There are those books that sit on your shelf for ages, and you don’t remember where you got it, or if you bought it yourself, why. These books can sit for years maybe, before you even touch them, just sitting there patiently, waiting to be read. Sometimes, you read them, and they are like finding twenty dollars in your pocket, in other words, they are a pleasant surprise. And sometimes, they are like driving along the highway merrily when you realize you are speeding and the cop had been following you for about ten minutes. In other words, reading it is a sinking feeling that can only end in misery. Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon was the latter for me.

Kavalier and Clay had many elements I should have loved. It had strong Jewish themes, comics, historical setting, and very complex characters. Yet, somehow, it was like never being able to take a few steps back from an impressionist painting. It was just a big old mess.

The story takes place between 1939 and sometime during the McCarthy era, so a span of about 25 years. The main characters are two cousins. Josef Kavalier is a German Jewish refugee who escapes the Nazis but suffers from the guilt that his family is stuck in Europe. Sam Clayman is a street smart New York Jew looking to make a name for himself in the fledgling comics industry. The story explores the relationship between the two cousins, the inner demons they battle on a daily basis, and follows them through a variety of exploits in life, love and politics.

The book is considered the magnum opus of Michael Chabon (who also wrote the Yiddish Policeman’s Union and Wonder Boys among other things). If by magnum opus, they mean the size of the book, which checks in at around 700 pages, then I agree, but as for genius…maybe the definition is relative. 19th century author Henry James writes in his famous essay about the novel “The Art of Fiction,” that a writer who thinks himself an artist and tries to create art instead of a novel, is doing himself an injustice. I fancy this maybe the reason Chabon failed in this novel. This novel is obviously meant to be something greater than the story it is trying to tell, and that pretentiousness drips onto every page.

I recommend this book only for those who fancy themselves intellects with a higher understanding of the arts, or for those who must read every Pulitzer Prize winner or new bestseller. This is obviously a book for those who are much more in “the know” than I am.

Grade: D