The Mezzanine
by Nicholson Baker
1986, 1988

This is a very odd book. I did enjoy but also, just, huh. It’s a first-person demonstration of overthinking everything, while also just letting it all flow past.

The plot, such as it is, is that the narrator rides an escalator from the lobby to the mezzanine, returning to work after his lunch break. The style however is a detailed and rambling documentation of his thoughts as they veer from the immediacy of his current sensations to memories both recent and long past to considerations for the future and back again. His thoughts would be tripping over themselves with how many and how rapid they are, overlapping and given depth from history, except that Baker has given them space to be fully articulated in a 135-page novel with a multitude of long footnotes such that he describes both a three-minute experience and the entirety of a character.

This book also reminded me of how journals kept by the most obsessively boring of individuals can be the most valuable to historians as they’ll document details that other diarists don’t bother to mention. Most books skim past a character going from point A to point B, with a single line or phrase. This book makes it clear that such a phrase can be treated like a fractal: the closer you look, the more details appear. There are a thousand questions: how did he come to be at point A? why is he going to point B? What is the process of going to point B? Why that process? What sense memories are attached to the process? What history? What is he bringing with him? Why those items? How did he come by those items? etcetera ad infinitum.

I have previously denigrated the literary genre, but this is actually really good despite being very much within that genre. I think the difference is that in so many literary books there is a scene in which the narrator looks at other people in a crowd and think to themselves: those people don’t have interior lives like I do. This book has as it’s very premise that each and every person has a rich interior life. The narrator in this book is no different on the surface level from any of the others, and yet, he is uniquely strangely himself, and so too would be every other person if one looked as deeply.