Volume 4, No. 1 November 7, 2003
Writer plays with pronouns A Review By Hannah Pittard There are books that tell stories and books that push the boundaries of storytelling. “I.” by Stephen Dixon manages to do both. Metaphysical in a way that would make John Donne and fans of the poet’s “A Hymn to God the Father” proud, “I.” is the story of a writer raising two young daughters and caring for a wife inflicted with an increasingly debilitating disease. Dubbing himself ambiguously but deliberately “I.,” the narrator tells his own story in an informal and often bluntly honest third person. Chapters alternate between drawn-out fantasies of a life that might have been, the crippling effects of writer’s block and the current condition of his life. With each page, the reader advances more and more into the anger, frustration and tenderness of this man who is trapped simultaneously by a failing memory and memories that won’t leave him. As important as the story is the method by which Dixon relates the narrator/writer’s failures and successes. “I.” is deliberately and achingly self-conscious — all for the purpose of conveying as accurately as possible the thought-process of a struggling writer/husband/father. It is as if Dixon is writing the entire book while standing one step higher than his hero — we read not only what his hero, the writer, is writing but also what the writer is doing, thinking, regretting and feeling. We are privy to those thoughts and frustrations to which readers are rarely made privy. Typically, a book reveals only the finished product and not the tortures and sacrifices that went into to writing the book. “I.” spares none of the painful details and is made all the more rich for their inclusion. There are readers for whom “I.” will seem unnecessarily frustrating and confusing. For those willing to be swept away by the power of a writer willing not only to tell a story but also to challenge the standards of storytelling, this book will prove a welcome find. “I.” is available through McSweeneys.net.
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