In theory, this should be the perfect
Nicholson Baker novel, because it combines Baker’s great analytical
love of literature (like in his criminally underrated memoir U and
I) with his rigorously intelligent storytelling (like the sublime
The Mezzanine). But The Anthologist, the story of minor
poet Paul Chowder and his inability to write an introduction to his
upcoming anthology of poetry, instead feels half-baked.
Some of Chowder’s procrastinatory babble about poets and poetry
shines with Baker’s incisive thoughtfulness:
At some point you have to set aside snobbery and what you think is
culture and recognize that any random episode of Friends is
probably better, more uplifting for the human spirit, than
ninety-nine percent of the poetry or drama or fiction or history ever
published.
And much of it—especially the bits involving Chowder’s
ex-girlfriend and cutesy asides about daily life, like his “farty”
episodes after eating Caesar salads—is basically a waste of time.
On the other hand, The Anthologist contains at least three
excellent essays about the use and practice of poetry, and occasionally
Baker’s newfound humanitarian streak (let’s be brutally honest here:
The man was a bit of a cold fish until A Box of Matches)
sings out in all its glory. Chowder unleashes some excellent
meditations on anthologies, too—the concept that a poet doesn’t
exist until he is anthologized, the idea of an anthology of perfect
word choices by poets:
sometime
—Thomas Wyatt
Or:
quiet
—Sir Walter Raleigh
But these are extravagant embellishments on a maudlin, uninspiring
story, which makes this novel a must-read only for die-hard Baker
enthusiasts.