Dennis & Dutch

I read two books recently, back to back, and as dissimilar as they are, what they had in common was voice.  Dennis Lehane’s World Gone By, from 2015, and Elmore Leonard’s The Hot Kid, 2005.  I’d never read either book before, clearly an oversight.  I must have been looking in the other direction.  I’ve also never thought of Lehane and Leonard as being much alike, as writers.  Not that they’re unalike, completely, but they’re very individual. 

Here’s what.  Both novels are period pieces, World Gone By the 1940s of wartime Tampa, The Hot Kid the tail-end of the Roaring 20s, and the rise of celebrity gangsters like Dillinger and Pretty Boy Floyd.  Lehane’s book is the third in the Coughlin trilogy, and if you know the back story, you won’t be surprised by black comedy or the heartbreak of Fate.  Leonard’s book isn’t exactly a sequel, but his hero is the son of a Marine blown up when the Maine goes down in Havana harbor – witnessed in Cuba Libre, from 1998. 

There’s a natural process of myth-making in both novels, slightly more self-conscious in the Leonard, because some of the boneheads in his story are trying to manufacture themselves as public enemies, and make the front page – Joe Coughlin, in World Gone By, is trying to live down his previous lifetimes.  The Hot Kid is relaxed, and sort of ballad-like, which makes a certain sense, when you’re reminded Woody Guthrie wrote a song about Pretty Boy Floyd, and turned him into a Robin Hood of the Dust Bowl, but Leonard’s book isn’t romantic, even if some of the supporting cast are fueled by romantic delusion.  Lehane’s book is melancholy, but that’s a different thing, nostalgia it ain’t.  Joe Coughlin understands the distinction. 

The word I want to avoid here is elegaic.  Neither of these guys is composing a swan song.  And whatever’s going on is very much of the moment.  All the same, the voice they’re using is what you might call the Epic Familiar.  I know I’ve tried to explain this previously, as a narrative method.  It’s the voice Jim Harrison uses, in Legends of the Fall, or Larry McMurtry, in Lonesome Dove.  Maybe, to a degree, T.H. White, in The Once and Future King.  I think it imposes itself – or you can’t avoid it – because of the largeness of story.  You scale up; you fall into cadences that evoke the Homeric.  Interestingly, you don’t hear those echoes in Don Winslow’s current City trilogy, which is drawn directly from the Iliad and the Aeneid.  He keeps it intimate.  It’s an intentional choice, and I think in Winslow’s case, more a matter of dialing it down.  Dialing it up, is what Lehane and Leonard are doing.

Lehane has done it before.  Mystic River has that quality, of seeing the characters against a horizon line.  But in Leonard’s case, less characteristically.  Even going back to his earlier Western stories, you see him not glamorize the bad guys, and even less so the good guys.  “3:10 to Yuma,” or Valdez Is Coming.  Not that Leonard’s characters, or Lehane’s, don’t rise to the occasion, and bring the Furies home to roost, but they don’t posture, or turn to see how they look in profile.  Their lack of self-consciousness is in part why they appear heroic.  But in Classic times, if we look at Hector or Achilles, they’re actually defined by submitting to Fate.  The heroes in Homer are too well aware of destiny, and fated meetings.

Achilles is offered the choice, also.  To die young, and have undying glory, or to live into old age, and sit by the hearth, to be forgotten by the sons of men.  We know which fate he chooses.  You could contrast Joe Coughlin, in World Gone By, and Carl Webster, in The Hot Kid, by pointing out that Carl is young, and tempted by fame, while Joe’s been there, and done that, and knows better.  They’re not overly familiar, or generic, but like Homer, on the windy plains of Troy, we know the landscape, we see the figures, thrown into relief along the horizon, the contesting wills, the naked warriors.  And the sisters, spinning out the threads, as pitiless as bronze.