A review by Tom Short
You should know who Percival Everett (no longer with an “L.”) is by now. Somehow, he has slipped too far under the radar for years, but high enough to keep getting published (regrettably, in paperback original after paperback original, but still, at least his work was getting out.) He deserves big, famous literary awards (Third Place Books in Seattle recently gave out “Give Percival Everett the Nobel Prize already” buttons). But one of the best, and least recommended Percival Everett novels has to be Suder.
Suder seems a sort of manic, mad romp 1970s fiction that was so typical of that decade (even though it was published in 1983) that can’t seem to be written or published anymore. It was, like many great books of that time period, a quick mover as our anti-hero (Last name: Suder) pushes — stumbles? — forward into some sort of great unknown. Being followed by a drug dealer, Suder picks up an elephant and an abused white child as he races away from his career as a baseball player and toward some sort of destiny in the hills of Oregon.
Words like madcap & misadventure get thrown around with these types of chaotic novels but the minds behind them know exactly what they are using that verve and energy to do: propel the story forward at a pace so quickly that the story skims across the water. Suder does this with a sort of perfect balancing act—and perfect well-conceived finish.
That’s not to say that Suder isn’t deep. There are undertones of race, class, and, through flashbacks, family. And there is a very strong connection to jazz throughout the novel.
I really don’t want to give away the ending. But you should stick around for it. It involves the police, and cabin in the woods and Suder leaving “the surly bonds of earth” in a way both totally unexpected and totally worth your reading time.
Originally published in Midnight Mind Number Seven
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