In Walks With Men, Ann Beattie’s new novella, the writer returns to a time when her star was the well-polished centerpiece of the literary firmament—namely, the 1980s, when you couldn’t open the New Yorker without seeing one of her stories, and “Chilly Scenes of Winter became a kind of bible among 20somethings.” So said last week’s New York Times piece, “Ann Beattie, Reliving a Time of Fame,” a brisk, but not unfair assessment of the local author’s first new work in five years.
In it we follow a recent Harvard graduate named Jane Jay Costner, who herself earns a New York Times profile by stiffing her graduating class during a commencement speech where Jimmy Carter is in attendance. The year is 1980—which, if you’re counting, makes this character about a decade younger than the real Beattie. Jane falls in love with the writer of the profile, Neil, who is himself married and exactly twice her age (44). He’s full of a kind of cultural literacy that’s useful for aspiring essayists who live in New York. (“Never have any flowers in the house that refer to myths people might know.” “Notice who the cinemtographer is. In the future, see movies based on that.”)
Beattie paints in her trademark emotional watercolors and examines the moody, uncertain space of young womanhood, made even more confusing under an imposing Lothario. “I thought understanding men would give me information about the way I could make a life for myself,” she says in the opening paragraph. And it works. Jane and Neil are so successful that you’re left to wonder how they find the time to entertain such crushing neuroses: Between following all of Neil’s rules and losing friends, Jane seems to stumble blindly into work on a documentary that wins an Academy Award, while Neil, who becomes her husband, grows in renown for his writing.
Though it concerns successful people—most characters come with resumés—Walks With Men is more a story about weathering life’s unclear moments, about developing what Neil (by way of John Keats) calls “negative capability”: the ability to accept uncertainty. The phrase is a welcome gift from Beattie, who likes to conceal the deck. It helps us deal with the fate of Ben, an ex-boyfriend with whom Jane briefly shared a Vermont farm, who turns up in New York, having changed his name to Goodness. Ben/Goodness’ death, and, later, Neil’s mysterious departure—I won’t spoil either—feel as hazy as they do unjust.
And then there’s the book’s cover—it looks like an American Apparel ad—which is the publisher’s attempt to appeal to a young audience. Walks With Men likely won’t appeal to mass market paperback readers, who want literature to be more gratifying, less edifying. But the confusing passages that demand rereading reward the extra effort in equal measure, revealing a level of nuance that proves Beattie, while perhaps no longer a household name, remains a name that’s at least worth dropping to impress your friends.
