the imperfectionists – by Tom Rachman
As my birthdays come around more frequently, or so it seems, I’ve been increasingly weighed down with the feeling that time is no longer my friend. I remember when time moved slowly and I had plenty of time to accomplish my goals. As I get ready to turn thirty-two, I can’t help but feel the panic set in. I have yet to DJ at a radio station I founded, I haven’t even begun to run that really cool I-think-I’ll be-young-and-hip-forever record shop, I haven’t saved the world, or opened an orphanage, and I’m certainly not the JD Salinger of my time. My mortality seems to loom as the years go by, and I am unable to stop it. But, despite these failures, I continue to read.
Rachman’s, “the imperfectionists” (aptly, the title is not capitalized) is a series of short stories following a group of mostly
Americans, all connected by one thing; a small floundering newspaper in Rome. Each character is defined by their position at the newspaper and the perfection that is required to work there, although the focus is the imperfections that surround their personal lives and the concessions they make for themselves, their lives, goals and relationships. Although you only get a glimpse into each life, it’s enough. You quickly realize the same perfectionism that is demanded in each character’s work atmosphere is not mirrored in their personal lives, which, seems to make it that much harder for them to accept. Rachman has a unique way of making you sympathize and personalize with each of his characters. Though I had little in common with any, I went away understanding and even respecting the decisions and lives of each in their search for personal happiness.
Ironically, for me, inspiration came in the form of Herman Cohen, the corrections editor, who puts out a staff article every week, called “Why?” (an article detailing the staffs most recent and unforgivable literary mistakes), who also has compiled a style guide called “The Bible” currently containing 18,238 words and phrases journalists should never use, and who is often heard yelling out the word, “Credibility!” while making jabbing gestures into the air. The character who is in the most obvious demand of most literal perfection in the work place, makes no such demand of himself or others in his personal life or otherwise (he can’t even bring himself to correct his grandchildren’s grammar). At work he is forceful, demanding, and respected, while at home, he is humble, loved, and grateful. He’s content in a perfectly ordinary, happy life that I’m not sure it ever occurred to him to expect. Even at the end, when he was too entranced with his grandchildren to write that novel he always thought he’d write, there was not a flicker of regret. In his grandchildren, he had found something better than his previous ideal.
The thing is this; ordinary is subjective. Ten years ago my idea of ordinary was very different than it is today. So what if I’m thirty-two and haven’t made my “mark” on the world? The long and short is this: My ordinary life, filled with children that I adore (mostly when they’re sleeping), a partner whom I love, admire and who inspires me every single day, family and friends who make my life rich and full and who give me more of a sense of accomplishment in thirty-two years than I could have hoped for, are to me, anything but ordinary. Like any life, I too have regrets. But, regretting that I was born tone deaf and will never sing alongside Jon Bon Jovi in a concert put on in my honor for the inspiring work I’ve done fighting for animal rights coupled with the banning of cell phones in movie theaters, isn’t keeping me up at night anymore. Because in reading this book, instead of being critical of life unexpected, I’m more sympathetic, understanding, and grateful for it.
never gotten around to reading, Agatha Christie. Turns out she is literally the best selling author OF ALL TIME. She is the third most widely published after William Shakespeare and THE BIBLE. That’s insanity! Anyway, despite not knowing this impressive resume at the time, I proceeded to checkout Christie’s, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Wow, was I surprised at the ending. And I don’t get surprised by endings. You wanna know why? Because I watch a ton of CSI and Law and Order and I have read almost every Stephen King novel. That’s the kind of training that has made me nearly un-surpriseable (it’s a word). And I’ll tell you what else- Agatha wrote a real page turner. I couldn’t put the book down.
basically akin to my kids growing up watching Toy Story and Tangled and then expecting them to be impressed with the plot and graphics of Snow White. I mean of course, still today his stuff is impressive, but I imagine, as new things often are, it was pretty amazing in 1887. Sir Conan Doyle was a major founding father of the great mystery detective novel, (who of course was, I’m sure, influenced by Poe), and laid the groundwork for one of my most favorite genres- the mystery novel. But I’ll tell it straight. What I didn’t like about Holmes was, as a reader, you only got the basic story and all the detective work was already done, without the reader, and summed up concisely at the end. There was no way I could even try to solve the clues because I wasn’t given the same information that Holmes had. And that was frustrating, because just as I have perfected all my major karate skills from watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, I’ve also honed my detective skills from picking up the subtle clues left to me by my favorite mystery novels and television shows. I’ll be watching Bones or Psych for instance, and some might say I’ll “annoyingly” tell you my predictions through constant commentary on character dialogue, body language, and plot details until I have solved the crime. It’s fun and enjoyable (for some more than others) and all part of the experience! The long and short is this; Christie allows you to participate, while Doyle, not so much.
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