The Bookworm: 'The Mezzanine'

The Mezzanine, by Nicholson Baker. 135 pages. Grove Press. 1988.

The clean-background trick, which I had come upon when I was eight or so, applied not only to things I owned, such as a group of fossil brachiopods I set against a white shirt cardboard, but also to things in museums: curators arranged geodes, early American eyeglasses, and boot scrapers against black or gray velvet backgrounds because anytime you set some detail of the world off that way, it was able to take on its true stature as an object of attention. (p. 38)

I joke that I’m a masochist, but I often wonder if there is a kernel of truth to it. What else could explain my unyielding work ethic, constant need to be productive, and unhealthy avoidance of needed relaxation and downtime? It has to be because I enjoy the mental and physical anguish it inflicts.

But I know that is not true. Not only do I not enjoy it, I can draw a line in the sand that I will not cross—which is what I did on page 72 of Nicholson Baker’s The Mezzanine. Halfway through a footnote continued from page 71, I became so fed up that I said aloud, “I can’t read this anymore. I’m done with this shit.” Reading the rest of the book, I realized, was tantamount to torture—and I’m not into torturing myself.

Recommended to me by the Scandinavian Buccaneer way back when I was in college, The Mezzanine is about a man ascending an escalator after lunch and all the thoughts running through his mind. That’s it. Carrying a book and a CVS bag, he walks into the building where he works; thinks about shoelaces, escalators, and milk cartons; approaches the escalator; thinks about olive sandwiches, shoelaces again, and escalators again; gets on the escalator; and ponders more about shoelaces, escalators, and the day he discovered how to apply deodorant fully clothed. He presumably reaches the mezzanine and returns to work after more rumination about shoelaces, escalators, and whatnot.

Wow.

I could not do it. I could not read the rest of it. I like detail, but The Mezzanine is minutiae overload. On top of that, the writing does not click for me; it lacks an engaging rhythm and flow. Yes, there are amazing, thought-provoking lines, and it is hard not to laugh at how crazy but piercing many of the character’s thoughts are. But the interesting parts are buried under a mountain of insignificant detail. I lost interest quickly because the words have no impact and make no impression. Perhaps they would prove to be significant in the end—one review blurb mentioned that The Mezzanine is a “gimmick novel”—but I do not have the patience to find out. It’s interesting, but painfully tedious and boring. It depressed me because I felt like I was making no progress toward the end.

According to the synopsis on the back cover, “At first glance, The Mezzanine appears to be a book about nothing. In reality, it is a brilliant celebration of things, simultaneously demonstrating the value of reflection and the importance of everyday human experiences.” I’m all about reflection, appreciating and acknowledging the small things in life, and relishing the sometimes-unexpected memories that everyday life recalls, so I can easily identify with the unnamed main character. But since I already live The Mezzanine, it does not interest me. (I feel like there is both irony and revealing symbolism in that thought.)

The Mezzanine is fiction with footnotes. Footnotes and fiction. Those are two things that do not go together for me. I’m sure there are many people out there who like fiction with footnotes, but I am not one of them. The footnotes are another reason why The Mezzanine lacks rhythm. I did not like how the footnotes forced me to break away from the main text to read a related tangent. In one chapter, the character thinks about how, as a teenager, he purposely left his shoelaces untied so they would get caught in the escalator steps. That thought leads to a four-page-long footnote that meanders from ice skating to the wearing of vinyl records. A four-page-long footnote! I should have quit there.

Way back when the Scandinavian Buccaneer recommended The Mezzanine, I read another Baker novella instead (probably because The Mezzanine was already checked out at the library). I don’t recall the title, but it revolved around a single event: a man bottle feeding his infant child. I also don’t remember that book being United Nations–condemned torture, which is why I finally decided to read The Mezzanine.

If you like drowning in minutiae, The Mezzanine is for you. If not, avoid it. I can probably count on one hand the number of books I have quit reading out of frustration, and The Mezzanine is one of them.

Will I ever return and finish it? If I do, it will not be anytime soon.