The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem

This was a book I couldn't stop putting down. I started it Sunday-before-last and read about 50 pages. I was flying to Phoenix on Monday, and I am an extremely fearful flier, so I wanted a book to read that would absorb my mind completely. I put this one down (though I did pack it to go with me) and read Special Topics in Calamity Physics instead. After I finished that one, I went back to Fortress for 200 or so more pages. Then my son took me to a book store, and I bought Black Swan Green by David Mitchell, my Second Favorite Living
Writer. I couldn't wait to read it; Fortress was put aside again. After I finished Black Swan Green I went back to Fortress and read until I had about 50 pages left. But then it was time to fly home, and again I wanted an eyes-glued-to-the-pages book. My son had taken me to another bookstore, and I had purchased On Canaan's Side by Sabastian Barry, my Favorite Living Writer. I read some of that on the plane. Back at home, even though I very much wanted to continue with the Barry book, I made myself finish The Fortress of Solitude. Finally.

Obviously, this book did not hold my attention.

The Fortress of Solitude tells the story of Dylan Edbus, growing up motherless in the 1970s as the lone white boy in a black and Puerto Rican section of Brooklyn. His friendship with Mingus Rude, a mulatto boy who is also motherless, protects him somewhat from the muggings and random violence of the neighborhood, as they find a common ground in their love of super-hero comic books. Then Dylan is given a ring by a mysterious, dying alcoholic that gives him and Mingus the power to fly!

Fast-forward to the grown-up Dylan, a free-lance music writer specializing in '70s rhythm and blues (the street music of his youth). He is not happy. He has tried to leave his past behind but cannot. He finds the magic ring again. He decides to go see Mingus (in jail). And so it goes.

This is not a poorly written book; Lethem is a more than competent writer. If book jacket acclaims can be taken seriously, many reviewers consider it "a masterpiece," "brilliant," "wickedly good." And so forth. I found it "somewhat boring," "pretentious," "smug." And so forth.

I would have liked this book more if:
#I had ever been to Brooklyn, so that I could have been amazed by the descriptive powers of the author;
#I had been knowledgeable about '70s rhythm and blues and '80s hip-hop and rap, so that I could have been terribly impressed by the author's comprehensive knowledge of these musical genres;
#I had even remotely understood why Lethem added the magic realism element, so that I could have been awed by the symbolism;
#I had identified with or sympathized with the main character at all, so that I could have understood why he turned out to be so despicable.

I chose it (because of the reviews), I read it (finally), and I didn't like it.