Reviews: ‘The Complete Collection of People, Places & Things’ by John Dermot Woods

- Edward Mullany

Published by BlazeVOX, 2009. (178 pages, $16)

There is a phrase in Latin, “Urbi et Orbi,” which means, “To the City and to the World.” It is used in some religious celebrations as part of a greeting, but it can be understood in any context as a way of thinking about universality: what is true of the city is true of the world, or what is expressed in the specific can represent the general. Of its relevance to literature, consider Joyce’s ‘Dubliners’ or Sherwood Anderson’s ‘Winesburg, Ohio.’ Both represent a specific place and time – cities near the beginning of the 20th century. Yet the reason the books endure is because they contain universal truths; their characters, and what their characters do, remind us of ourselves, whoever or wherever we are. What John Dermot Woods has tried to do in his strange, new book, ‘The Complete Collection of People, Places & Things’ is akin to what Joyce and Anderson did in their books, and the fact that Woods’ work invites comparison with theirs suggests he’s a writer to notice and appreciate.

Of the two writers above, Woods most obviously is inspired by Anderson. It could even be argued that ‘The Complete Collection’ is a reimagining of Anderson’s ‘Winesburg,’ albeit a surreal one (with drawings by the author). Both books open with a sort of prologue, in which an unnamed narrator discusses the writer figure as prophet; specifically, as a man who, in his old age, experiences a moment of clarity that allows him to enter a second phase of vitality, creating a ‘book’ that is somehow ‘complete,’ a product less of vanity than of divine inspiration. Consider the following similarity, in which the respective narrators describe these books:

“It was never published, but I saw it once and it made an indelible impression on my mind. The book had one central thought that is very strange and has always remained with me” (Anderson).

“I saw the notebooks only once. It wasn’t just a recounting, or some sort of a Manual; it was complete…Its reality was certainly what prevented his notebooks from being printed” (Woods).

What both writers do, by inventing a figure to whom they can attribute their stories, is attempt to remove themselves from their own creations; the reason for this is unclear, but the effect is that they endow their work with a sort of mythical ethos.

From that point forward, the works diverge, only retaining a slight resemblance in form. Though they both are comprised of linked stories, those in ‘The Complete Collection’ are far shorter, more surreal, and less concerned with tracing the fate of an individual than those in ‘Winesburg,’ which more or less follow a character named George Willard, reporter for the Winesburg Eagle. There are other differences too.  Woods’ stories are more difficult to read as individual pieces than are Anderson’s, though it’s possible they were constructed primarily to be read in the context of the collection.  And while it is true that ‘The Complete Collection,’ like ‘Winesburg,’ does introduce characters that make repeat appearances - for instance, Optimus Prime and The Bear (the mayor and the mayor’s ‘muscle’) - by the end of the book we are less concerned with what might happen to these characters than we are with understanding the nature of the reality Woods presents to us.  This isn’t a shortcoming, but rather a quality that sets the book apart from its predecessor.

Consider the story, ‘The Hall,’ which appears early in the collection, while the reader is still getting accustomed to the eccentricities of the book’s setting. To this point, in other stories, we have learned that chopsticks are a commodity - not unlike jewelry - and that sack races have replaced dancing as a preferred form of recreation, which is to say the book’s social reality is a little askew.  But in ‘The Hall,’ not only does the world depart socially from what we are used to, it also departs physically, meaning things happen to the fabric of reality that ordinarily wouldn’t happen. The Hall in question seems ordinary enough; it’s a sort of gathering place for the townsfolk, but it has a “clerk” rather than a bartender, and its rules of etiquette are unclear. “One night,” this story tells us, “a group entered…inhaled…and promptly exploded” (Woods’ ellipses). What’s remarkable about the scene is that less is made of the apparent deaths (by unexplained explosion) than of the method by which an onlooker in the Hall is made “accountable” for the deaths. A few “regulars” are rounded up for questioning, though they have no connection to the group that exploded; one of them, a male, “nobly” volunteers, allowing the others to go home, and what happens next is both mystifying and fascinating - he runs until he disappears, but without leaving the Hall:

“The guilty party began to run his course. From beside his table he glided north to the mirrors and made his turn. Then he paced forward, toward the Hall’s origin, a direction as yet unplumbed. Inconclusive finity was suggested, and, hoping for proof, the late-night crowd stared, shallow-breathed. The man strode toward the unexplored section and he diminished, as prescribed. Away away away - cyclical physics set in - and then: an End.”

The story doesn’t end there, but by then it has fulfilled a rule that remains constant throughout the book - the rational and the irrational coexist. In one story, a woman named Alf works in a kiosk until her house burns down, at which point she rents a room above an alchemist’s shop, and never appears again. In another (and throughout the book), a “crash helmet” is shared by everyone in town, endowing each wearer with a feeling of heightened ability or power. There is a character named Punky Brewster - a schoolteacher who bears no resemblance to the 1980s sitcom star of the same name, but who spends her nights engaged in lonely, meditative activities.  And, though we never learn why, a switchboard on the edge of town determines every character’s vocation.

This isn’t to suggest the book is a work of ambivalent humor. One might argue that it is ‘difficult,’ or that it lacks gravitas, but the first criticism has nothing to do with the book’s artistic merit, and the second isn’t true.  For instance, the book’s humor is most evident as a strong satirical element, which means it’s engaged politically, if not morally; it questions the systems of thought that originate with the town’s vaguely sinister authorities, and that paralyze the town’s less free-thinking citizens. Like ‘Dubliners’ and ‘Winesburg,’ it is neither dystopian nor utopian, preferring to capture something of the ambiguity that is characteristic of actual life. But, unlike its forerunners, it is less interested in a literal representation of reality, and as such it is able to remove itself to a realm of symbolism that allows for politicization. What could be more serious (in a comical way) than naming a character ‘Optimus Prime’ (a hyperbole meaning ‘Best First’), giving him the highest political status of any character in your book, and then making him a pawn of his right-hand man?  That this character shares his name with a robot in ‘Transformers’ (the American toy franchise) only illustrates the fact that the book is aware of its own relevance as a cultural artifact; as a gesture, the allusion is funny, but fundamentally it reflects the writer’s concern with the state of the actual world.

In a story toward the end of the book, a character named Glo-Worm, having dedicated her life to contemplation in the woods, finds herself unable to extinguish the candles she keeps for warmth, because “the Team Captain had skipped that lesson.”  Rather than desert her burrow, to which she’d pledged “her new life until it was over,” she perishes when the flames spread.  We might be surprised she doesn’t simply leave, but what’s more astounding is that she needed a “Team Captain” to teach her how to extinguish a candle to begin with.  Yet we’re not entirely saddened by her decision to remain in her burrow.  After all, she has died for the sake of keeping a promise.  And not just any promise, but a promise that will reap her no reward, a promise associated with sanctity, austerity, even faith.  It’s these incongruences that direct our attention to the world outside the book.  Do people like Glo-Worm actually exist, and, if so, are they heroes or clowns?  Who is to blame for their ridiculous fates, or is that even the right question?