(hopefully)

Once upon a time in the tingling world of literary reviewing, the intellectual concept of “first” thrived. There were first novels, first collections of stories, first books of poetry.

Alas, gone now. Nostalgia for honest enumeration tugs at my soul under the malignant impact of phrases such as “his debut novel,” “her debut collection.” Reading about debuts calls up visions of the proud father of the writer waiting to have the first dance with his debutant in his or her pink chiffon. What virus has brought debut blight to the useful task of book reviewing?

A clue can be found in a usage note in the American Heritage Dictionary, which suggests that “debut” is “well-established in connection with entertainment and the performing arts ... not entirely acceptable when used in other sorts of introductions ... probably because of the association of the term with show-business publicity.”

Association with the term evokes a twilight reception at a nice hotel; perhaps the band is playing “Volare.” The new novelist is wearing a strapless gown and tears are shining in parental eyes as the shy debutante parades down a stairway, clutching not a corsage but ... a novel which rips the lid off racial hypocrisy? A lyric paean to the smell of bootleg whiskey in the hollows of Appalachia? Of course, there is also a well-established tradition of violinists, singers and other performers making their debuts, after much practice, at Carnegie Hall.

The dictionary suggests what is going on here. Writing is being treated like a performing art and the new writer like a creature emerging from the pupa stage because that’s where the engines of publicity take their models. Perhaps the term “debut” applied to publication on paper began as a charming metaphor, comparing writers to youngsters heading with formal presentation into the adult world of defloration. But why give up the tougher notion of a “first novel” with all its magic promise of perhaps a second and third to follow? Please, let’s not think of the second or third book as an “encore.”

“Debut” isn’t the only problem. There is also “riveting,” as in “this riveting tale of life on the mean streets of Poughkeepsie, New York.” It evokes the hammering clang of a metal bolt to indicate the effect on our metabolisms of an engrossing narrative. Agreed, when it was new the term could suggest strong, moving, enthralling ... a good read. I began to make note of the times the term is used by one frequent reviewer and stopped when I ran out of paper. (So much to complain about, so little paper.)

“Riveting” has degenerated until it means: “Here’s a thriller which will pass the time OK” or “This is the best expose of Henry Kissinger’s naughtiness I’ve read this week.” (I choose not to mention the critic’s name out of fear that she or he will be mean to my new book about finding paradise in Provence or maybe Tuscany, a groundbreaking evocation of the authentic smells of fearless cooking with garlic.)

Interested readers could go to my Website to find further denunciations of both “debut” and “riveting” plus “hopefully” to mean “I hope,” except that I don’t have a Website.

Jean Stafford of blessed memory, novelist, story writer and critic, posted a sign outside her cottage, warning all visitors: “Hopefully Not Spoken Here.” The use of the adverb “hopefully” to mean “I hope” is the death of language terminally.

A few other words, once healthy metaphors, now reviewing cliches, need to be pensioned off. “Trademark,” for example, as in “Tom Wolfe’s trademark white suit” or “John Grisham’s trademark legal detail.” Hitting the “trademark” key on the computer to suggest a dominating familiar image or habit has become a lazy writer’s quick fix. The same flaccidity expresses sarcasm with the parenthetical expression (“wink wink, nudge nudge”). Or crams information into a name, as we would never do in speech, jamming our circuits, as if the information is a title like Senator or Herr Doctor Professor: “San Francisco Asian American Novelist Amy Tan.” Why not put this news into the normal rhythm of healthy American discourse? asks curmudgeonly Cleveland-born San Francisco resident Herbert Gold.

This is not my debut as a public whiner, but hopefully it will not become my trademark either.