Conference of the Birds - Softcover

Jeffrey Lewis

2.5

14 ratings by Goodreads

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1906598797 ISBN 13: 9781906598792

Publisher: Haus Publishing, 2011

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The resonant sequel to Meritocracy: A Love Story.

It is the late '70s in Manhattan and God is dead. A group of people come together to explore the void left behind. New York mongrels of the spiritual, as brash and defiant as their chaotic, bankrupt city, they embark on what seems like a journey described in the 12th century Persian poem that gives this powerful novel its title.

Among them are the shy and sweet-natured Bobby, a gifted cartoonist and the group's mascot; Maisie, the acid-tongued rich girl who is fighting a two-front war against mental instability and Hodgkin's disease; the narrator Louie, a very nearly accidental pilgrim torn between his friends and the purpose that has engulfed him; and their austere leader Joe, a saint to some, a pervert to others.

An ordinary, half-finished loft in downtown Manhattan is the scene of the group's last, harrowing efforts to make sense of the words of the ancient Persian poem that seem to mock them: "Thirty birds set out on a perilous journey to reach the Mighty Simurgh, whose name means thirty birds." Is it self-discovery they seek, or oblivion? As thoroughly as any in recent fiction, the characters of The Conference of the Birds take the measure of a de-stabilized age, and wring from it not only tragedy, but dignity.

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About the Author:

Jeffrey Lewis is a noted writer for television (Hill Street Blues) and film (the upcoming Paint, to be directed by Robert Altman).

The window is dirty. Soot has mottled it so that it resembles a topographical map of a region of hills. Rain has caused the soot to run in places, creating rivers or gullies. Raindrops themselves, bearers of the city's detritus, have left faint pockmarks, as though long ago a war had been fought here. Shelling. Death. Verdun. The Western Front. One's imagination could run wild. Don't. Stop. Go back. Nothing wild here. Wild is the city, the world, the wind. Here is cultivation. Here is human possibility. Go back. Stop. Gently, so that even ”human possibility“ is stopped, so that even stopping is stopped.

The landscape of war is deposited on the window's outside. On the pane's inside, particles of dust and faint angular streaks where some window washer years ago used a dirty squeegee. Also, dapples of grease, like settling mist, as though grease has been in the air of the place.

I reach for a scrap of torn-up newspaper. I feel the air rustle against the insides of my fingers as I extend my arm. I feel my fingertips as they land, gentle as a mosquito on skin, on the pile of newsprint squares. My thumb and two fingers pinch the top sheet, which like something hypnotized slides into their grip. Gently, cautiously, they lift the single sheet. With any less pressure it would flutter away. My right arm reaches for the bottle of window cleaner. The solution is pale, diluted, watery. One doesn't waste Windex just as one doesn't waste newspaper. There's no need. Need is elsewhere. Need is a poem, or need has no name. Stop. Gently. Go back.

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