Ticknor
by Sheila Heti
Farrar, Straus & Giroux

Sheila Heti's debut novel, "Ticknor," is a gutsy experiment with minimalism. There's always a lurking danger in minimalist writing, since the author risks starving the storyline with too few enriching details and compelling action. Language alone is made to carry most of the burden of sustaining the reader's interest. Heti doesn't fumble with this kind of weight. With some exceptions, she pulls off a quietly moving and gently loving tale of literary resentment and personal doubt, keeping this small story of a fussy little man compelling. Compassion seeps through the jagged architecture of the plot and shines like a streetlight through an antique window.

George Ticknor (an actual 19th Century Boston historian) is on his way to a dinner party he'd really rather not attend for a more successful, notable childhood pal. The man of the hour is William Hickling Prescott, partially blind for years from a randomly thrown bread crust that lodged in his eye. Frustratingly, Prescott has become a respected and prosperous historian who promises to read Ticknor's stuff but never really has the time. Even worse, he's really nice about it — no pomposity or self-importance to deliciously mock in private and soothe the envy. Part of the torment for Ticknor is that he doesn't know if his oldest friend loves him or not. Acute respect, mixed with affection, paranoia, jealousy and insecurity whirl through his consciousness. This kind of nebbishy inwardness comprises most of the story.

Heti plays up these kinds of psychic details beautifully: "Exhausted and near tears, I went to the mirror. I often go to the mirror when crying, to see how I might look. I wonder whether I'd have any sympathy for a man such as myself. Sometimes I feel I would, and it makes me cry even harder; other times I do not and it fills me with despair ... in these ways I find I am able to enjoy myself. The pure times I spend alone are rare." If Heti were a composer, she'd be Philip Glass — poor Ticknor's interiors spin around and around until both he and the reader are dizzy with comprehension.

Occasionally, Heti falls into this trap. There's a lot of airiness going on in this world, and while lovely, it gets a little disruptive. Heti has mentioned in interviews that she dislikes historical detail, and this a drawback.

There are very few details of life in 19th Century Boston included, and it's a shame to have neglected that kind of backdrop. Sketching Ticknor's historical place and time may have brought him more fully to life. External details would have helped to mold a character who is defined by his self-containment. Prescott has a different situation. There isn't any voice on his behalf. It wouldn't have killed the pathos if we knew whether or not he loved his awkward little friend after all. If there were one, it might have helped create a Faulkner effect, where one character's consciousness is both more tangible and more distant when you see what their peer has to say. Heti has also mentioned having spent a year whittling her story down to its slim novella length. Sometimes the reader wishes Heti hadn't been so modest.

By the end of the book, you really start to participate in the nervous convolutions of our hero. Heti did a wonderful thing in not letting her subject lose sight of what he needs so much and cannot get from within — life itself. Ticknor waddles off the page in a murmur of cautious hopefulness: "... I find myself looking forward to this time as I look forward to some events, dear God, like the coming of summer. I see how splendid life is and how many responsibilities I have. Tomorrow, when I wake to the bright day, things will run as smoothly as a machine and I will live." By the end of Ticknor's soliloquy, his spirit and Heti's prose have merged to create an effect a little like a row of wind chimes dangling from a tree branch, waiting for the wind to ripple through. Modest, but glimmering.

— Matt Hanson (junglegroove@gmail.com)