Marryat, Frederick. The King's Own (1830). Ithaca: McBooks P, 1999.

Look at this:

Congratulate me, reader, that, notwithstanding I have been beating against wind and tide, that is to say, writing this book, through all the rolling and pitching, headache and indigestion ... I have arrived at my last chapter. You may be surprised at this assertion, finding yourself in the middle of the third volume; but such is the fact.... Give me the bottle of wine—and, as [this book] rushes into the sea of public opinion ... I christen her "The King's Own."

And now that she is afloat, I must candidly acknowledge that I am not exactly pleased with her (334-35).

This is one of dozens such authorial intrustions and doubtings that fill this book, and be aware that later in the very chapter (no. 49 of 60) that opens with the above passage, a character hears a quick summary of what's gone on so far and says such a story would make a great novel. This book is more self-aware than John Barth's morning bathroom-mirror ministrations; sure makes postmodern fiction look like old hat. A 125-year-old hat.

This novel is a seafaring, swashbuckling story. It's got all the tropes and characters you'd associate with it. It's like Master & Commander, I guess, having not seen it. There's lots of romance and bloodshed and excitement and pathos and everything. And it's my favorite book I've read all year, with the possible exception of the new Didion. I think why it's my favorite has something to do with the high amounts of drama and tension and detail, but also with the narrator above, the way this very straightforward, plot-driven adventure novel is told to us by a very direct and near presence. It's like listening to a storyteller, and putting your faith in him to deliver the goods. A movie of this book would be awful because you can't film narration. You can't film authorial intrusion.

Or maybe you can. Maybe the pull behind auteur-theory and the films it embraces is the way these films create a single individual presence. The constanty moving camera of Magnolia. The pinks and poise of The Royal Tenenbaums. The self awareness of Godard. It's like your hand's being held. No it's not like that, it's like you're sitting next to an amiable friend.

I'm rambling. I like the presence of other people. I'm amazed how imaginary people can feel so real and so close by words on a page. I welcome the illusion, John Barth. Stop writing stories that tell me I'm silly to do this.