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The Antagonist

The Antagonist

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by Lynn Coady
     
 

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A piercing epistolary novel, The Antagonist explores, with wit and compassion, how the impressions of others shape, pervert, and flummox both our perceptions of ourselves and our very nature.

Gordon Rankin Jr., aka “Rank,” thinks of himself as “King Midas in reverse”—and indeed misfortune seems to follow him at every turn.

Overview

A piercing epistolary novel, The Antagonist explores, with wit and compassion, how the impressions of others shape, pervert, and flummox both our perceptions of ourselves and our very nature.

Gordon Rankin Jr., aka “Rank,” thinks of himself as “King Midas in reverse”—and indeed misfortune seems to follow him at every turn. Against his will and his nature, he has long been considered—given his enormous size and strength—a goon and enforcer by his classmates, by his hockey coaches, and, not least, by his “tiny, angry” father. He gamely lives up to their expectations, until a vicious twist of fate forces him to flee underground. Now pushing forty, he discovers that an old, trusted friend from his college days has published a novel that borrows freely from the traumatic events of Rank’s own life. Outraged by this betrayal and feeling cruelly misrepresented, he bashes out his own version of his story in a barrage of e-mails to the novelist that range from funny to furious to heartbreaking.

With The Antagonist, Lynn Coady demonstrates all of the gifts that have made her one of Canada’s most respected young writers. Here she gives us an astonishing story of sons and fathers and mothers, of the rewards and betrayals of male friendship, and a large-spirited, hilarious, and exhilarating portrait of a man tearing his life apart in order to put himself back together.
 

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Only a writer as wonderfully gifted as Lynn Coady could elicit such extraordinary sympathy for a man as full of self-destructive rage as Rank, her main character.   You won't soon forget either him or this haunting novel.” —Richard Russo

“Coady’s fluency in the language of the college boy [is] impressive, [as is] her feel for the camaraderie that is inseperable from rivalry and masculine aggression.” —The New Yorker
 
“Dear Lynn Coady:  As I said, I love your new book, with its unsettling mixture of comedy and pathos…incredibly funny, sarcastic and profane, right up till the moment when the tragedy below the surface suddenly erupts….  It’s an extraordinarily clever and sympathetic exploration of the cross-currents of male friendship, the intense relationships we make and abandon in school.  How ill-fitting those intimacies feel years later whenever a college reunion or some chance encounter forces us to try them on again.” —Ron Charles, The Washington Post
 
“A self-justification fueled by rage ends as an endearing journey of self-discovery…  Nominated for Canada’s Giller Prize, this very human drama, laced with humor and insight, is strongly recommended.” —Barbara Love, Library Journal

“A dramatic and funny confessional in reverse.” —Marie Claire
 
 “A genuinely fascinating character [whose] emails evolve from clumsy rages to thoughtful, measured ruminations on crucial events in his life….But it is Coady’s ability to realistically portray his teens and university years and empathetically conduct his search for self that makes The Antagonist more than just engertainment.” —Booklist
 
“Smartly tuned and as unsettling as it intends to be…. Coady expertly renders a man who's compelled to address his past but not entirely ready to look in the mirror [and her novel] is a caution to tread carefully.” —Kirkus

“Coady is an ambitious writer, exploring themes of masculinity, religion, and the perils and promise of the fictional enterprise, and her decision to write from the male perspective is brave and successful….The pathos and humor brought to a challenging life story will appeal to many readers.” —Publishers Weekly

The Washington Post - Ron Charles
…[an] unsettling mixture of comedy and pathos. [Coady] can be an incredibly funny writer, sarcastic and profane, right up till the moment when the tragedy below the surface suddenly erupts…Rank…glides across these pages with remarkable power and grace, turning on a blade from rant to reflection as he crashes through the story of his adolescence…[he] reminded me of a hulking, hockey-playing Job, railing at the whirlwind. In Rank's case, the whirlwind never answers, but his anger gradually crystallizes into the kind of devastating knowledge he needs, and I need. It's all tremendously, surprisingly moving.
Publishers Weekly
Canadian author Coady’s new novel (after Mean Boy) is composed of letters from Gordon Rankin Jr. to his university pal Adam, a correspondence that began when “Rank” recognized a less-than-flattering portrayal of himself in Adam’s recent novel. Angry at seeing his life story pilfered for a forgettable novel—make that angry at his life—the almost 40-year-old Rank begins e-mailing Adam. His rancor turns into an odd epistolary autobiography, covering his early years in a small town in Canada and his aborted college career, both periods when he got into trouble for violence. (Rank is “genetically blessed” with size.) The prose is sharp and very funny, and some of the characters, particularly Rank’s father, Gord, a bitter failure of a man, are deftly etched. Coady is an ambitious writer, exploring themes of masculinity, religion, and the perils and promise of the fictional enterprise, and her decision to write from the male perspective is brave and successful. But the plot often meanders and the handling of narrative perspectives creates formal questions that are never answered. (At times, a third-person “omnipotent narrator,” either the author or someone else with access and hindsight, takes over Rank’s first-person duties.) Still, the pathos and humor brought to a challenging life story will appeal to many readers. (Jan. 25)
Library Journal
What makes a bully tick? In the case of Gordon Rankin—"Rank" to his friends—the external hulk does not really mirror the inner self, who fears his own strength and is reluctant to engage. As the adopted son of a saintly mother and an overbearing father, Rank was encouraged to use his size and strength to help deal with the teenaged hoodlums who hung around his father's ice cream shop and then to earn a hockey scholarship through his role as an enforcer. Years later, when a long-estranged friend publishes a novel in which the brutish central character is based on a thinly disguised Rank, Rank rails at the unjust expropriation of his story. In a long series of unanswered emails to his friend, he explores his past and the catastrophic incidents that led him to disappear from view. VERDICT What begins as a self-justification fueled by rage ends as an endearing journey of self-discovery and self-forgiveness. Nominated for Canada's Giller Prize, this very human drama, laced with humor and insight, is strongly recommended.—Barbara Love, Kingston Frontenac P.L., Kingston, ON
Kirkus Reviews
An embittered man blasts an old buddy for fictionalizing his life. But, wonders Coady (Saints of Big Harbour, 2002, etc.), who can know what the facts are? This novel in emails is told by Gordon "Rank" Rankin Jr., who has just discovered that his life has been turned into fodder for a novel by Adam, with whom he shared a lot of drinks and a few intimacies in college. Now firmly middle-aged, Rank is angry at the perceived betrayal, and his early missives have a threatening tone. But while he doesn't exactly soften--he exemplifies the book's title throughout--he does grow expansive, venting about his dead mother, hot-tempered father, squandered hockey scholarship, drinking and more. If Rank isn't an unreliable narrator, Coady at least makes him a profoundly benighted one, incapable of recognizing that his anger is mainly with himself. That's revealed in the condescension he expresses about nearly every person he recalls interacting with (besides his sainted mother), and that's most clearly in evidence with his much-mocked father, nicknamed Gord, who's shallow but by no means a failure as a single father. The novel's plot turns on a handful of violent incidents that implicate Rank, and Coady expertly renders a man who's compelled to address his past but not entirely ready to look in the mirror. Like many narrators of questionable stability, Rank gets over on raw intelligence; Coady gives him a wit that makes his anger and smugness tolerable. And bubbling under this story is an interesting tussle with the question of what novelists owe to the experiences that inspire their fiction. Has Adam sold out Rank? We never hear Adam's side of the story, but Rank's response (and by extension, the novel) is a caution to tread carefully. Smartly tuned and as unsettling as it intends to be.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780345802514
Publisher:
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
10/08/2013
Edition description:
Reprint
Pages:
304
Product dimensions:
5.10(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.70(d)

Read an Excerpt

1

05/23/09, 9:42 p.m.

There you are in the picture looking chubby and pompous, and it makes me remember how you told me that time you were afraid of fat people. That is, afraid of being fat and hating those who were, so fear and hating, like of a contagion, the same way homophobes—­guys who are actually maybe gay or have the potential for gayness within them—­are thought to be afraid of homos and want to annihilate them, make them not exist. You said you were embarrassed by it, though, your hatred of fat people, your fear. You knew it was shallow. You knew it was wrong. You thought it was a prejudice that was beneath the enlightened likes of you. And now, with all this time gone by, here you are in the picture. Looking chubby and pompous.

When you told me that, I remember being a little awed because we were kids, we were two young guys, and we hung out every weekend and got drunk and declared, or might have declared, I love you, man! at some point or another, but you—­you—­as much as you talked you never really said much of anything, you gave nothing away, whereas I was always yanking off hanks of my own flesh and shoving them bloodily at everyone around me, it felt like, half the time—­No please, take it, take it, really. And people would accept those bleeding red chunks because what choice did they have? I was a hulking drunken wreck who might fall on top of them at any moment, so they’d avert their eyes, embarrassed, as was only right.

Not you, though. I heard an expression the other day in reference to this other tight-­lipped son of a bitch, actually it was the prime minister. He keeps his own counsel. And I thought that’s perfect, that’s perfect, that’s Adam. The operative phrase being his own and the general concept being self.

The point is, you kept your own counsel most of the time. You never turned to me in the midst of one of our drunk-­stoned hazes to blurt: Help me, man! I’m all fucked up! How guys sometimes do. Not you though, not like I was always doing, or felt like I was. You never said boo. For a while I thought that was very cool about you, that your head was just too full—­heaving with profundity.

It is stupid how young men admire one another, the cluelessness of it, the non-­reasons.

And then, lo! He turns to me, does sphinx boy, in the middle of a typical beered-­up weekend rock-­and-­roll show on campus. Our mutual friend Tina is ripping up the dance floor in front of us. Tina has put on some pounds, as girls can do in just a handful of months, the same way they immediately take them off the moment it becomes obvious that guys aren’t sniffing and circling around like they used to. Lately we’ve taken to calling Tina Tiny behind her back. A few months ago we would have been watching Tina dance with quiet horny awe, but now she just looks fat and silly and we’re embarrassed for her and disliking ourselves for thinking this because she’s a cool girl, we like her, and why shouldn’t she fucking dance if she wants to? And covering it up with asshole jokes.

And he turns to me, does sphinx boy, his face naked and craving like I’ve never seen before. I lean in. My friend needs me! “I think I’m prejudiced against fat people.”

I have never heard such shame, such self-­loathing in my friend’s voice.

“That’s okay, man,” I reassure him. “Everyone hates fat people, they’re fucking fat.”

“No. I need to get over it.”

I swing an arm around your shoulders and crush you against me, happy for the opportunity to be kind and big-­brotherly.

“Look at her go,” I say, gesturing to Tina out there undulating, eyes closed, jaw so slack her tongue’s almost hanging out, dancing herself into a sweat-­slick frenzy. I found out later she at that point was well aware of her new nickname and had started taking speed to offset things.

“She’s working it out there! She’ll be back to baseline hotness in no time.” I would turn out to be right about that. But that wasn’t what you were worried about.

“I mean,” you say once I release you, because I can tell it’s awkward to continue your confession when crushed against my manly chest, “it’s me.”

Of course it was you, Adam.

“I’m afraid I’ll get fat. I’m deathly afraid of it. Getting fat.”

And look at you now, say it together everybody: Chubby, pompous.

What a shitty way for me to begin! After you have been so nice. After all these years. I didn’t even think you’d write me back. And if you did, I never imagined you would say: “Sure! Send me your story. I’d be delighted to take a look.” That’s what you said. Take a look, that’s very noncommittal of course, but then that’s the Adam I remember.

Well guess what? I was being noncommittal myself. I was being noncommittal in that I was lying. That whole last e-­mail I sent was a lie.

First of all: “I haven’t read your book yet but am very excited to do so.” But I have read it, Adam. I’ve read it a few times now.

Second of all, I was being friendly and nice in my e-­mail, but in fact that was not a true representation of how I am actually feeling toward you. I was baiting the hook. I wasn’t sure you would be particularly pleased to hear from me, if you’d even bother to write back. So I thought I should be nice. I thought I should be all the things I knew—­assuming you were still the same old Adam—­you would respond to: complimentary, admiring, affectionate.

Third, I said I had a story of my own. I said it was short. The first statement was the truth, but the second was a lie. I said I was trying to write and I would appreciate your help. That’s not true either. I’m writing just fine at this very moment, I don’t need your goddamn help. I said it wouldn’t take too much of your time—­not true.

You said, and I’m cutting and pasting here:

Sure! I’d be delighted to take a look.

So I am taking you at your word.

Okay, I thought I’d better go get another beer to help grease the wheels and now I’m back. So here we go.

I was born in a small town, like John Cougar Mellencamp and Bruce Springsteen. Remember that time we all sat around arguing about whether or not Springsteen was a Jew? And Wade was so appalled—­for some reason he couldn’t get his head around the idea. And I got all in his face, having fun, like I was totally outraged: What are you, KKK or something? Jews can’t sing? Jews can’t be born in the U.S.A.? And he goes, No, Rank, no it just—­it doesn’t line up. In my head. It was like that time you told him Freddie Mercury was gay and the two of you argued all night until finally Kyle yelled, Dude! The name of the band is Queen. And the next day all Wade’s Queen on vinyl mysteriously disappeared. Anyway, you said it didn’t matter what Springsteen was, what mattered was we shouldn’t say “a Jew.” You said we should say “Jewish.”

For years I went around studiously avoiding the term “Jew” because I didn’t want to offend anyone—­people like you, that is. And then one summer a guy I was working construction with used it in reference to his brother-­in-­law. And I go, Look, man, I don’t know if you’re supposed to say that these days. And he straightens up and stares at me and goes, What’s wrong with Jew? And I say, Like it isn’t offensive? And he goes, I’m a Jew, dickweed. Am I offending you?

So thanks for that, Adam.

And yes, what the hell! I am going all the way back and starting from day one, with my birth. I can do whatever I want because it’s my life and it’s my story and it exists and has existed on its own very specific terms, despite what you have done. It hangs in the air around me at all times, like if I hadn’t washed for a couple of months, which has sometimes been approximately the case—­a personal stench made up from the chemical composition of my sweat, from everything I ate, from everywhere I went, everything I sniffed on the ground in front of me, all the crap I ever laid down and rolled around in.

You know all this, or I thought you did. I gave it to you, these intermittent chunks, I pulled off hank after bloody hank of flesh and just handed them over and you were so coy, you averted your eyes and pretended to be embarrassed like the rest of them when really you were squirreling away all those hanks and secretly stitching them together and building Frankenstein’s monster.

.  .  .

Starting again. Beer the third.

I was born in a small town. That is not such a big feat in this country. You were born in a small town, John Cougar was, Springsteen the Jew, everybody was born in a small town. Whoop-­de-­shit. Let’s not name a specific territory. We both know they’re all the fucking same.

There was a dad, there was a mom. You know this too. The dad was a prick, the mom was a goddess. Gord and Sylvie.

Already this feels like a cliché, which is the fault of none other than Adam. It wouldn’t feel like that if you didn’t exist. It wouldn’t be part of someone else’s fairy tale, it would just be my own nameless stench hanging over me. The biggest pisser? The fact that the cliché of me was all you really took. You boiled a whole life, an entire human being, Adam, down into his most basic, boneheaded elements. Good Mom plus bad Dad hinting at the predictable Oedipal (oh give me a fucking break) background of—­voilà—­Danger Man! One seriously messed-­up dude. Not very creative, is what I’m saying.

Okay, so anyway she died, as you know, and left me with the prick. Back in school, you’ll remember, I was always saying how my dad was a prick but I never got specific. What I didn’t say was that he was a prick because he had Small Man syndrome. I heard that term just a few years ago and immediately thought: Gord. Dad was about five foot five and a half and found this intolerable every day of his adult life. When I shot up at fourteen, he was delighted—­as if he’d suddenly added my height to his own.

Here’s another cliché: Every guy whose dad was a prick talks about that moment when he realizes he can take his old man—­how empowering that is. But I always knew. I feel like I could’ve taken him at six if I wanted. I was a thug from the moment I popped from the womb, or so I’m told. Ten pounds, bruiser hands and feet.

“How old is this kid?” my father is said to have hollered when the nuns brought me out from the cold-­storage room or the basement or wherever they stashed unwanted Catholic babies up for adoption—­ta da! But Gord was suspicious. He thought they were trying to pass a toddler off on him.

Sylvie, however, immediately held out her arms to me, bracing herself, bending a little at the knees.

“The little bastard’s old enough to drive,” my dad insisted, watching as Sylvie heaved me against her shoulder into a burping position, which I made prompt good use of. Meanwhile a frost had crystallized the room. The nuns did not appreciate the B word, their slack faces tightened like sphincters, but what they failed to understand was that it had nothing to do with my illegitimate origins. Dad called people “bastard” as a matter of course. Anyone, really—­men, women, and children. Teachers, bankers, and priests. Inanimate objects, even—­a sweater with one arm turned inside out or a slippery fork. The nuns were just lucky he didn’t call me a cocksucker, seeing as how he used the terms interchangeably, depending on his mood.

What People are saying about this

From the Publisher
“Only a writer as wonderfully gifted as Lynn Coady could elicit such extraordinary sympathy for a man as full of self-destructive rage as Rank, her main character.   You won't soon forget either him or this haunting novel.” —Richard Russo

“Coady’s fluency in the language of the college boy [is] impressive, [as is] her feel for the camaraderie that is inseperable from rivalry and masculine aggression.” —The New Yorker
 
“A dramatic and funny confessional in reverse.” —Marie Claire
 
 “A genuinely fascinating character [whose] emails evolve from clumsy rages to thoughtful, measured ruminations on crucial events in his life….But it is Coady’s ability to realistically portray his teens and university years and empathetically conduct his search for self that makes The Antagonist more than just engertainment.” —Booklist
 
“Smartly tuned and as unsettling as it intends to be…. Coady expertly renders a man who's compelled to address his past but not entirely ready to look in the mirror [and her novel] is a caution to tread carefully.” —Kirkus

“Coady is an ambitious writer, exploring themes of masculinity, religion, and the perils and promise of the fictional enterprise, and her decision to write from the male perspective is brave and successful….The pathos and humor brought to a challenging life story will appeal to many readers.” —Publishers Weekly

Meet the Author

Lynn Coady is an award-winning writer, editor, and journalist. She was born on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia and now lives in Edmonton, Alberta. She is the author of Mean Boy, Play the Monster BlindSaints of Big Harbour, and Strange Heaven.

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The Antagonist 3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
GrammyReading More than 1 year ago
okay Rank...tell your story and be done with it...but oh no..you want to go on and on and dissect every single moment of your sad and angry life, and blame others for not seeing it the way you do....well at first i didn't want to hear it, got sick of reading this tale about two chapters in, and thought i would toss it aside...but as each page turned, especiallly once i got midway through. - voila!..Rank started seeming more like a human than some ogre without thought, conscience, or even common sense....if you have time to read and enjoy this tale of realization and the truth we sometimes shield ourselves from...well, be my guest...enjoy