia: The Ruins of Lore? You say you like fiction that challenges your boundaries, but that's not really true. You just like fiction that looks boundary-challenging within very narrow parameters, and then when you encounter someone like Quin who actually challenges you, you get all whiny and petulant about it! I'm through with you!"

Well...I don't love your tone, but there may be a germ of a possible point there: I like to flatter myself that I'm capable of appreciating any legitimately-good literature, except possibly Henry James. But we always say about this or that novel "this book isn't for everyone;" why shouldn't there be novels that just aren't for me. It's a bit much to look at the positive reviews of Quin's work on goodreads and say "sorry, your opinion is objectively wrong, and you are objectively dumb." You can do that with something like Twilight (although in that case you're punching down so hard it kinda makes you look like a dick), but it's fair to say that Quin's fans aren't dumb. Still. I dunno. There are a lot of areas in this world where I'm inexperienced or just don't know what I'm doing; literature is not one of them. In fact, it's the area where I'm by far the most confident in my expertise. God, that sounded douchey. But the point is, that means that I'm confident enough to assert that Quin--though certainly not talentless--isn't really very good. I'm not saying that, if I had a face-to-face talk with a fan, they mightn't be able to make me concede that I'm wrong. But I doubt it. Overall, I would maybe-possibly recommend Berg in a lukewarm way, and the others not at all. A blogger named GeoX, who changed his handle to XoeG, came to a review site intending to pan an author...