The Review of Contemporary Fiction

Without by Randie Lipkin
Irving Malin

Untitled document

Randie Lipkin. Without. Fugue State, 1998. 152 pp. Paper: $7.00.

I have been eagerly waiting for Lipkin’s second novel. It confirms her rare talent. This novel, like her first one, Untitled (a skier), is a daring, wise, beautiful exploration of the “cruelty of everyday living,” of mysterious loss. It explores Wittgenstein’s vision of language’s limitations, mysterious “reality.”

The novel is set in Japan. There are many characters who are haunted by the need to achieve stability (of love, faith, art) but who discover that instability, change, rule them. There are references to death, divorce, separation (of family, gender, rituals). The dialogue is elliptical, as if language itself is without certainty. Here, for example, are some typical sentences: “Marriage and children are no indication of anything”; “I never know when you mean what you’re saying”; “I won’t be able to hear what he’s saying. I can’t listen to someone I don’t know.”

There are descriptions of a Finnish film and a traditional Japanese drama. The film (its very nature consists of “moving” image) is described in a haunting, disturbing way. Lipkin uses odd syntax—there are missing verbs, few declarative sentences. Language, like perception, is without fullness. It reads like an incomplete translation (one of the characters is a translator, always aware of deadlines). There are allusions to “backs,” “unfolding fans,” “shadows,” “edges,” “lines of descending fabric.” Objects are not solid, complete, fixed.

The novel then suggests that change rules reality, that reality itself is an edge; although some of the characters can endure change, they need to do the same things again and again, as if to stabilize their identities. But these solitary rituals, vigils, cannot ward off panic. If we recognize the odd syntax—the symbols of fading flowers, flashing signs, ticking clocks—the present participle recurs: we are prepared for the wonderful complexity (perplexity?) of the last two sentence/paragraphs: “She pushes her cloth forward, half-standing, half-running.” The final sentence: “As they reach end of corridor, he’s ahead of her, passing her as he returns.” The sentence conveys in its very movement, that “passing” “returns.” Nothing stands still except the artistic “act of attention.” Without is, then, a brave attempt to capture and shape change. It sanctifies absence. [Irving Malin]


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The Review of Contemporary Fiction Without by Randie Lipkin Irving Malin Untitled document Randie Lipkin. Without. Fugue State, 1998. 152 pp. Paper: $7.00. I have been eagerly waiting for Lipkin’s second novel. It confirms her rare talent. This novel, like her first one, Untitled (a skier), is a daring, wise, beautiful exploration of the “cruelty of everyday living,” of mysterious loss. It explores Wittgenstein’s vision of language’s limitations, mysterious “reality.” The novel is set in Japan. There are many characters who are haunted by the need to achieve stability (of love, faith, art) but who discover that instability, change, rule them. There are references to death, divorce, separation (of family, gender, rituals). The dialogue is elliptical, as if language itself is without certainty. Here, for example, are some typical sentences: “Marriage and children are no indication of anything”; “I never know when you mean what you’re saying”; “I won’t be able to hear what he’s saying. I can’t listen to someone I don’t know.” There are descriptions of a Finnish film and a traditional Japanese drama. The film (its very nature consists of “moving” image) is described in a haunting, disturbing way. Lipkin uses odd syntax—there are missing verbs, few declarative sentences. Language, like perception, is without fullness. It reads like an incomplete translation (one of the characters is a translator, always aware of deadlines). There are allusions to “backs,” “unfolding fans,” “shadows,” “edges,” “lines of descending fabric.” Objects are not solid, complete, fixed. The novel then suggests that change rules reality, that reality itself is an edge; although some of the characters can endure change, they need to do the same things again and again, as if to stabilize their identities. But these solitary rituals, vigils, cannot ward off panic. If we recognize the odd syntax—the symbols of fading flowers, flashing signs, ticking clocks—the present participle recurs: we are prepared for the wonderful complexity (perplexity?) of the last two sentence/paragraphs: “She pushes her cloth forward, half-standing, half-running.” The final sentence: “As they reach end of corridor, he’s ahead of her, passing her as he returns.” The sentence conveys in its very movement, that “passing” “returns.” Nothing stands still except the artistic “act of attention.” Without is, then, a brave attempt to capture and shape change. It sanctifies absence. [Irving Malin]

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