When Donald Newlove’s Sweet Adversity was published in 1978 by Avon Books, it flew off dime novel shelves and landed in dustbins. But today used copies are listed on Amazon for as much as $1200, the price of a minor cosmetic surgery or a first edition Melville.
The salient facts, namely who has remembered the book and why, are unclear. Alan Bisbort of the website Please Kill Me calls it a “touchstone” of Alcoholics Anonymous in the 1970s. This seems unverifiable, though in his memoir, Those Drinking Days, Newlove says he “was chairman of two meetings, spoke hundreds of times and at hospitals and prisons,” and “wrote articles for [the] world magazine.” Sweet Adversity, about a pair of conjoined twins hitting alcoholic bottom and digging their ways up, was written while he was “a Stalinist about recovery,” and its plot is thinly autobiographical.
If the sobriety fellowship is responsible for keeping the novel around until its reissue by the Kickstarter-funded Tough Poets Press this January, it would be a first for American experimental fiction, usually the province of university libraries and English departments. Of the former, only four in the United States have a copy, according to WorldCat, and none of them loan it out. By contrast, the Triangle Research Libraries Network shares five copies of the first edition of Joseph McElroy’s famously expensive and hard-to-find Women and Men (back in print since last year, thanks to Dzanc Books). Unlike McElroy, Newlove was never associated with a university nor ran in the well-connected circles that get “writer’s writers” written about –he battled severe alcohol addiction for a quarter century instead, producing, if his memoir is to be believed, hundreds and hundreds of unpublished manuscripts. Typewritten naked, usually on the floor, while “pissing so often I’d use the kitchen sink instead of the toilet,” as Bishop and Baldwin and Fitzgerald and Faulkner all did. Newlove knows that all his heroes, and the academy’s, were drunks; he spent forty years imitating them.
Which is why he wrote Sweet Adversity, a novel about sobriety written sober, so badly. “It’s bad news to get well!” he says; “the vocabulary of recovering isn’t colorful,” and “the [AA] Big Book is some of the worst writing I’ve ever read.” Alcoholism, as the first of AA’s Twelve Steps intimates, is a hopeless disease unless it can be made to articulate itself; an alcoholic will fight this self-speaking self-acknowledgement to the last extremity. As Newlove argues in his memoir, drunkards who write well should be considered as creating through profound disability rather than as chemically enabled mystics. It’s a similar point to the one Antonin Artaud, the dramatist, made in 1925 when he told an editor who had rejected him that he wrote from a place of “unpower,” a fitful creative state in which he could only produce fragments before retiring into unconsciousness. In Newlove’s novel this is figured as a chronic universal breathlessness – lungs flood during bouts of pneumonia, fingers meet around necks in barfights, tongues and lemon peels asphyxiate, oxygen masks become hangover cures – because breath, to the trumpet- and trombone-playing conjoined twins Leo and Teddy, is the medium of creation. (They worship Louis Armstrong as “the man with the most windpower on earth.”) Newlove strangles his own medium, too, robbing his sentences of subjects, verbs, and articles; the dialogue becomes nigh incomprehensible after one of his twins picks up a lisp. Then it all drops, triumphantly, in the last forty pages: one-line ’graphs become thucydidean blocks as a single AA meeting is given speech by speech, the progress to articulation complete.
Literary experimentalism aside, there are clunkers (“slow breasts lifting in a ghostly aquarium”), overwritten descriptions (“Raindarkening bankwindow, hellshine within. Villagers rushing corpsebright. Black noon falls”), and eyeroll-inducers (“It’s part of my sex-opera but I am sending it to some girls I know”). Most of the time it works, oddly enough for a book about not being able to work. The late Denis Johnson, had he ever read Sweet Adversity, would find plenty to admire about its murderous pace through the uncanny valley; echoes of the episode where Leo and Teddy drunk drive an ambulance are hard to ignore in his story “Emergency.” Although the novel is not mentioned in Clare Barker and Stuart Murray’s recent Cambridge Companion to Literature and Disability, its treatments of conjoinment, paralysis, and dementia deserve scholarly study. (Unfortunately, however, when only one of the twins joins AA Newlove turns their conjoinment into a metaphor for the alcoholic’s antagonistic desires.)
Those who aren’t enthused by the thought of six hundred pages of dense fiction can get their dose from Newlove’s Those Drinking Days, which is short, straightforward, and powerfully polemical. It’s easy to find, too, though it deserves a new edition and a return to print. Otherwise, thanks to Tough Poets Press, bottoms up.