in these collections as well, which is simply to be expected in a career that now spans twenty years; and when it comes to the small number of other books he’s put out besides story collections, I have to confess that I found those to be a much iffier proposition. For example, there’s the 2000 children’s book The Very Persistent Gappers of Frip, cute enough but as inessential to an adult as any children’s book is; then there’s his one collection of nonfiction essays, 2007’s The Braindead Megaphone, an uneven compilation of random pieces which includes some real gems (one of the best being that GQ piece mentioned, where Saunders is sent GeorgePlimpton-style to Dubai, and instead of the usual decrying of the ultra-rich he is surprisingly charmed by all the vacationing middle-class families), but that has an equal amount of throwaway pieces done for highly specific commissions; and then there’s the only stand-alone fiction book of his career so far, the 2005 novella The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil, which I have to confess is the only thing of Saunders’ career that I actively disliked -- written in the middle of the Bush atrocities, it’s obviously an attempt to do an Animal Farm-style satire about those years, but is labored in its execution, too on the nose, and in general has too much of a “quirky for the sake of being quirky” vibe, the exact thing that can most quickly kill a piece of bizarro fiction. (But then again, we perhaps shouldn’t blame Saunders for this; as I’ve talked about many times here in the past, it seems that no indignant artist was able to write satirically about Bush in the middle of the Bush Years without producing an overly obvious ranting screed, whether that’s Saunders or George Clooney or Michael Moore or Robert Redford. No wonder no good books about Nazis came out until after World War Two; as we all learned in the early 2000s, it’s nearly impossible to actually live under a fascist regime and also be subtle and clever in your critique of it.) But those are all small quibbles, of course; Saunders’ bread and butter is in his short fiction, and I’m convinced that he will eventually be known as one of the best short-fiction authors in history, joining a surprisingly small list that includes such luminaries as Cheever, William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, GK Chesterton and more. Plus, as a fan of edgy and strange work, I’m thrilled that a guy like Saunders is out there, serving as a gateway of sorts between mainstream society and an entire rabbithole of basement-press bizarro titles that’s just waiting for newly inspired fans to tumble down. If you’re going to pick up your first Saunders book soon, go ahead and pick up the newest, Tenth of December, because it’s just as good as all the others and particularly easy to find right now; but I also encourage you to dig deeper into this remarkable author’s career, and to see just how far he’ll pull you into the murky depths of ambiguous morality before coming bobbing back to the surface. It’s been a true treat to become a fan of his work this year, and I urge you to become one as well. Out of 10 (Tenth of December): 9.6 CJ
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