If one were to gereralise, one would probably say that in great American fictions, there are two time periods and settings that dominate above all others. The first is the civil war, the second the Great Depression. And if one can make such a statement without sounding too weird, I'm a big fan of Depression-era (and Jazz Age) fiction. Steinbeck, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, not to mention Lewis and Warren, who I've added to my repertoire this year. If there's such thing as a Golden Age of American fiction, that may well be it.
Set in Albany, New York, towards the end of the 1930s, William Kennedy's Ironweed is most comparable to Steinbeck from the above list. Though written 50 years later, it certainly evokes the period admirably, chronicling the day-to-day struggles for existence of two hobos. Down on their luck, without homes, jobs, it follows the simple things thay have to do to earn a buck or put a roof over their head for a night.
The realisation of Francis, the protagonist, is the book's main charm. Middle aged and beaten down by circumstances, he maintains a sense of honour and a tender care for his companion Helen. He strives to the best he can, turning a blind eye where he has to, but determining to do his best by her, this sense of purpose perhaps being what drives him on. Without it, without the desire to pay his debts, it would be easy to see how he could simply give up. But his silent resolve, not doing anything amazing, yet with a quiet courage and dignity to it is the heartbeat of the book and one that resonates with every pulse.
Book number: 80
Title: Ironweed
Author: William Kennedy
Category: Pulitzer Prize winners
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