Fiction review: Homer & Langley

FICTION

E.L. Doctorow is undoubtedly one of our nation's greatest writers, a skilled chronicler of the American historical canvas from the Civil War to the spiritual dilemmas of the modern age. Whether in "Ragtime," "The Book of Daniel," "The March" or "City of God," Doctorow continually gives us fictional perspectives on grand moments in U.S. history.

The same can be said of "Homer & Langley," in which he once again tackles American history -- this time almost all of the 20th century. Yet for all Doctorow's talents, this slim and readable novel feels like something of a departure from the author's canon. It's much more intimate and self-contained, for one thing. And it lacks the gravity and importance one would expect from a work tackling the evolution of modern American society.

Our perspective takes the form of Homer Collyer, one of two real New Yorkers who achieved notoriety in the mid-20th century for their four-story mansion on Fifth Avenue, which contained a nearly unimaginable amount of junk, including leaning towers of newspaper, pianos, typewriters and even a disassembled Model-T Ford. Homer and his brother, Langley, were found dead in their home, one of them literally buried under a pile of junk that had been booby-trapped against invaders.

In Doctorow's hands, however, the Collyer brothers' junk turns into artifacts of Americana. What would possess these men to amass such a potpourri? Why did they shut themselves off from the world around them?

These are the questions Doctorow's novel attempts to answer, and its an intriguing window through which to explore recent history, especially considering that (aside from Langley's traumatic stint in World War I), history seems to come to them. Sometimes it even barges in their front door, taking the form of Prohibition-era gangsters, jazz musicians, immigrant housekeepers, Vietnam-era protesters and others.

"Homer & Langley" is Doctorow's funniest work in quite a while, almost unnervingly so. After all, it's only until the final pages that the ramifications of the Collyer lifestyle reveal themselves. What reads for almost 200 pages like a casual chronicle of a strange interaction with the 20th century suddenly turns tragic, and we realize that underneath all this believe-it-or not business lies a much darker -- and completely unfunny -- lesson about living a life separated from the outside world.

Zak M. Salih is a freelance writer who lives in Washington.