A Month of Novellas, Book 9: Ticknor - Sheila Heti (2005)

living room windowsill

Ticknor is an odd little novel. It deals with the 'friendship' between George Ticknor and William H. Prescott, both writers from the 19th century.

Sheila Heti has imagined what such a friendship might have been like and relates it from the point of view of well, Ticknor.

We never get anyone else's opinion or view, which in itself is not unusual. There is one narrator and he is Ticknor. But after a while it starts to get a bit grating.

I had problems with this book from the very beginning. I couldn't actually figure out what was going on at first as there seemed to be a dialogue going on without identifiable participants. It's only after I read a couple of pages of this, that I came to realize that it was Ticknor arguing with himself, but sometimes in the third person. Ugh.

Don't get me wrong, there are flashes of great writing in this here book. Like the following:

"There were no books when I was a boy. Had I seen a book I would have thought it was a foreign object. I would have made it do tricks. I would have given it a bowl of food and waited for it to eat." pp.55

The only problem is that already something very similar to this had been said on page 3. And I could never really be sure of what year it was. It seemed as if Ticknor was on his way to a soiree with his friend whilst carrying a pie (the details of which were admittedly funny) and then suddenly he'd be discussing Prescott's funeral. It became a bit ridiculous actually.

It also becomes very apparent that Ticknor is incredibly jealous of his more prosperous - in every way imaginable - friend. After mentioning how his friend's home is well-appointed and has the best of everything, he says:

"My speckled lamp is very nice, though nicer when it isn't on. Still, everyone who visits remarks. No reason to think of moving. Wherever you'd end up would be full of dust in the same way, the same thick air and smell of smoke and the kitchen always without bread." pp.58

Ticknor is such a drip. Forever exalting and envying his friend, yet doing nothing really to change his present condition. And although he thinks of himself as a dear friend to Prescott, he's anything but. On the occasion of Prescott's father dying:

"Months later Prescott asked me, offhandedly, whether I had been at the house that day. Of course I had, I told him, and he apologized, smiling a little, explaining that he had been in such a state that, to this day, he could remember nothing of the weeks that followed his father's death except for flashes here and there, but nothing of the continuity of events or even whether he had slept or not, which I found hard to believe." pp.78

What a selfish prick!
Oh, your 'best' friend has had a traumatic experience and so he can't exactly recall whether you attended his dad's funeral or not, but you doubt him? Stupid, stupid man.

Still, that's not a reason to dislike a book, hating it's narrator/main character. But there came a point where there didn't seem to be any reason to continue reading the book. Yes, the narrator was incredibly jealous of Prescott's success, yes, he couldn't really be relied upon to say anything truly truthful, but this same sort of thing just went on and on. It was like reading some teenage girl's rants about the popular girl in her school. Occasionally amusing, but for the most part just dull and stupid and about people you didn't know or cared about.

After I finished reading this book, I decided to look up both of these writers as they were based on real persons. Well, let's just say that Ms. Heti has taken incredible liberties with their life stories. Good for her, using them as inspiration and then just taking off with it. I just wish it had been less deluded teenage girl and more fellow artist envy.