|A sportswriter in natural habitat.|
Bascombe can’t be taken at his word; the reader can never take him altogether seriously. And even he himself can see his own ridiculousness at points. For all his mockably serious self-absorption, his moment of crisis—and Ford’s novel—springs from an inability to take himself seriously because of this power to see the silliness in his reflections and his life. The salient 20th-century everyman who is his progenitor in this regard is not Rabbit Angstrom or Moses Herzog or Leopold Bloom. It is J. Alfred Prufrock.You can read the rest here, at Open Letters Monthly. Please share by Facebook, Twitter, or sentient messenger dolphin if you like it!