The Bridges of Madison County


A few months ago an old college friend sent me a copy of The Bridges of Madison County. This was not meant as an overture to reestablishing something out of the past, but merely to share a book she was fond of. I am a photographer and so is she. And as it turns out, so is the protagonist of this vapid story which I tried to read last night.

Usually I give a book fifty pages before abandoning it to the thrift-store box. Perhaps I am getting too old to spend that much time anymore or this book is SO bad that I could not even grant it the usual dispensation. I started to be suspect as soon as I read the dedication, "For the Peregrines". I mean, is this Thoreau-esque fatuousness at its apogee or what? Give me a break!

But I was still ready to enjoy this book if only because it has one of those lovely, new-style arty-pastel covers that suck you in like a Renoir painting. I celebrate the craft of bookcovers nowadays but they conceal a panoply of horrors. However, I even like part of the first sentence of the book, "There are songs that come from...the dust of a thousand country roads" This is good. I can relate to the romance of listening to Willy Nelson while driving down countless country roads myself, and the touch of alliteration rings comfortably in my ear.

Remember, I am a photographer and this is a romance about a photographer sent to me by another photographer who had been a romance of mine many, many years ago. Could there possibly be a higher recommendation for a book? But therein lies much of the problem perhaps; people trying to write about things they know little or nothing about and then those of us who are experts find the fake maple syrup unpalatable.

I started feeling suspicious on page two when the National Geographic photographer guy is about to leave on his photo-Odyssey in an old Chevrolet pick-up truck. I had one of those old Chevys myself when I was in college. It is true, these are lovely old trucks but what makes me angry is the thinly veiled attempt to manipulate us with the romance of this truck and the stuff he put in it for his trip. We are given a check list of cheap romance items: a knapsack, ice chest, tripods, cartons of Camel cigarettes, (I’m sure the jerk who wrote this thing mulled a long time over which brand of cigarettes would have just the right enviro-macho ring to it) thermos and guitar. He puts these things in the back of the truck and ties them down with "clothesline rope." This is when it starts to get unpalatable. I mean, who the hell ever heard of anybody calling that stuff "clothesline rope?" It is either clothesline or it is rope, and in a case like this, if the guy were really cool, which is obviously what the author is trying to make him out to be, he would have had a piece of old climbing rope.

The only thing this fellow did not put in the back of his truck to complete the picture of neo-western, American individualism, was a Labrador Retriever; then we would know, for sure, that this is an authentic, outdoorsey, but educated sort of guy. Is it any wonder I could not get to page fifty having to wade through sentences like this, "He stepped in behind the wheel, lit a Camel, and went through his mental checklist: two hundred rolls of assorted film, mostly slow-speed Kodachrome; tripods, cooler, three cameras and five lenses, jeans and khaki slacks, shirts, wearing photo vest." There is not a photographer in the world who would go through a checklist like this, much less wear a photo vest.

"Kincaid wore faded Levis, well-used Red Wing field boots, a khaki shirt, and orange suspenders. On his wide leather belt was fastened a Swiss Army knife in its own case." Oh those good old days when a guy could smoke and be cool, especially Camels, a real man's cigarette. Yeah, and now I can just picture Robert Redford dressed in his old Levis and wearing his well-used "Banana Republic" photo vest sitting there pensively behind the wheel of his old Chevy half-ton ticking off this checklist of photo items. Obviously, Mr. Robert James Waller does not know that only super geeks wear their Swiss Army knives in cases on their belts. And there is still another similarly insipid paragraph before getting to the end of page two!

"He looked at his watch: six-seventeen." Is this guy anal or what? "Six-seventeen?" And continuing..."The truck started on the second try, and he backed out, shifted gears, and moved slowly down the alley under hazy sun. Through the streets of Bellingham he went..." Excuse me, but this is intolerable. "Through the streets of Bellingham he went?" Does that mean he drove through Bellingham?

I'm sorry, but this book does not warrant even a tenth of fifty pages. Sometimes, we know, just by putting our foot in the water that it is too cold for a swim; we do not need to wade in a few feet or splash around to know that even a quick plunge that day would not be pleasant. Actually, this corn syrup romance written specifically, I suspect, for lonely, middle-aged women languishing in front of too many soap operas, would be excellent reading for a class in creative writing. Teachers are always saying don't do this and don't do that. Well, here is a book full of things one shouldn't do.

Nevertheless, having read only two pages, I will write a nice letter to my friend and tell her sweet lies about this book, and hope she does not send me any more.