Hedges-Hog

Last week, I found myself concurrently reading two books by two different men named Hedges. I found the coincidence extraordinary.

1. Peter Hedges, The Heights

If you are one of my regular readers, you may recall that before my illustrious career as a writer, I dabbled in the theatre. My undergraduate degree is, in fact, in acting, and I had to perform two monologues for the faculty before gaining admission to the Syracuse University Department of Drama. At seventeen, with a painful haircut and an even more painful compulsion to be a star, I spent months pleading “Is Brutus sick?” in preparation for the audition (Portia, Julius Caesar).

With my classical selection in the bag, it was time to focus on my contemporary piece, and I was lucky enough to stumble upon an absolute treasure: a one-woman show called The Valerie of Now from which I excerpted a 2-minute chunk. The story is that of of a 12-year-old girl (Valerie) who both laments and rejoices over the fact that she just got her first period. She cries, she screams, she sings (it ends with a rousing rendition of “I am Woman, Hear me Roar”). It was perfect; no monologue had ever shown such range. Plus, with the aforementioned haircut, I really could pass for 12.

The Valerie of Now was written by Peter Hedges who, at the time, was best known for his novel What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. I had never read the book, but like all good teenagers of the 90s, I’d seen the film and I liked it. Since then, Hedges has written and/or directed several other films, including About a Boy, Pieces of April, The Odd Life of Timothy Green.

Though Hedges works mostly in film, he recently published another novel called The Heights, which sat front and center at my local bookstore for months. The title refers to Brooklyn Heights, the neighborhood adjacent to mine, and Hedges, as it turns out, lives right down the street. It was the perfect storm: a book about where I live, by a man who not only shops at the same Trader Joe’s, but who was responsible for my undergraduate education. I had to read it.

I regret to report that The Heights is no Valerie of Now. The great thing about The Valerie of Now is that there is no subtext whatsoever and that, combined with the humor, sets the stage for an outrageous romp. There is also no subtext in The Heights, but neither is the book very funny. It’s a domestic tale about a couple with some vanilla marital issues, and Hedges sticks close to the surface. If an author’s not going to do a little digging into the human condition, than he or she really needs compensate with something else: humor, suspense, adventure, historical accuracy, whatever. The Heights did none of these things.

2. Chris Hedges, War is a Force that Gives Us Meaning

I have recently, against my better judgment, joined a book club. I am skeptical of things like book clubs—particularly when they are comprised of all women, as this one is—in the same way that I am skeptical of jewelry parties, sex toy nights, and the Red Hat Society. Too many women in one room, who aren’t really close enough to make it feel worthwhile. My standards for girl-time are high: the last time I saw my two best friends, we spent hours wedged together in a hotel room bathtub in Atlantic City in our bathing suits, drinking champagne and vodka, and alternately laughing, crying, and sending prank texts. With nights like that, white wine and giggles fall flat.

I was invited into this new book club, however, by a woman for whom I have enormous respect and affection, and so I agreed to participate. It was through the club that I came into contact with my second Hedges book: War is a Force that Gives Us Meaning by Pulitzer Prize-winning war correspondent Chris Hedges. I was happy with the choice—no Sweet Potato Queen or Ya-Ya Sisterhood for these ladies!

Chris Hedges writes with seductive clarity and authority. I found such beauty in his analysis of war—unpeeling layer after layer of the compulsion that drives us into combat. He writes as a journalist, but also as a raw, damaged man who has witnessed first-hand the worst conflicts of our time. I found the book oddly uplifting: war is horrific, yes, but horror is part of life, and life is sublime. We gather heightened snatches of meaning in life’s most atrocious moments, and thus we are able to endure them.