One More Thing Page 21

  J. C. Audetat was a different person now. His light had been replaced by a glow. He was forty-four years old and lived far from the center of this activity, in a house near a lake with the loveliest person he had met on his adventures and their two-year-old son. He had chosen both Tennessee and Aurelia in large part for the sounds of their names, and his lifelong trust in the poetic had not led him astray; his life was soaked in brunette tones and accidental music, and he was, for the most part, a happy person.

  He took walks most mornings and most evenings on a ragged path that led from his house to the lake and around it and back, letting his mind drift in similarly ragged circles. He walked the path alone, except for a few welcome occasions when he was joined by the one neighbor he knew, a kind and curious man obsessed with the prospect of moon travel whom Audetat came to like and one afternoon helped to compose an unsolicited editorial on the subject for a local newspaper.

  Once in a while, Audetat came across something that made him want to write—a flash of ambition, or a filament of beauty that momentarily longed for replication. If he still felt that way when he returned to the house, he would write a note to himself describing in the sparest of terms what the thought had been.

  But, luckily or not, the need to write always went away before he felt the need to really do anything about it.

  One day, it didn’t.

  One day, on a walk around the lake like every other, Audetat kicked a rock along the path and then, for no reason he could pinpoint other than that this idea had been stalking him patiently for a long time and waiting for precisely the right moment to ambush him, Audetat was jumped by an excitement-coated despair that shouted at him that this daily life—all he could ever have hoped for, as a different, calmer, narrower voice in his head enumerated reasons for every morning—was not a reward but a procrastination; the loveliest and lightest procrastination that anyone could ever have invented for him, but a procrastination nonetheless.

  He rushed back inside and set out to find something that would quiet the voice that had just grabbed him and shaken him, almost literally.

  He knew he wasn’t a poet anymore. Still, while he didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say, he knew exactly how it should sound. He knew the acoustics of his age, he knew the precise echo that greatness made within it, and now, as much as he loved—finally—everything in his life, all he wanted was to hear that sound. He needed that sound to pull him out of where he was now, not because he didn’t love where he was now, but because he did, so much, that he needed to find out if he could make a sound that could compete with it.

  “He must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees.”

  — THE GREAT GATSBY, F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

  He must have felt that he had lost the world he’d known, that he had finally defaulted on the impossible price of living so long with one dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is, and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world: material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted about, neither by chance nor design … like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding towards him through the once-familiar trees.

  — THE GREAT GATSBY, F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, TRANS. J. C. AUDETAT

  The world took a moment to figure out what it was reading. Then another moment.

  “At first glance, an English-to-English translation of The Great Gatsby would seem to be the very last thing we need. But The Great Gatsby has already been translated many times since its publication: into film by Baz Luhrmann, into life by Jay Z. In this context, Audetat’s translation is not only the most contemporary, but the most faithful.”18

  “As the definitive fable of American success—the real, the imagined, and the imagined-as-real—Gatsby is still inexorably tied to its emblematic author, Francis Scott Fitzgerald, and to its time, the 1920s. This translation of Gatsby is the same book, but with its colors refreshed, its lines reinforced, its themes reshaded. But most important, the novel’s tumultuous and defining romance with the nature of success is now filtered to us not through the experiences of the great literary star of another era, but through the great literary star of ours.”19

  “The Gatsby for our time.”20

  “The timelessness of The Great Gatsby is not evidence that we don’t need this translation—it is proof that we do. We deserve to read this book as effortlessly as the original readers did, without needing to time-travel back to a place of distancingly different idioms and issues. If you want to read the Great Gatsby in 2013, the way that Fitzgerald intended The Great Gatsby be read in 1925—read Audetat’s translation.”21

  “I loved it!”22

  “A landmark insult—not only to Fitzgerald and to Gatsby, but to literature itself.”23

  “A joke. And not a funny one. F.”24

  “The Emperor himself has come before the masses and declared himself naked—and still, people praise his robe?”25

  “Has the world lost its goddamn mind?!”26

  It was the last thing J. C. Audetat wrote, and the last thing he needed to write. He had now said all he had felt the need to say in his particular life. It was nothing that hadn’t been said before, but he had said it all better than it had ever been said in the language of his own time and place.

  Which was, in fact, the only language he knew.

  Audetat stayed at his home, safely surrounded with the rewards that the original mischief of the compromises of his artistic journey had brought him, as the buzzing of the many minds he had touched vibrated incessantly and harmlessly about him, around him, and through him, like radio waves, for the rest of his life.

  It felt like poetry.

  1. Nick Hornby, The Believer.

  2. Janet Maslin, New York Times.

  3. Harold Bloom, Yale Book Review.

  4. Brian Lewis, Men’s Health.

  5. Keith Gessen, N+1.

  6. Junot Díaz, New York Times Book Review.

  7. Frank Rich, New York.

  8. Camille Paglia, Salon.

  9. Dan Chiasson, Harper’s Magazine.

  10. Alan Green, New York Review of Books.

  11. Natasha Vargas-Cooper, The Awl.

  12. Chuck Klosterman, New York Times Book Review.

  13. Lauren Leto, Glamour.

  14. Ed Skoff, The Atlantic.

  15. Lev Grossman, Time.

  16. (reviewer anonymous), Gawker.

  17. Andrew Sullivan, Times Literary Supplement.

  18. Nathan Rabin, The A.V. Club.

  19. Alan Cheuse, NPR.

  20. Tina Brown, The Daily Beast.

  21. Marjorie Garber, Harvard Book Review.

  22. Larry King, larryking.com.

  23. Hector Tobar, Los Angeles Times.

  24. Jeff Giles, Entertainment Weekly.

  25. Andrew Sullivan, Andrewsullivan.com.

  26. Stephen King, private correspondence with Amy Tan.

  Discussion Questions

  • Did you think the book was funny? Why or why not?

  • Did you flip through the book and read the shortest stories first? The author does that, too.

  • What is quantum nonlocality? Be concise.

  • Do you think discussion questions can be unfairly leading sometimes? Why?

  • Who are we supposed to be discussing these questions with?

  • Do you normally have discussions in response to a question that was posed by a person not participating in the discussion? Why or why not?

  • Do you think “why not?” i
s ultimately a better question than “why?”

  • Why or why not?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book developed alongside a series of public readings in front of live audiences. First and above all I want to thank every person who attended one of these readings. You were the most inspiring of motivators and most honest of editors. I loved you and feared you.

  Thanks as well to the staffs of the venues that coordinated these readings: most notably the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in Los Angeles, as well as its counterpart in New York City; and additionally the Last Bookstore in Los Angeles, Vroman’s Bookstore in Pasadena, as well as Shakespeare and Company in Paris.

  A few close and trusted friends read this book at various key stages and offered invaluable suggestions and support. I am deeply grateful and indebted to Jeremy Bronson, Lena Dunham, Steve Jeppson, Josh Lambert, Zara Lisbon, Alina Mankin, John Mayer, Mai-Lan Pham, Keri Pina, Rivka Rossi, Alexandra Ruddy, Brittney Segal, Chess Stetson, Jennifer Stetson, Ava Tramer, and Ricky Van Veen.

  My literary agent, Richard Abate, took me from person-with-pages to author. His advice and insight along the way have been extraordinary.

  My manager, Michael Price, devoted an eye of unmatched dedication and care to this book, from the earliest notions to the final copy edits. He improved every page.

  Tim O’Connell and Robin Desser offered exceptional editorial guidance on matters big and small. Paul Bogaards, Gabrielle Brooks, and the entire team at Knopf/Random House all earn my continuing admiration and gratitude for their unparalleled skill and dedication.

  Years ago, I shared a lunch with the actor John Stamos. While we did not discuss any aspect of this book, I felt that it would be fun to include his name as a surprise for anyone casually scanning this section for names of celebrities.

  My father, William Novak, taught me early and by example that a writer is a perfectly fine thing to be, and that a clear voice is the best kind to aspire to have. His advice on this book was of the highest quality on every level, and the experience of discussing it with him was meaningful on another level altogether. My mother, Linda Novak, provided edits as incisive as anyone’s, as well as encouragement so articulate and persuasive that it didn’t occur to me until months later that she might be biased. My brothers, Jesse Novak and Lev Novak, offered smart suggestions whenever asked, and treasured support whether I asked or not. Keough Novak was no help at all.

  Mindy Kaling gets her own line in the acknowledgments, as previously negotiated by her representatives. Thanks, Mindy. I love you and you’re the best.

  Josh Funk and Hunter Fraser: we haven’t been in touch in years, but you made me feel like the funniest kid in the world. I would stay up late on school nights to write things to try to make you laugh the next day in class, and you inspired the one piece of advice on writing that I’ve ever felt qualified to give: write for the kid sitting next to you.

  A Note About the Author

  Benjamin (B.J.) Novak is a writer and actor best known for his work on the Emmy Award-winning American television series “The Office,” on which he contributed as an actor, writer, director, and executive producer. He is also known for his appearances in films such as Inglourious Basterds and Saving Mr. Banks and for his standup comedy performances. This is his first published collection.

  Like: www.facebook.com/BJNovak

  Follow: @bjnovak

  For more information, please visit www.aaknopf.com