Within 20 pages of the opening of The Night Ocean, I was angry at the book and angry with Paul La Farge, for taking liberties with historical figures in the manner of Mark Binelli's Screamin' Jay Hawkins' All-Time Greatest Hits. As the tidal rhythm of the book grabbed me, the mesmerizing grip of the story couldn't be denied. By the closing chapter, however, I was angry once more with the seemingly endless deceptive layers of the antihero L.C. Spinks. But then I read the author's acknowledgements and got a better sense of what might have been true. I then realized what an important book La Farge has written.
The Night Ocean may be the iconic book for 2017 because it defines Fake News. It shows us how even verified historical realities might be twisted beyond recognition by people who have a deep-seated distrust and hatred of other humans. It erects cautionary signs to journalists and historians to always leave room for being deceived. (In fact, our vanished protagonist Charlie Willett displays the precise habit to avoid practicing in a deception. During a television interview, Charlie employs the tactic used by most in the hyper-polarized 21st century: When you are confronted with irrefutable errors you have made, simply call your challenger crazy. Why not? Most of us harbor the belief that at least half our fellow humans are crazy anyway, let's just say so out loud and go back to tribal warfare.)
On its simplest level, the book follows the waning years of horror writer H.P. Lovecraft and the nature of his relationship with a teenage obsessed fan, Robert Barlow. It follows the history of a Lovecraft diary of 1937 that may have been the product of the writer himself, the obsessive Barlow, or a Canadian sci-fi fan named L.C. Spinks. La Farge grounds the novel in several obscure but verifiable facts, but shows us that it may be impossible for even the intrepid historian to discover what happened in what we like to call the real world.
The lives of Barlow and Spinks intersect with so many mid-century celebrities, including William S. Burroughs, Isaac Asimov, Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera, Whittaker Chambers, Roy Cohn, etc., that some readers may conclude that La Farge provided endless cameo walk-ons to spice up the plot. I'm guessing something different is going on. The lives of well-documented people do indeed interact randomly with those of lesser lights, and the trajectories followed by Barlow and Spinks are perfectly plausible - if true. Then again, as Charlie's wife Marina discovers when she goes on her own vision quest, maybe it's all bullshit. Not just the cameo appearances, not just the obsession with H.P. Lovecraft's private life, but everything we humans thought took place over the last century. What if it is indeed all bullshit? Or as a friend likes to say, what if we all really died in 1997 and what we thought was the 21st century was merely humanity's purgatory? What Marina discovers is that there are few reliable barometers to tell one what is real.
The laser focus on the attempt by the (quasi-fascist? quasi-Trotskyist?) Futurians to take over the New York Science Fiction Convention of 1939 shows us how fans and collectors can get hung up for decades on minor points of history that seem negligible to those around them. But a careful reader will notice something else about that convention. Most historians looking at 1938-39 will think Munich or Hitler-Stalin Pact. Culturalists might think of the New York World's Fair. But there are millions upon millions of humans with their own unique stories built upon their relationships and their involvement in social groups, and some may have critical reference points in their lives that are invisible to most of the population. Who knows, the future of ComiCon may be decided by whether Angela Cartwright shows up at the 2017 San Diego convention. Or the tween-age attendees of BeautyCon may determine which YouTube "celebrities" of fashion become the next Beyonce. In any city, residents may blithely pass by a key convention of anthropologists or architects at a mega-hotel without realizing that they were present (or at least across the street, getting a coffee) at the moment everything changed.
In some ways, the book deserved a full five stars for what it attempts, though the occasional jarring twists between narrators and between types of narration led to temporary unpleasantries in reading. That should not dissuade those who want to dive deep into a study of modern varieties of fraud, however.
Spinks provides first Charlie, then Marina, with the critical turning points of his own life, but in both cases, taints the history with deception. Charlie falls for it. Marina is initially outraged as she realizes what is going on, then references her background as a psychologist to try and understand what could make a person such a sociopath. The fake(?) diary of H.P. Lovecraft stands in for fake news. What would compel a person to make a lifelong career of deception? What is the point in building false histories - self-aggrandizement or a deep-seated hatred of others? Marina knows she will discover no easy answer to this, so she goes swimming in the night ocean, replete with jellyfish that look like Lovecraft's Chthulhu, until someone calls her home. But who is standing at the shore, or is there anyone waving at all?