The Drama Is in the Details of Town Life

We live in a fast society: zero to 60 in seven seconds, computers that ask what we’re doing if we take our fingers off the keys to think, microwave ovens that pulverize pasta in less time than it takes to brew a cup of tea.

We prize speed--which is what makes Tracy Kidder’s work such a profound pleasure. He doesn’t. He is the journalist as anthropologist, studying a new culture each time out: computer pioneers, home builders, the aged, schoolchildren and, in “Hometown,” the residents of Northampton, Mass. Kidder is not a headline chaser; Northampton, home to Smith College, is remarkable for its unremarkableness. But there are stories here, familiar and touching ones, and Kidder tells them in exquisite detail.

There are various labels for what he does--narrative nonfiction, observational journalism, immersion journalism. Kidder hangs out, far longer than most writers would, and chronicles the lives he sees. In “Hometown,” the central story is of Tommy O’Connor, Northampton born and bred, a big, shaved-headed sergeant on the police force, a man who loves his work and his wife and his widowed dad and his pals. He is fiercely loyal to his hometown; he kind of likes the wackos he encounters and considers no one lost. He is as much father confessor as beat cop.

Reality was good to Kidder in the time he spent researching the book, and life does not proceed according to the less-than-rosy notion we have of settled small-town life: Tommy’s wife Jean cannot get pregnant, his best friend Rick cannot fend off charges by his estranged wife and Tommy, finally, cannot spend the rest of his life doing what he expected.

There are plenty of other characters: Alan, an obsessive-compulsive who makes Jack Nicholson’s character in “As Good as It Gets” look like a farm team neurotic; Frank, the maniacal crack addict; Suzanne, the stripper; Laura, the Smithie welfare mother, and others. And there is history, all seamlessly interwoven into the narrative. But it is Tommy’s story that carries the reader through.

Kidder is too young to be the godfather of the form, but he is certainly its white knight. Other well-known writers, from John Gregory Dunne to David Halberstam, have flirted with it, and Dunne’s “The Studio,” written before Hollywood grasped the notion of limited access, is a brilliant look at the entertainment industry. Too many newer writers try this kind of writing and journalism without understanding the discipline, which is why so many books tangle up exposition and narrative and stumble over clumsy asides from the writer, who steps into his own scene.

But Kidder has made this his life’s work. What he does is deceptive; none of the stitching shows. But to reach this level of intimacy, he has to get people to trust him with information they might not share with a close friend. He has to see everything--and then figure out where his story resides within a mass of notes.

And he has to work harder, in a way, than a traditional journalist shouting pointed questions at a target. Kidder mingles with civilians at vulnerable moments and somehow manages not to get in the way. The most poignant example is a scene of goodbyes. Did Kidder stand in the hallway while two terribly undemonstrative men sobbed? Did he hop into the back seat of the car to hear what one had to say to his wife as they drove away? Or did he manage a masterful re-creation? Either way, the reader sees moments that are all the more powerful for being real.

Scenes like that, which can be found in each of Kidder’s books, offer glimpses of human behavior that elevate a specific moment into a more enduring truth. Kidder does not write about celebrity. He writes about anyone--about everyone, with dignity and care. It’s not a flashy, fashionable discipline right now, to be sure, but worth every moment spent reading it.