It calls to memory the strange PR photos of Ben standing be-jeaned and stetson’d, leaning uncomfortably against the side of a 2018 ford F-150, its exterior flawless as a newborn soul. The tone of the story is handled so improperly it is often downright comedic. A hilarious thrust, given that if a cowboy were to sit down in a dusty saloon in the 1830s, and google “city slicker” the top result would be an image of Mr. “Whats Fair” is Ben’s attempt at being folksy, an attempt to assemble some rusty americana from books he vaguely remembers from high school. Fry the nuance out of Harper Lee, cut the edges off Stienbeck, throw in some raw chunks of Faulkner, season with a downright plagerous amount of Aruthur Miller, boil the whole pot into jelly, and serve in broken sentence structure. If you wish to bake Ben’s opening story “Whats Fair” from scratch, google the top 50 or so most popular early to midcentury American novels, and pick out the ones you remember from high school. This collection may be clumsy, but I am pleased to report that it lacks the intensely pathetic xenophobic temper tantrums of Ben’s later work. I think that in terms of overall quality, “Whats Fair” stands head and shoulders above True Allegiance, not simply for the (very) relative quality of its prose, but for its ability to go its 47 whole pages before vomiting up a cambion of racist caricature. My expectations were colored by my experience with his later work, specifically the exquisite quasi-fascist abortion that was True Alliegance. Hold your breath.Īs for what introduction the works may deserve, I must say I was surprised, perhaps even a bit proud of ben. I am here to root around for the ambergris. Shapiro cannot flense himself from his work. Because creation, artistic expression, requires a degree of vulnerability that these types almost universally view as weakness. They talk, they write, but it is truly rare that they attempt to create. Right Wing Grifter Dickheads like Ben never shut up. It would be easy –very easy– to tenderize the carcass of Ben’s work with endless blows about its gauche prose, clumsy theming, and slippery grasp of sentence structure, but to do so would be to grind a flank of rare and exotic meat into hamburger. At the same time, I wish to highlight the opportunity this collection represents. Shapiro, and I will not claim to approach this review from a place of impartiality. This observation, like Ben’s work, is neither poignant nor original.
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