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veingloria's review against another edition
3.0
Published in 2002, just over the precipice of the Y2K era, Mailman is J. Robert Lennon’s foray into the Great American Novel genre -- for better or for worse.
Albert Lippincott, better known as Mailman within the confines of the text, is the eponymous postal carrier in Nestor, New York. Plagued with neuroses and a nagging sense of anomie, Mailman pilfers his customers’ mail and pores through the intimate details of their lives. His transgression goes undetected until one of the residents on his route commits suicide and Mailman finds himself holding the letter that may have saved his life.
The town is a fondly (if wryly) fictionalized version of Ithaca, with its litter of long-time residents and fresh college students weaving in and out of New York Tech, itself a veiled version of Cornell.
The first quarter of the novel is solid, if erratically paced. The next three quarters, however, drag their feet to the point where reading becomes a chore. In an ironic twist, the memories and life events that once allowed the reader to become invested in Albert are the same elements that ultimately force the reader to disengage from him at best and resent him at worst. Albert applies the same logic to his ex-wife, Lenore:
“Well. There on the floor he experiences regret. How is it that he came to despise the things he most loved? Maybe he didn’t love them to begin with.” (p. 174)
In my opinion, the novel really begins to fall apart with the delineation of Mailman’s stint with the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan. This interlude occurs at the very beginning of a turning point in the present story, effectively -- for lack of better phrasing -- blue-balling the reader. At this point, I didn’t care about whatever the main character did in Kazakhstan. I found that it didn’t elucidate his character or add to the present issues in any appreciable way.
This segues into the problem that drapes itself over the entire novel: the painful meandering. In any given scene taking place in the present time, we’re assailed by three flashbacks, one of which is most likely a flashback within a flashback. These scenes are initially charming, breathing life into Albert, but they gradually become grating beyond belief. J. Robert Lennon leaves no stone unturned in Albert’s mundane life. He narrates every body function, every meal, every errant thought that ultimately contributes nothing to the overarching theme.
It doesn’t help that Albert is not a likable character. He isn’t supposed to be, and not every main character needs to be. In this case, however, so pathetic and offputting were his deeds that a small part of you hopes for his comeuppance. How am I supposed to feel bad for a guy who harbors a bizarre and unacknowledged attraction towards his sister and uses his work computer to look at porn? Despite that, there are moments where you feel sympathy for him, and these are particularly salient whenever his parents come into the picture.
For all of its faults, the novel certainly has its merits. Lennon does a rather good job of portraying the American small town and the myriad ways in which it can be difficult to navigate. The main character’s occupation was a splendid lens through which to appreciate the delicate interconnectedness of its residents. There are parts of the novel that are genuinely moving despite itself -- the descriptions of Albert’s budding relationship with his nurse during his stay in a psychiatric facility, for example, and his reminiscence of his late girlfriend Semma. Interestingly, the most beautiful and most disgusting moments come from the exploration of Albert’s history with women -- perhaps true to life itself. As has been demonstrated in Lennon’s other works, the prose is also wonderful to take in, which is what steered this book away from the DNF list for me.
“...Yes, it did feel good to let it all hang out like this, but nothing had changed; it was still him, Mailman, a speck of hot ash alighting on the tundra of existence. And he wasn’t even Mailman anymore; he wasn’t even a mailman. He was a man, nothing else, and where was the dignity in that?” (p. 281)
Despite its flaws, I did enjoy the book to an extent. I’d hesitate to recommend it unless you’re fine with something that just likes to delve into the meat and potatoes of the average American middle aged dude’s life and don’t care too much about a plot of any kind. If it sounds like it might be up your alley, check it out -- schadenfreude might help you stick around.
Albert Lippincott, better known as Mailman within the confines of the text, is the eponymous postal carrier in Nestor, New York. Plagued with neuroses and a nagging sense of anomie, Mailman pilfers his customers’ mail and pores through the intimate details of their lives. His transgression goes undetected until one of the residents on his route commits suicide and Mailman finds himself holding the letter that may have saved his life.
The town is a fondly (if wryly) fictionalized version of Ithaca, with its litter of long-time residents and fresh college students weaving in and out of New York Tech, itself a veiled version of Cornell.
The first quarter of the novel is solid, if erratically paced. The next three quarters, however, drag their feet to the point where reading becomes a chore. In an ironic twist, the memories and life events that once allowed the reader to become invested in Albert are the same elements that ultimately force the reader to disengage from him at best and resent him at worst. Albert applies the same logic to his ex-wife, Lenore:
“Well. There on the floor he experiences regret. How is it that he came to despise the things he most loved? Maybe he didn’t love them to begin with.” (p. 174)
In my opinion, the novel really begins to fall apart with the delineation of Mailman’s stint with the Peace Corps in Kazakhstan. This interlude occurs at the very beginning of a turning point in the present story, effectively -- for lack of better phrasing -- blue-balling the reader. At this point, I didn’t care about whatever the main character did in Kazakhstan. I found that it didn’t elucidate his character or add to the present issues in any appreciable way.
This segues into the problem that drapes itself over the entire novel: the painful meandering. In any given scene taking place in the present time, we’re assailed by three flashbacks, one of which is most likely a flashback within a flashback. These scenes are initially charming, breathing life into Albert, but they gradually become grating beyond belief. J. Robert Lennon leaves no stone unturned in Albert’s mundane life. He narrates every body function, every meal, every errant thought that ultimately contributes nothing to the overarching theme.
It doesn’t help that Albert is not a likable character. He isn’t supposed to be, and not every main character needs to be. In this case, however, so pathetic and offputting were his deeds that a small part of you hopes for his comeuppance. How am I supposed to feel bad for a guy who harbors a bizarre and unacknowledged attraction towards his sister and uses his work computer to look at porn? Despite that, there are moments where you feel sympathy for him, and these are particularly salient whenever his parents come into the picture.
For all of its faults, the novel certainly has its merits. Lennon does a rather good job of portraying the American small town and the myriad ways in which it can be difficult to navigate. The main character’s occupation was a splendid lens through which to appreciate the delicate interconnectedness of its residents. There are parts of the novel that are genuinely moving despite itself -- the descriptions of Albert’s budding relationship with his nurse during his stay in a psychiatric facility, for example, and his reminiscence of his late girlfriend Semma. Interestingly, the most beautiful and most disgusting moments come from the exploration of Albert’s history with women -- perhaps true to life itself. As has been demonstrated in Lennon’s other works, the prose is also wonderful to take in, which is what steered this book away from the DNF list for me.
“...Yes, it did feel good to let it all hang out like this, but nothing had changed; it was still him, Mailman, a speck of hot ash alighting on the tundra of existence. And he wasn’t even Mailman anymore; he wasn’t even a mailman. He was a man, nothing else, and where was the dignity in that?” (p. 281)
Despite its flaws, I did enjoy the book to an extent. I’d hesitate to recommend it unless you’re fine with something that just likes to delve into the meat and potatoes of the average American middle aged dude’s life and don’t care too much about a plot of any kind. If it sounds like it might be up your alley, check it out -- schadenfreude might help you stick around.
regalexander's review against another edition
4.0
I loved this book. I loved the writing style, the mix of hilarious moments and meaningful ones - but never getting sentimental. Mailman is pathetic, but he grew on me. These are some of my favourite quotes:
(p. 344)
"Instead he is busy enduring a wave of remorse and loneliness - he won't be around for the next local controversy. Or the next Friday radio scramble, either. Ah, hell. But then again, you can't drive through life looking at the rearview mirror, can you, otherwise you'll smack into a phone pole, or worse yet a pedestrian, or a pedestrian with a stroller, and you'll be a child murderer, all for the fleeting comfort of dwelling upon the past."
(p. 373)
"There was a small part of him that really did want to break up -- or rather, a constellation of small parts: patches of skin where she no longer touched him, the muscles that ached mornings after they stayed up late fighting, the part of his tongue where he could taste the hospital when he kissed her after work, an outpost in the subconscious where the hope of new love lurked."
(p. 471)
"I ask you to consider this, Albert: what is success, actually? What is a successful life? You are one person among many - a bacterium, say, in a petri dish."
"Great."
"Let's say that success, so to speak, is fame and admiration: in other words, one bacterium held in high regard by the rest of the bacteria. They are still just sitting in the dish on a laboratory counter, being bacteria. And so success, in these terms, is not very meaningful. A successful life, I think, should be self-defined, defined by happiness. Or, rather, satisfaction. Your life is successful if each day is fully lived. But that begs the question -"
"It begs a lot of questions."
"Yes, well, the one I'm thinking of is: What is it, then, to live fully? How fully can you live? Can you, say, climb a mountain and write a string quartet, and cure a disease, and have hot sex, all in one day? What can be expected of a single person anyway? You did what you were capable of doing, and then some. You lived as fully as it was possible for you to live. You loved badly, but you loved intensely. You left no emotional stone unturned."
(p. 479)
"I never meant to be a burden to anyone."
"No, nobody ever does."
Spoiler
(p. 483)
"Ah, good old Nestor," Sprain says. "I'll miss it."
"Me too," says Mailman, and it's true: but he misses Nestor the way he misses a thing that was never supposed to last, like a good meal, or a movie. Like his life, behind him now, as lovely with distance as a battlefield."
moncoinlecture's review against another edition
3.0
Un très bon roman, mais avec un thème qui me fait un peu freaker... du coup, ça a plus ou moins bien fonctionné...
llynn66's review against another edition
3.0
I read this book about 5 years ago. It has stuck with me for some reason. This is one of those books where you live for awhile inside the head of the main character. And, even though he is a pathetic person, he holds your interest.
In a certain mood I have the need to read a book about an unremarkable person...even a person who does not inspire me. The character who could be real because he or she displays all the character flaws, grating personality traits and foibles of people you have actually met can be a much needed antidote to the flawlessly heroic or wise people often introduced in stories.
The mailman has a sad and limited small life. Much of his predicament is his own fault. He is unpleasant and crosses the line to creepy. You would never give this guy your phone number. But he gets into your head and stays there for awhile. I cannot explain why or how. It is just one of those slice-of-dysfunction titles I couldn't shake!
In a certain mood I have the need to read a book about an unremarkable person...even a person who does not inspire me. The character who could be real because he or she displays all the character flaws, grating personality traits and foibles of people you have actually met can be a much needed antidote to the flawlessly heroic or wise people often introduced in stories.
The mailman has a sad and limited small life. Much of his predicament is his own fault. He is unpleasant and crosses the line to creepy. You would never give this guy your phone number. But he gets into your head and stays there for awhile. I cannot explain why or how. It is just one of those slice-of-dysfunction titles I couldn't shake!
bearforester's review against another edition
Like with many of J. Robert Lennon's short stories, this novel is both funny and moving. Mailman, the protagonist, is a fascinating and unique character, and when the book ended I was sorry that I wouldn't be reading any more about him.
spygrl1's review against another edition
1.0
I like J. Robert Lennon. I really do. His writing strikes the right balance of direct and descriptive, with insightful truths sprinkled liberally.
But this book ... what is this book? It's a long slog through the life of a pathetic man who was a pathetic child and will die leaving a pathetic corpse. He's someone you wouldn't want to spend any time with if he really existed, and he's only marginally more tolerable on the page. At least from a literary distance you can afford to extend some pity to the loser. But does he really rate 483 pages of pity?
"There was a small part of him that really did want to break up -- or rather, a constellation of small parts: patches of skin where she no longer touched him, the muscles that ached mornings after they stayed up late fighting, the part of his tongue where he could taste the hospital when he kissed heer after work, an outpost in the subconscious hwere the hope of new love lurked."
"Is this what happens to the affluent and elderly? They shrink, losing body parts, losing height, while their cars swell? They counter their own increasing decrepitude with this depressing automotive virility?"
"But obstacles are always thrown into his path, and the obstacles are himself. He pictures himself encountering the obstacles that are himself: that is, himself walking down an open road, free and clear as far as he can see, and then suddenly there's something in his path: a head, a giant head, his head, it's scowling and old, and hot to the touch. He tries to dodge but the head is quick, it ratchets from side to side, it tilts and nudges and mutters, "Back, back." He throws himself onto the head and feels its enormous nose punch his chest. Ow!"
But this book ... what is this book? It's a long slog through the life of a pathetic man who was a pathetic child and will die leaving a pathetic corpse. He's someone you wouldn't want to spend any time with if he really existed, and he's only marginally more tolerable on the page. At least from a literary distance you can afford to extend some pity to the loser. But does he really rate 483 pages of pity?
"There was a small part of him that really did want to break up -- or rather, a constellation of small parts: patches of skin where she no longer touched him, the muscles that ached mornings after they stayed up late fighting, the part of his tongue where he could taste the hospital when he kissed heer after work, an outpost in the subconscious hwere the hope of new love lurked."
"Is this what happens to the affluent and elderly? They shrink, losing body parts, losing height, while their cars swell? They counter their own increasing decrepitude with this depressing automotive virility?"
"But obstacles are always thrown into his path, and the obstacles are himself. He pictures himself encountering the obstacles that are himself: that is, himself walking down an open road, free and clear as far as he can see, and then suddenly there's something in his path: a head, a giant head, his head, it's scowling and old, and hot to the touch. He tries to dodge but the head is quick, it ratchets from side to side, it tilts and nudges and mutters, "Back, back." He throws himself onto the head and feels its enormous nose punch his chest. Ow!"
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