Ode to Sunset

a poet moves through a dangerous world in Pat Nolan's novel

When poets entered my radar they were well known as a scruffy bunch. This was mid-seventies, LA area, where there was the real Bukowski and many Bukowski types, grizzled old-timers (they seemed old to me). There was a real confidence man vibe, like Mr. Norris in an Isherwood story. Their payoff was small change: free drinks, but time and attention, mostly. In return they doled out good gossip, questionable (but interesting) advice, a few good edits. They weren’t part of the academic elite, not by a long shot. Some had teaching jobs, few had tenure. They were somewhat famous. Well, “famous”. Sometimes the best way to learn the things that you feel you need to learn is to allow yourself to get conned a little, and to accept an iffy form of hierarchy. Perhaps that is the definition of education. Information, along with loads of bullshit, are shoveled your way, yours for the sifting.

Carl Wendt, protagonist in Ode to Sunset: A Year in the Life of American Genius would have fit in perfectly as one of my mentors in LA, Santa Cruz, SF, Berkeley. Author Pat Nolan nails the type, bingo. You have to be pretty cagey to survive as a poet. Is anyone less useful? Poets are the poor relations of the art world, a milleu where there are few rich relations. A star janitor probably has more fans, yet Wendt and his kind move through the world at a relatively relaxed pace, piss-elegant and not particularly poverty stricken. The kindness of strangers! and of former/current lovers, sort-of friends, ex-wives. Reading (and deeply enjoying) this book I wonder if there are any Wendt’s around the current poetry “scene”. I have tons of nice poet friends, trustworthy people. Seems like an affront to the old guard. I wonder if our poems suffer, do to the lack of competitive friction. In a genre that depends on operatic levels of drama to win bits of attention, are we too friendly and honest with existence, and each other?

Wendt is all rough edges, not especially trustworthy. The perfect hero for a picaresque novel, he’s a witty observer, watching and commenting. I read, thinking, wow, what happens next? This is an essential element for a (kind of) crime novel, especially one that weighs in at nearly five hundred pages. Starting a book that big is a little daunting, like going to a four hour movie, but if the auteur/author knows their stuff you just sit back and experience the work. I wondered if a non-poet would sink into this book the way I did. I’m guessing that’s a yes, because the people are real, and the sense of place is real. I could feel San Francisco in the prose. Mostly, it’s a good story. You will get to know Wendt and his circle as the novel moves along. And it moves, definitely.

You can buy Ode to Sunset here:

https://odetosunset.com/tag/pat-nolan/