A Frolic of His Own by William Gaddis

Justice? —You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law.
—Well of course Oscar wants both. I mean the way he talks about order? She drew back her foot from the threat of an old man paddling by in a wheelchair, —that all he’s looking for is some kind of order?
—Make the trains run on time, that was the . . .
—I’m not talking about trains, Harry.
—I’m talking about fascism, that’s where this compulsion for order ends up. The rest of it’s opera.
—No but do you know what he really wants?

The opening lines of A Frolic of His Own by William Gaddis.

The opening mirrors that of Gaddis’ wonderful novel JR, which begins:

—Money . . . ? In a voice that rustled.

In each case, the first word announces the primary preoccupation of the book, not the concepts named so much as the behaviors and institutions—financial in the one case, legal in the other—that surround them. It took me a long time to notice that the word “justice” was not a word of dialogue (the way that “money” is), since it precedes the dash that signals dialogue in Gaddis. Presumably it is the questioning thought resonating in Harry’s head, to which he responds with the line of dialogue that follows.

Both novels are written almost entirely in dialogue, with minimal punctuation or attribution. They demand the reader’s full attention, which is the reading experience I think of when a book is described as “absorbing.” (JR remains the only book ever to make me miss my subway stop.) Nevertheless, his command of the patterns and cadences of speech is mesmerizing, and after a couple of pages, one falls into the rhythm of the work so that it is transporting while still requiring close attention.

And both books are extremely funny, satirizing their respective subjects, but also with a degree of respect.

And what is it that Oscar, and other litigants, really want? It goes on:

—The ones showing up in court demanding justice, all they’ve got their eye on’s that million dollar price tag.
—It’s not simply the money, no, what they really want . . .
—It’s the money, Christina, it’s always the money. The rest of it’s nothing but opera, now look.
—What they really want, your fascists, Oscar, everybody I mean what it’s really all about? She tapped a defiant foot against the tinkling marimba rhythms seeping into the waiting room somewhere over near the curtains, where the wheelchair had collided with a radiator and come to rest. Trains? fascism? Because this isn’t about any of that, or even ‘the opulence of plush velvet seats, brilliant spectacle and glorious singing’ unless that’s just their way of trying to be taken seriously too —because the money’s just a yardstick isn’t it. It’s the only common reference people have for making other people take them as seriously as they take themselves. I mean that’s all they’re really asking for isn’t it? Think about it, Harry.