Geoff at Sea
Another Great Day at Sea by Geoff Dyer, excerpt from review published in Los Angeles Review of Books
WHILE READING Geoff Dyer’s latest unmissable blend of new journalism, memoir, and rumination, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t actually getting anywhere, and therefore neither was I. This perception of (albeit enjoyable) treading water was exacerbated by the fact that I was reading Another Great Day at Sea on a tablet, only the second time I’ve ever done so for a review, and therefore unable to turn down the corner of a page, slap a sticker on a quote, or glance at a spine to guess how far I’d traveled. Due to national security concerns Dyer couldn’t mention the precise location of his subject matter, or when exactly he spent time on board (though clues in the text reveal it to have been during October 2011), and this added to the sensation of being lost in time and space. Surely, I thought, notwithstanding that Dyer’s prose is tactile, articulate, hilarious, and provocative — it can’t be denied he’s a damn fine writer — we should have reached some larger metaphorical destination by now?
But then, there on page 165 (of a total of 202), Dyer admits he feels much the same way. Jets are coming in to land over his head at 140 mph before being hooked to a halt in less than two seconds by 2,200 feet of cable, while he sits at the carrier’s fantail, trapped in a depressive cycle of self-doubt. His concern about “the clarity and fixity of the carrier’s unquestioned purpose” has given rise to more general “feelings — and questions — of purposelessness,” compounded tenfold by his decision (and this is always a mistake) to revisit works by other writers covering similar material. His confidence shattered, Dyer is entirely at sea.
Of course, this fluid and discursive style is intrinsic to Dyer’s appeal, so although he was panicking, I knew I needn’t. I knew he’d get a grip; few writers meander toward meaning with such articulate dexterity. In his essay “My Life as a Gatecrasher” (included in his collection Working the Room from 2010), he describes setting out in 1989 to write But Beautiful, his study of jazz, without any jazz credentials beyond his own enjoyment: “Writing the book would bring me to exactly the point at which I needed to be in order to be qualified to start writing it,” he said, because “it’s not what you know that’s important, it’s what your passion gives you the potential to discover.”
While he’s hunched in melancholy on the carrier’s capstan I was also reminded of a line from his review of The Hunters, James Salter’s novel about fighter pilots, which Dyer considers a prophetic allegory about Salter’s career, but which could also be an allegory about the challenges of artistic endeavor: “Flying is important not simply as an end in itself but as a test of character, of how one reacts in the face of destiny […]. The pilot achieves — or fails to — a state of grace in and through his isolation.” Referring to his current feelings of isolation and inadequacy while jets thunder overhead, Dyer contends that “confidence is essential to writing […]. You can’t do it without talent but you can’t do it without confidence either […]. I was like a pilot in the process of losing it.” Dyer doesn’t lose it, but when compared to his other nonfiction works, Another Great Day at Sea has a muted tone — as though his wings were clipped — and the reason for this becomes clear when he brings it back to land with a grace and subtlety only writers of the highest caliber should attempt.
