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Living Out the Day: The Moviegoer Turns Fifty

By posted at 6:01 am on August 24, 2011 16

1.
coverCatch-22 has been receiving a lot of press lately for its fiftieth anniversary, and why not? Joseph Heller’s masterpiece has permeated the culture in a way few novels do, its title becoming a catchphrase to readers and non-readers alike.

It also happens to be a very fine book. I certainly thought so when I read it at St. Louis University High, where it had become something of a rite of passage for juniors thanks to the efforts of Mr. Jim Raterman, whose energetic classes were known to include impersonations of B-25 bombers perfected by his upbringing near Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton. Heller’s genius for encasing a humanistic tale in absurdist farce made the book endlessly appealing to a bunch of seventeen-year-olds whose young intellects were fermenting in an all-male prep school environment that put a high valuation on the quick reply, the clever pun, and the high-minded non sequitur. Many of us also happened to be terribly earnest, and Catch-22, with its indictment of war and solicitude of the individual, spoke directly to the bits of Jesuit social teaching that we picked up in theology class. The book felt decidedly important to us.

coverUnnoticed in the shadow of Catch-22’s wings, another book is marking its golden anniversary this year, one that also felt and still feels terribly important to me. I don’t remember how I learned that Catch-22 — along with another favorite book of mine, Richard Yates’ Revolutionary Road — had lost its bid for the 1962 National Book Award to a slim volume by a man with the strange name of Walker Percy. Literary awards obviously don’t constitute the last word on merit, but I was curious to read the book judged superior to touchstones of my young reading life. I didn’t get around to The Moviegoer for two years after finishing Catch-22, but when I did, I knew that insofar as book awards have a power of ratification, the National Book Award committee had done its job in 1962. Still, when it comes to great literature, laurels like the NBA are paltry acknowledgments of a book’s real power; I found this to be especially true of Percy’s book. Catch-22 had been important to me as a student of literature, and Revolutionary Road had been important to my early development as a writer. But The Moviegoer was important to me as a human being. Like few other books I’ve ever read, it changed me.

2.
F. Scott Fitzgerald thought “the purpose of a work of fiction is to appeal to the lingering after-effects in the reader’s mind.” Other than Fitzgerald’s own works, I’ve never read a novel whose power lies so fully not in the course of being read, but in the astral glow of having been read. When I completed The Moviegoer for the first time, I was at a loss to explain the significance of the 242 pages I’d just traversed, but I knew they had been important. I felt the novel working on me in strange ways, like a slow-release drug. That so much of The Moviegoer’s effect is felt when it’s not being read can be attributed not to some defect in Percy’s prose, but rather to the nature of the novel’s moral project.

That project is fixed in the book’s epigraph, a quote from Kierkegaard that Percy takes as his lodestar: “…[T]he specific character of despair is precisely this: it is unaware of being despair.” This is the condition that the narrator, Jack “Binx” Bolling, finds himself in at the novel’s opening, and it is the condition in which Percy keeps his narrator for most of the book; only upon the book’s completion does the reader realize just how mired Binx really is. Binx’s life is characterized by a vague, not altogether unpleasant sense of discontent; he’s unsure of his purpose in life, and his inability to discern it is both sweet and enervating. He devotes most of his energy to “the search,” an ill-defined quest for an ill-defined higher truth: “What is the nature of the search? you ask. …The search is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life.”

In this formulation of Binx’s preoccupation, Percy sounds like a contemporary who was also explicitly in search of ultimate meaning: Saul Bellow. Unlike Bellow’s characters, however, Binx makes good on his threats to stiff-arm society. Bellovian heroes like Charlie Citrine and Moses Herzog see the everydayness of life as both working against and essential to their own searches; in the end, they can never foreswear community. Binx has no such qualms. He calls himself “a model citizen” because he enjoys paying his bills and renewing his licenses on time, but he uses his conscientiousness in these matters as an excuse to avoid any other form of civic activity. His formidable aunt, who urges him to enter medical school, asks, “Don’t you feel obliged to use your brain and to make a contribution?” To which Binx responds, “No’m.” He treats his brokerage job as a game, has serial affairs with secretaries he sees as interchangeable, and, in the novel’s climax, fails to recognize the precarious mental state of his cousin Kate. He floats around in a sort of dreamlike state, bemused and terrified by the world. Fittingly, he lives on a street called Elysian Fields; like the dim realm the Greeks imagined for their deceased heroes, Binx’s New Orleans is neither perdition nor paradise. In an indeterminate world, Binx is convinced only of the importance of his search. “[N]ot for five minutes will I be distracted from the wonder,” he declares.

coverSuch an assertion sounds off-putting in its solipsism, but in the context of the work as a whole, the reader is inclined to support Binx thanks to Percy’s refusal of irony. To revive the Bellow comparison: Bellow’s characters are comically solipsistic and hapless, and even a book as tightly locked within the first person as Herzog leaves room for the reader to laugh at the narrator’s overeducated lack of self-awareness. Percy wrestles this outlet away from the reader, forcing him to perform Kierkegaard’s insight along with Binx. Against his better instincts, the reader takes pleasure in sharing Binx’s aimlessness, though it quickly becomes clear that he ought not to. Early in the novel, Binx says, “Everything is upside-down for me,” but this is inaccurate. “Upside-down” describes a state of inverted order, yes, but a state of order nevertheless. Things aren’t reversed for Binx so much as they are polysemic, freighted with too much mysterious possibility, both beautiful and alienating. Even his confusion lacks order. Speaking enviously of his aunt, who is dismayed at the deterioration of Southern gentility, Binx says:

For her too the fabric is dissolving, but for her even the dissolving makes sense. …It seems so plain when I see it through her eyes. My duty in life is simple. I go to medical school. I live a long useful life serving my fellowman. What’s wrong with this? All I have to do is remember it.

But alas, Binx can only look through his aunt’s eyes for so long; when looking through his own, an action as simple as enrolling in medical school threatens the search — would pose a threat to the world’s beauty, while simultaneously risking meaninglessness amidst the vastness of the universe. “Where there is chance of gain, there is also chance of loss,” Binx says. “Whenever one courts great happiness, one also risks malaise.” Waking from the dream bears costs that Binx is unwilling to bear.

The reader, too, is reluctant to awaken. Who hasn’t yearned for a life free of banality’s demands? Realizing that the search itself is what poisons Binx is one of the book’s aforementioned after-effects. Percy works to make indolence alluring, reserving some of his most lyrical writing for Binx’s paralyzing reveries. Here’s Binx, recalling his college days:

…I had spent the four years propped on the front porch of the fraternity house, bemused and dreaming, watching the sun shine through the Spanish moss, lost in the mystery of finding myself alive at such a time and place.

It’s a lovely rendering of a feeling we’ve all experienced at one time or another, and it’s also an appealing description of what sounds like a fine way to spend an afternoon. What’s not so evident beneath Percy’s hushed, precise prose is that this passage points directly back to the epigraph. Here is despair, well hidden.

coverAppropriately, it is the source of so many American dreams, the movies, that provides ready fuel for Binx’s reveries. Movies limn his reality; he claims to have no memories of his own: “What I remember is the time John Wayne killed three men with a carbine as he was falling to the ground dusty street in Stagecoach, and the time the kitten found Orson Welles in the doorway in The Third Man.” And he depends on films to confirm his existence, a phenomenon he dubs “certification”:

Nowadays when a person lives somewhere, in a neighborhood, the place is not certified for him. More than likely he will live there sadly and the emptiness which is inside him will expand until it evacuates the entire neighborhood. But if he sees a movie which shows his very neighborhood, it becomes possible for him to live, for a time at least, as a person who is Somewhere and not Anywhere.

To describe The Moviegoer’s style as “cinematic” in any conventional sense would be a stretch (unless one has the cinema of Godard in mind). But there is a way in which Percy’s novel is reminiscent of film. So tight is Percy’s control over our emotional response to his work, so closely does he make it hew to Binx’s, that reading The Moviegoer is not unlike seeing the world through the ruthless eye of the camera, the lens’s vision substituted for our own.

3.
I would be remiss to discuss The Moviegoer without a word about the book’s theology; for better or for worse, Percy is first and foremost known as a Catholic writer. Here, autobiography may be helpful.

I read The Moviegoer during the spring break of my freshman year of college, two-thirds of the way through a difficult year. My dad and I traveled to Jupiter, Florida to watch the Cardinals in spring training. What was only a notion during childhood visits to Florida now blossomed into a fully formed realization: with the exception of the ballpark, Florida filled me with dread. The strip malls, the prevalence of faded pastel colors, the salt-laced air that lashed everything — these all inescapably suggested decay.

The crisis came on Saturday night, when we went to Mass. Unfamiliar churches are also anxiety-provoking environments for me, and Jupiter’s was worse than most: its garish white marble and overwhelmingly old congregation gave it the feel of a mausoleum for the living. Listening to the priest go on in English rendered incomprehensible by a thick accent, the brand of Catholic humanism I’d carefully crafted in the amniotic environs of high school gave way like a weak levee before a flood. Everything that could conceivably be called meaningful seemed suddenly contingent, including meaning itself. For the better part of an hour, I lost all my faith, Catholic and otherwise.

Back at the hotel, I took refuge in The Moviegoer. No longer did I see Binx as a “strange man,” as I called him in several margin notes; I saw a version of myself. In the Binx who spent his college days mooning about on the fraternity porch, I saw the young man who had thus far spent college standing against the wall at parties and walking home alone, wondering why he couldn’t make his new school feel like home. In the Binx who shunned all social obligations, I saw the kid who kept his classmates at a wary length, failing to see the necessity of relationships. And in the Binx who yearns to find his role in life, I saw the young writer who could no longer see the point of writing, because some day the sun would wink out, and all the words would disappear.

As melodramatic as it sounds, such was my state of mind that spring, and for most of my first two years of college. The Moviegoer didn’t heal me, but it did make me believe in healing once again, in large part because I was comforted by the fairly obvious truth that Walker Percy had traveled this lonely path before me. A Catholic convert, a medical doctor, and a devotee of Kierkegaard, Percy hardly lived by blind faith. When I wrote earlier that The Moviegoer achieves its powerful effect by shutting off all views of its offstage workings, I wasn’t being entirely precise: one senses the author’s intimate knowledge of the sort of bewilderment that Binx and the reader are made to feel. In 1987, Percy described his Christian existentialism for The Paris Review:

I suppose I would prefer to describe it as a certain view of man, an anthropology, if you like; of man as wayfarer, in a rather conscious contrast to prevailing views of man as organism, as encultured creature, as consumer, Marxist, as subject to such and such a scientific or psychological understanding — all of which he is, but not entirely. It is the “not entirely” I’m interested in — like the man Kierkegaard described who read Hegel, understood himself and the universe perfectly by noon, but then had the problem of living out the rest of the day.

cover“The problem of living out the rest of the day” — it was exactly the problem I was facing in Florida, from the second we left the ballpark; and it was exactly the problem I was facing in Chicago, from the second I finished my daily reading in Adam Smith or Plato. Percy treated this problem seriously, and I was grateful to him for this. I wouldn’t have been able to stomach, for instance, Bellow’s thumbing his nose at the problem. For Bellow, laughter is crucial to living out the rest of the day; it is a form of resistance. At the end of The Adventures of Augie March, the titular character wonders, “Or is the laugh at nature — including eternity — that thinks it can win over us and the power of hope? Nah, nah! I think. It never will.” But to Percy, laughter is a sad expression of our reluctance to go along with nature, too solemn to satirize. Thus, Binx’s wry description of his uncle is also in some ways a rueful description of himself: “He is an exemplary Catholic, but it is hard to know why he takes the trouble. For the world he lives in, the City of Man, is so pleasant that the City of God must hold little in store for him.”

Binx is hardly an exemplary Catholic, but he desperately wants to believe in some higher power beyond the material world. And here is the trouble: his desire for the existence of a God figure is rooted not in any hope in an afterlife that would plug the hole of death, but in a need that this world, with its unsettling mixture of beauty and transience, have some ultimate meaning. Like most people, Binx only intermittently grasps death as a reality, and this failure lends Binx’s life its desultory quality: since he has all the time in the world, he can spend his days scanning the horizon for a signal from another world.

The Moviegoer didn’t shake me from my melancholy immediately, but it did help me to recognize that I was on the same terms with my depression as Binx is with his search; inhabiting it was comfortable in the way that staying in bed all day is comfortable. When I decided to transfer after my second year of college, I wrote about The Moviegoer in my application essay, not because the book had directly spurred my decision to leave Chicago, but because the memory of it, carried around for a year, pricked me as long as I was content to simply mark time. Transferring was for me not simply a change in schools; it was the first time I’d acted out of faith in years, and I wanted Walker Percy to get his due.





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16 Responses to “Living Out the Day: The Moviegoer Turns Fifty”

  1. DAS
    at 11:11 am on August 24, 2011

    “since he has all the time in the world, he can spend his days scanning the horizon for a signal from another world”

    Very nice. Thanks for a wonderful essay. I didn’t encounter “The Moviegoer” until long after my college days to my own regret.

  2. Debussy Fields
    at 11:46 am on August 24, 2011

    Great piece! It’s worth noting that the Moviegoer’s NBA win is generally attributable to Percy’s buddy Shelby Foote’s place on the jury.

    Also of interest (to this appreciative reader) is the comparison to Bellow’s existential grapplings. Bellow made a point of tilting his lance toward the literary school he referred to as “The Wastelanders,” inspired of course by another doctor who converted to Catholicism. I never read of Percy extolling Eliot, but it’s still cool to see “Catholic writers” compared and contrasted with American Letters’ “Big Jew.”

  3. Adam
    at 1:11 pm on August 24, 2011

    Such a fantastic piece. Thanks for writing it. I now plan on revisiting this novel very soon.

  4. nate knapp
    at 2:34 pm on August 24, 2011

    The Moviegoer came into my life at about the same time as yours. I remember the eerie, ironic, extraordinary vividness of Binx’s search. But you’ve failed to mention how funny the book is – though I think that Percy allows no irony for Binx’s quest itself, there is definitely some irony (if not straight-up humor) in the way Binx goes about his quest, such as in his statement about his memory of John Wayne shooting three men with a carbine. But this is a minor complaint. The true power of the book surely does lie in its ability to remain in your brain for days, weeks, months afterward.

  5. Peter Messina
    at 4:42 pm on August 24, 2011

    It’s difficult to write about The Moviegoer for fear for of diminishing it’s spell and wonder. You do a good job, of doing that and illuminating the book without taking away from it.

    The Moviegoer had a similar effect on me in that one day you look at your life and you’re lucky enough (or unlucky enough), to be Binx-like in your bemusement and wonder, and just as oblivious to the despair at the root of what looks like a very good and normal life. A life some might even see as enviable and yet the emptiness is always with you underlying everything. And yes, it’s not entirely unpleasant. People seem drawn to it even.

    There is one moment in the book that haunts with its evocation of nature going by, literally, when a bird flys by at the lake Binx goes to meet his nephew (or cousin? It’s been a while since I read it, and it’s time again, to be sure) in a wheelchair, and in the midst of their theological argument a duck, flies past low to the water and they hear the sound of it’s wings creaking. The gristle of the muscle and bone moving it through the air.

    The book does have a denouement showing a subtle transformation, of sorts, and Binx does come to some understanding of himself wanting to be in the swim of life somehow to “use and be used” in a full (more full) way. To take his place perhaps in a place where he can give something of himself.

    Great essay, thank you. I honestly revere that book so hard it’s difficult to talk about, the same way any other major life experience might be difficult to talk about actually.

    Peter Messina

  6. Dan S
    at 10:39 am on August 25, 2011

    I was pleased to read this piece on a terrific book. For me it was one of those novels that, only a few pages in, gives me that zing. It’s a feeling I hope for whenever I start a book, a feeling that takes me outside of myself, that says here is a work of beauty and intelligence, and get ready, both sides of the brain are about to be activated and then merged with its pages.

    I got such a kick from the book’s language and concerns, marrying existentialism with New Orleans, a place where I had lived, and the haunting relationship between the protagonist and his cousin. Percy defined something for me that I’d experienced but didn’t have the words for, the concept of passing people and the rays they shoot from their bodies.

    That line stays with me (paraphrasing), “what will it feel like to walk down Michigan Ave and feel 5 million personal rays shooting at me?”

  7. Not for five minutes will I be distracted from the wonder: THE MOVIEGOER turns 50 | Press Street
    at 5:14 pm on August 25, 2011

    […] noted recently across outlets that publish literary journalism. But today, The Millions features an excellent essay on the book that beat Heller’s masterpiece for the 1962 National Book Award: The Moviegoer, by New […]

  8. Bradley Warshauer
    at 6:04 pm on August 25, 2011

    I discovered–or rather was shown–The Moviegoer a couole of years ago in my MFA program when my thesis advisor, New York Columbia-educated writer at New York school, told me about Walker Percy, “one of you guys” from the South. I have never been so struck by the combined beauty of a book both on the level of its writing and construction and on the macro level of its meaning and its effect on the reader. This essay, more than anything I’ve read on Percy, gets that. Bravo.

  9. ian
    at 5:24 pm on August 26, 2011

    “I certainly thought so when I read it at St. Louis University High, where it had become something of a right of passage for juniors thanks to the efforts of Mr. Jim Raterman”

    Sorry to nitpick, but I’m pretty sure this should be rite of passage. Odd error in as essay so concerned with Catholic spirituality.

  10. ian
    at 5:25 pm on August 26, 2011

    Blast you, html tags.

  11. Dan
    at 4:53 am on August 29, 2011

    Great essay!

    I read this book every year, and it is good to see that it affects someone else as profoundly as it does me. Despite the fact that Shelby Foote was on the jury, I can’t help but think they chose wisely.

  12. C. Max Magee
    at 4:53 pm on August 30, 2011

    Thanks Ian. We’ve fixed.

  13. rpmkel
    at 12:23 pm on September 1, 2011

    Actually, other than surprising Percy by showing up at the awards ceremony, Shelby Foote had nothing to do with The Moviegoer winning the National Book Award for 1962. Reader’s Almanac just posted the story behind The Moviegoer’s surprising win: http://blog.loa.org/2011/09/j-liebling-jean-stafford-walker-percy.html

  14. Dan
    at 12:57 am on September 2, 2011

    rpmkel- Thanks for the link. I should have remembered that from reading another biography of him a few years back.

  15. The “Slow-Release Drug” Effect of Great Novels | 101 Books
    at 8:29 am on October 6, 2011

    […] later, all three of these incredible novels celebrate their golden anniversary. Jim Santel from The Millions recently discussed how these three books—but mainly The Moviegoer—affected him. When I […]

  16. The Awl’s Choire Sicha, Carrie Frye, Alex Balk: Our Top Longreads of 2011 | Longreads
    at 3:37 pm on January 21, 2014

    […] • Jim Santel, “Living Out the Day: The Moviegoer Turns Fifty,” The Millions […]

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