14 June, 2001: Tuff
Paul Beatty needs to write more. I rather liked the volume of his poetry that I read (Joker Joker Deuce, one of two poetry collections he's written); an otherwise largely unremarkable anthology I own, On the Verge, features an essay on blackness, basketball, and malt liquor ads that's one of the funniest things I read during my college years; and The White Boy Shuffle was shaping up to be a truly great first novel until its fizzle of an ending. Beatty writes like a poet, but not with the sparse, cool voice I associate with a poet turned novelist. It's dazzling, virtuoso, absurdist, delerious prose. Ishmael Reed didn't like this book, but as astute a writer as Reed is, I can't agree with him except on his praise of Beatty's voice.