Nog (Midnight Classics Series) (ISBN 1852424230)

Greatest novel of the counterculture:
There were very few exemplary novels to come out of the 1960s: maybe "The Crying of Lot 49," by Pynchon, "Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me," by Richard Farina (which unfortunately has not worn well), "Twilight Candelabra," by William J. Craddock (okay, I'm not completely serious here), and the best one of all, the one that social anthropologists should consult when trying to make sense of that mad decade -- "Nog." Wurlitzer went off to Hollywood soon after, and certainly never achieved this kind of inspired prose again -- though "Flats" influenced Sam Shepard a great deal, and "Slow Fade" has its moments, but more recently he seems burned out. "Nog" is the quintessential "stoner" novel of all time. As such it's a significant document; more importantly perhaps, it's endlessly entertaining and diverting. Wurlitzer was here as original as anyone writing in English since WWII.

An experiment beyond the novel ... and very strange, indeed.:
Combine Donald Barthelme (how about The Dead Father), the more benign elements of William S. Burroughs (oh, let's say, the chapter "Shift Coordinate Points" from Nova Express), throw in a pinch of Alaine Robbe-Grillet (hmmm... maybe Project for a Revolution in New York or Last Year at Marienbad), beat well, simmer over a low psilocybin flame, then serve in a small, locked, pitch dark room, with a only tiny square window high up in the door, set R. D. Laing outside the door to intone "grace" over the whole business, and you've got "Nog" --or something like it. There is no discernible "plot" or "point" to the "story" to speak of, just hallucinatory narration from a seemingly disembodied mind that seems to have woken up in a storage room in some nameless and bizarre house or is trying to wake up from some tripped-out nightmare but can't quite pull it off. There's an octopus, or some concept of an octopus, that creeps in now and then, and "conversations" with faceless and nameless persons beyond the confines of the narrator's (Nog's)"world." Don't worry: there aren't any "spoilers" in this review. "Nog" starts out intriguing, but then becomes contrived and tiresome after the first 50 pages (luckily, it's a relatively short book)when, hoping against hope, you realize that, indeed, "this isn't going anywhere." The prose has it's interesting moments, deft turns of phrase here and there, but, ultimately fizzles. Worse yet, it's not even funny. I read this book for the first time, 12 years ago, when I was recuperating from a major bout of the flu. "Nog" made absolutely no sense, but I chalked it up to my fever-addled brain. I tried reading it again, recently, thinking time and a prior read would offer some kind of Rosetta Stone for this puzzle. No dice. In fact, "Nog" was even less understandable. Bottom line: This was an interesting experiment that was in harmony with the "oh wow, it's art!" absurdist sensibilities of the late 60's when it was written. It's really more of a curiosity than any serious effort at literature. Now, if you're a serious student of the psychedelic era, "Nog" deserves a read, if only to take you to the outer boundaries of a literary genre we probably won't see again.

"I am becoming Nog, I am Nog, except that he slips away...":
Reading "Nog" is a little like living in the mind of Zen monk strung out on drugs. Whatever, whoever Nog is, I'm not sure that he's human. If a human being is one step removed from reality-having to interpret the physical world through the senses and through the mind-then Nog is about four or five steps removed. Impressions from the world come in, bounce around inside his cavernous mind and finally end up distorted beyond recognition, which is where the fun begins. Nog strives to maintain a maximum of three memories, considers facts subjective, and will not, under any circumstances, give out information. But don't get him started on the octopus... "He kept complaining about a yellow light that had been streaming out of his chest from a spot the size of a half dollar. We drank and talked about the spot and the small burning sensation it gave him early in the morning and about his octopus. He had become disillusioned about traveling with the octopus and had begun having aggressive dreams about it. He wanted to sell it." Rudolph Wurlitzer's style is reminiscent of other writers of the era-Hunter S. Thompson, William S. Burroughs, et cetera-and the novel's genre is the good old American "yarn." As with Mark Twain, Wurlitzer just wants to keep pulling your leg as long as you'll let him. This sort of thing is difficult to sustain outside the confines of a short story, however-and, like some of Twain's novels, "Nog" does lose a bit of its steam somewhere. The opening of the book is absolutely priceless, but soon Wurlitzer must do something to up the ante in his narrative con game. This, unfortunately, means falling back on an listless plot to move Nog around and add fodder to that bizarre imagination. If "Nog" never quite surpasses the flair of the opening chapters, Wurlitzer has still achieved a deliciously eccentric style and created one truly unforgettable character.

Rudolph Wurlitzer writes an American Classic:
After being badgered by the Casa Marina Reading Club in the late '70's to read this (resulting in my subsequent slide into Nog-like obscurity), I can state with some experience that this book exerts an influence on its readers. Rumors abound that Wurlitzer was an itinerant goat herder who strived to simplify his life: to date these rumors are unsubstantiated. However, there is evidence that "Nog" is an influence in the writings of Thomas Pynchon and Christopher Moore. Chuck Norris has been known to quote significant passages from the book in some of his Westerns and credits the book with his zen-like approach to martial arts. A good read - and a way of life.

A Breath Mint For Your Mind:
Nog was one of those books that taught me more about writing at the time than all my college courses lumped together. I remember buying this book in its Pocket Books incarnation in the autumn of 1970. The book cost me $.95 cents brand spanking new, but, as they claim on the Master Card commercials, the experience is priceless. I stayed up all night reading the book and raving to my roommates the following morning. One read it; the other demurred. Simply put, it is one of the great classics, not just of an era but in modern American Lit. I still have that original copy of Nog. I handle it with care.