Published by Doubleday on August 9, 2022
Mount Chicago is a wild novel, spinning off in so many directions that it often seems on the verge of spinning out of control. The novel is at times infuriating, but mostly in a good way — in a way that amuses and entertains. One of the three significant characters, a parrot named Gogol, adds a playful element to a story that is already goofy. Gogol’s musings about freedom and dependence might be meant to illuminate human experiences of similar conditions, parrot logic being no less tenuous than human logic. Perhaps the parrot’s thoughts are intended to spotlight his owner’s emotional state as deduced from the impact those feelings have on Gogol. Maybe it is best to think of Gogol as a neurotic but philosophical character who indulges in the same fruitless search for meaning and contentment as humans but with a greater emphasis on preening.
The novel is set in Chicago, where a sinkhole destroyed Millennium Park and a wing of the Art Institute. The mayor prefers the term terrestrial anomaly to sinkhole because who wants to live in a city that is developing sinkholes? A dense cone arose in the middle of the sinkhole, apparently made from the remains of everything that was destroyed, including a significant number of tourists. The mayor decides to name the cone Mount Chicago and to surround it with a memorial to those who died, like (in the mayor’s words) Auschwitz but less depressing. Then the mayor decides there should be a Wall of Survivors, broadly defining survivors as everyone in Chicago who didn’t die, and perhaps newborn children who were affected by their parents’ emotional trauma while still in the womb.
Gogol’s owner, Solomon Gladman, is the second primary character. The third is Apter Schutz. Apter becomes obsessed with Gladman after discovering videos of his rare comedy club performances. Gladman was a psychotherapist before he became a successful novelist and occasional comedian. Learning more about Gladman motivates Apter to study social work (an education that gives Adam Levin the opportunity to explain and critique various forms of therapy). Apter made a significant amount of money by developing a product that took advantage of witless Trump supporters, then worked as a psychotherapist (a gig that made him adept at manipulating others) before accepting a position with Chicago’s mayor. That job that puts him in charge of a music festival to raise funds for the memorial. Perry Farrell, who is donating the services of Jane’s Addiction to the festival, would like to have Gladman perform. The mayor isn’t sure that’s a good idea, since he’s heard that Gladman’s humor is antisemitic. Gladman isn’t sure it’s a good idea for reasons of his own, but the invitation gives Apter a chance to meet the man he has always idolized.
The story leads to a climax involving a key character who was devastated by the death of people close to him who did not survive the sinkhole. The plot follows a winding path, a path made of detours and digressions, before arriving at the climax. Dozens of additional pages cause the story to fizzle out after the climax. The novel’s value lies in its journey rather than its mildly disappointing destination. A shortcake baked into the shape of the letter e becomes the focal point of a retelling of Gogol’s “The Overcoat.” David Mamet explains to Chicago’s mayor, back when he was an alderman, why the alderman is a jagoff. Gladman invents a longish fable about a future Chicago ruled by penguins who lead beavers that enslave ducks and a penguin king who is embarrassed by the boners his grandson (an adopted duck) can’t control. All of this is quite funny even if it is entirely unnecessary to the plot, which unfolds over a small percentage of the book’s word count.
Still, there are times during Mount Chicago when I thought Levin was a little too in love with his own humor, times when jokes or funny stories or amusing anecdotes lost some of their edge because they extended several pages beyond the point at which a punch line or climax would have been welcome. Some of the humor is too obvious to be effective. Levin mocks political correctness early in the novel, sometimes making a good point — the misuse of the word “survivor” to describe anyone who had an unpleasant experience, the mischaracterization of language the listener doesn’t appreciate as “violent” — but he does so selectively, making clear that he believes some groups are mockable and others, although just as egregious in their extremism, are not.
Levin occasionally uses the postmodern technique of speaking directly to the reader, reminding the reader that the book, after all, is just a work of fiction, not a true story. Since I like getting lost in books, imagining the stories to be true for as long as the illusion can be maintained, I’m not a big fan of the technique. After beginning the novel with an introduction that insists Levin should not be confused with any of the characters, Levin takes a break from the loose plot at roughly the one-third point to bring the reader up to speed on events that have transpired in his real life since he began writing the novel. Later in the book he discusses alternative ways in which the story might have unfolded. Okay, you’re postmodern, we get it.
These are not necessarily consequential gripes about a book that scores points for consistently provoking chuckles and an occasional belly laugh. Levin may have intended the novel as a serious exploration of grief, but it is too unfocused to be taken seriously (although it does make the point that we each grieve in our own ways). Even if the whole is less than the sum of its parts, I appreciated the novel as a celebration of storytelling. Gladman’s stories, whether presented in the form of fables or standup bits, and Apter's stories about the five significant events in his life, grab the reader’s attention, even when they extend beyond a reasonable stopping point. Whatever Levin’s intent might have been, the result is an absurdist comedy fest that merits a recommendation — and almost a strong recommendation — for the stories within the story.
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