Last night I went to the National Press Club to see John Irving read from his new book, "Until I Find You." It was really cool seeing John Irving live and in person, but the evening was not without it's oddities.

I've been a fan of Irving's since my early teens. Back then, I was definitely drawn to his knack for weaving strange sexual threads into his plots, which were themselves plenty strange to begin with. A mother killed by a foul ball. A boy conceived by a paralyzed soldier with an indefatigable erection. And, of course, at the heart of it all there always seemed to be a boy who had a close relationship to his mother, a distant or absent father, and who was fated to achieve something great. This was good fuel for my 16-year old brain. This was material I could sink my teeth into. And I did, reading every novel of Irving's up to "A Son of the Circus," which was published in 1994.

I have to admit that when Irving came out to the podium, I felt a momentary feeling of shock followed by an irresistible urge to applaud. I think I even heard some people in the audience gasp when they saw him. It's that knee-jerk reaction you feel when seeing somebody famous up-close whose work has had a profound effect on you. There's a certain amazement that comes over you for a few moments. This was evinced best by the two ridiculous women who introduced him and flittered and fluttered around like schoolgirls at the prom fawning over the quarterback. I felt embarrassed for them and I think their nervous introduction helped ground the rest of the people in the room.

Irving reads eloquently, the way you would imagine his prose should be read. His delivery is quiet and precise, and you can detect a faint New England accent on more than a few syllables. His voice has a slight roughness to it, like a fine-grain sandpaper, perhaps a 500- or 600-grit. You wouldn't use it for heavy projects, like removing layers of paint from wood, but you might use it to smooth a blemish off an antique table. He's not what you expect a writer to look like, either. He's typical wrestler: short with a wide, but solid, frame. At 55, he's still somebody with whom you'd think twice about picking a fight.

Now, while I thoroughly enjoyed the event, there were a couple of things about it that seemed somewhat 'off.' First of all, Irving prefaced and concluded his reading with a surprisingly thorough synopsis of the book. This was entertaining in it's own way; however, he told so much about the story through these bookend remarks that if I had just purchased the 800-page hardback at $25 I might have been slightly pissed off. Irving's preface and epilogue to his reading, complete with thematic explanations and character outlines, could have been sent directly to the publishers of Cliff's Notes or Reader's Digest. I thought it was funny that a writer known for his long-windedness had actually abbreviated his novel into an author's version of the 'elevator pitch.'

Another odd thing: the selection Irving chose to read had an over-abundance of the word 'penis' in it. Most people reading this blog know me and know I'm not a prude, but having John Irving drop the 'p-bomb' at least two-dozen times in the course of the evening became a tad uncomfortable, even for me. This had less to do with the word itself as it did with the delivery of the word, which was read with the same eloquent, proper tone as the rest of the selection, much the way a doctor might read from a medical textbook about some odd discoloration or birthmark on the very same organ. It definitely had a shrinking effect, not unlike a cold shower.

The evening wasn't all strange. My favorite part came after Irving finished his reading and talked some about the writing process itself. Some things he said that I found interesting:

• He has no choice in his subject matter. It just is.
• While his characters aren't always autobiographical in so much as they are based on real people, he thinks there is something autobiographical in the fact that he keeps inventing them.
• He writes all his novels from end to beginning. He must know the end and the beginning before he can begin. He approaches each chapter in the same way: end, beginning, fill in the middle. I thought this was fascinating if for no other reason than it is so different from the way I approach any writing project.
• It took him 7 years to write his latest book, and a couple of years were just spent outlining ideas and discovering the story before he even put pen to paper.
• I learned that a 'Rose of Jericho' tattoo was a rose with a vagina hidden somewhere in it.

As I said, I haven't read anything by Irving in a long time. I'm not completely sure why. It's wrong to say I 'outgrew' him. He is a master of language and, simply put, you can't 'outgrow' him. I guess the only thing to say is that my taste has changed. I blame it on the Internet! (I'm only partly kidding.) I think the main thing is that Irving's prose has become a little too polished for me. It makes me feel less like I'm reading an edgy novel by a modern author and more like I'm reading something from a time that is not my own.

Update:

John Irving appeared on the Daily Show today, August 17th. Starting sometime tomorrow, you should be able to see it here for at least the next week or two. After that, it may get relegated to the archives.

Update 12.05.2006

In case you're curious what a Rose of Jericho tattoo looks like, it's probably something like this:



A reader forwarded me this great pic. (Thanks F!)

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