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POOR RICHARD'S LAMENT is not a book for wimps — let me be perfectly honest from the outset. Michael W. Zuckerman’s comprehensive Foreword makes this declaration all too clear. But good Ben Franklin was no wimp himself — as Tom Fitzgerald’s exhaustive “Milestones in the Life of Benjamin Franklin” makes equally clear. And so, let the clang of Caveat Lector! ring loud and clear.
The truth is, the plot of POOR RICHARD'S LAMENT twists and turns at so many corners, one could fill a second book — an exegetical work, if you will — with nothing more than signposts to the reader to help out with directions. Up, down, sideways, back and forth over time…one feels the need of a map — or at least of a compass. Simple annotations, unfortunately, won’t do.
And the language? Have I mentioned the language? Each time we enter Fitzgerald’s Supreme Court of Petitions, he reconstructs the language of Ben Franklin’s day in a manner worthy of a Swift or a Fielding. When he jumps back into the 20th (or sometimes the 21st) century, however, we’re once again safely ‘at home’ with the shorthand, telegraphic style of contemporary politicians, drug dealers, derelicts, and other assorted miscreants. The transition is sometimes jarring to a reader’s nerves, but never contrived or hackneyed. No, Fitzgerald is a master of both worlds — but woe to the reader who slips into the roiling waters of this writer’s perfervid imagination if he or she can’t swim (or at least tread) the distance!
Is Fitzgerald a stylist of the first rank? I cite, from page 233, this fulmination of the good Examiner Adams by way of an unrelenting condemnation of Ben Franklin’s comportment over the years vis-à-vis his own family — in this particular case, towards his ailing wife. To wit:
“Or do we attempt to weave unto whole cloth here too much by way of warp, too little by way of weft?”
This is merely one of hundreds of skillful stylistic fusillades Fitzgerald launches at Franklin out of the mouths of his Examiners, the smoke and roar of whose oratorical cannons would seem to fill the small chamber of the Supreme Celestial Court of Petitions with enough histrionic fire and brimstone to cause asphyxiation.
If masterful prose can be defined as exhibiting a combination of ‘economy and grace’ (not to mention ‘drama’), count me among those who’d happily suggest that the above aptly demonstrates Fitzgerald’s mastery of them all.
By way of conclusion to this review, I feel compelled to confess that I was finally able, just over a year ago (owing to circumstances more of penury than of opportunity), to read Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra's DON QUIXOTE. The likeness of Fitzgerald’s Ben Franklin to the ‘Knight of the Mournful Countenance’ had already occurred to me on numerous occasions while reading POOR RICHARD'S LAMENT — both in character and in circumstance. Consequently, when I read Fitzgerald’s apt analogy (on p. 521) — to wit: “the specter of an eighteenth-century knight charging about on a twenty-first century Rocinante,” I happily realized that my instincts were not entirely at odds with those of the author. The preeminence of Tom Fitzgerald’s opus comes perhaps closest of anything I’ve read in the past fifty years to the grandeur of Cervantes’ opus — and I believe DON QUIXOTE, still considered to be the first novel ever written, also to be the greatest novel ever written. I don’t know that I could pay any greater compliment to Tom Fitzgerald’s POOR RICHARD'
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