10:04 begins with a celebratory meal of "baby octopuses the chef had literally massaged to death". Photograph: Getty Images.
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A neon Rubik’s Cube of a novel, designed for our economic age: 10:04 by Ben Lerner

Ben Lerner’s second novel tries to emulate Walt Whitman’s democratic “I” in an age when economic imperatives trump democracy. It is a clever and timely work — as much the story of the novel’s construction as the novel itself.

The American poet and novelist Ben Lerner seems pathologically compelled to show his working. His 2011 prose debut, Leaving the Atocha Station, describes a sort of intellectual gap year in which a talented but unstable young poet – unstable in both the narrative and the psychiatric senses of the word – recounts his time on a prestigious academic fellowship in Spain. He lays out his scattered approach to writing poetry, “a dead medium whose power could be felt only as a loss”, alongside a cynical appraisal of its results: “I tended to find lines of poetry beautiful only when I encountered them quoted in prose,” the tranquilliser-munching Adam Gordon explains, “so that what was communicated was less a particular poem than the echo of poetic possibility.”

In 10:04, Lerner’s second novel – and, for my money, the better of two very good books – all the angst about “the possibility of poetic experience” is supplanted by a debate about art’s role in representing the collective, “the stuff out of which we build a social world”, unifying diverse elements in moments of crisis. 10:04 is an attempt to emulate Walt Whitman’s democratic “I” in an age when economics trumps democracy. It’s a neon Rubik’s Cube of a book – as much the story of the novel’s conception as the novel itself.

The book begins and ends with two storms, Hurricanes Irene (2011) and Sandy (2012), threatening to submerge New York City. A 33-year-old writer and teacher named Ben is ruminating on the possibility of a second novel, “something I’d promised my poet friends I wasn’t going to do”, after his agent suggests over a lunch of baby octopus that he could score a “strong six-figure” advance. Soon afterwards, the narrator learns he is suffering from a potentially fatal heart syndrome. At the same time he is forced to confront the prospect of involvement with a baby human when his best friend, Alex – “less a couple than conjoined” – proposes he father a child with her by intrauterine insemination, “because, as she put it, ‘fucking you would be bizarre’”.

If this all sounds rather humourless it shouldn’t. 10:04 contains all the neurosis-induced pratfalls, sly jokes and ego laceration that made Leaving the Atocha Station as fun as it was smart. “I’ll work my way from irony to sincerity in the sinking city,” our narrator declares at the start of the novel, with his tongue in his cheek and his heart on his sleeve, serious and not serious at once, “a would-be Whitman of the vulnerable grid.”

The plan is to expand a short story he has written for the New Yorker, the full text of which appears unchanged in the second part of the book (in a typeface of the kind you’d find in a magazine). The story was published in advance of 10:04 but reads differently now that it follows a plausible account of the thinking and experiences that produced it. We are allowed to witness the construction of the story, its repeated phrases, its mingling of fact and fiction (though it’s anyone’s guess the degree to which this resembles Lerner’s own technique), to identify moments of plagiarism and see how the whole evolves. The process is oddly thrilling.

The same can be said of the novel overall. After inventing a plot about fabricated emails from dead authors – into which he planned to insert a handful of philosophical tales, placed instead in the mouths of friends and acquaintances – our narrator conceives of “a work that, like a poem, is neither fiction nor nonfiction . . . an actual present alive with multiple futures”, while on a writing residency in Marfa, Texas. He discards the “novel about fraudulence” because “art has to offer something more than stylised despair”. By the time we have finished reading it, he is ready to deliver the book he promised his agent “while eating cephalopods in what would become the opening scene”.

The title 10:04 is significant: this is the time at which lightning hits the courthouse in Back to the Future, allowing Marty McFly to power up his DeLorean time machine and return to 1985. The novel has a similarly life-or-death stake in time travel. In an early scene, the narrator stands with Alex looking at Jules Bastien-Lepage’s Joan of Arc in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, comparing the young Joan’s dematerialised, outstretched hand, “pulled into the future” by torch-bearing angels, with Marty’s near non-existence as his parents almost fail to meet. In a variety of encounters – with an Occupy protester who occupies his bathroom for 20 minutes, with the Mexican boy he tutors, and with a 22-year-old who has snaffled too much ketamine at a party in Texas – Ben is testing himself for a possible future of fatherhood.

In Leaving the Atocha Station, Adam Gordon decides he will write poems “of such beauty and significance”, they will convince his friends “they had been in the presence of a poet who alone was able to array the fallen materials of the real into a song that transcended it”. Like that book, 10:04 reads like a collage: a scrapbook bursting with quotations, puzzles, metafictional diary entries, conversations and printed images, assembled in a future where the word “novel” has lost its original meaning, and shot back into the past where it stretches out its hand.

Philip Maughan is a freelance writer in Berlin and a former Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 16 January 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Jihadis Among Us

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Rarely has it mattered so little if Manchester United won; rarely has it been so special they did

Team's Europa League victory offers chance for sorely needed celebration of a city's spirit.

Carlo Ancelotti, the Bayern Munich manager, memorably once said that football is “the most important of the least important things”, but he was only partly right. While it is absolutely the case that a bunch of people chasing around a field is insignificant, a bunch of people chasing around a field is not really what football is about.

At a football match can you set aside the strictures that govern real life and freely scream, shout and cuddle strangers. Football tracks life with such unfailing omnipresence, garnishing the mundane with regular doses of drama and suspense; football is amazing, and even when it isn’t there’s always the possibility that it’s about to be.

Football bestows primal paroxysms of intense, transcendent ecstasy, shared both with people who mean everything and people who mean nothing. Football carves out time for people it's important to see and delivers people it becomes important to see. Football is a structure with folklore, mythology, language and symbols; being part of football is being part of something big, special, and eternal. Football is the best thing in the world when things go well, and still the best thing in the world when they don’t. There is nothing remotely like it. Nothing.

Football is about community and identity, friends and family; football is about expression and abandon, laughter and song; football is about love and pride. Football is about all the beauty in the world.

And the world is a beautiful place, even though it doesn’t always seem that way – now especially. But in the horror of terror we’ve seen amazing kindness, uplifting unity and awesome dignity which is the absolute point of everything.

In Stockholm last night, 50,000 or so people gathered for a football match, trying to find a way of celebrating all of these things. Around town before the game the atmosphere was not as boisterous as usual, but in the ground the old conviction gradually returned. The PA played Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds, an Ajax staple with lyrics not entirely appropriate: there is plenty about which to worry, and for some every little thing is never going to be alright.

But somehow the sentiment felt right and the Mancunian contingent joined in with gusto, following it up with “We’ll never die,” – a song of defiance born from the ashes of the Munich air disaster and generally aired at the end of games, often when defeat is imminent. Last night it was needed from the outset, though this time its final line – “we’ll keep the red flag flying high, coz Man United will never die" – was not about a football team but a city, a spirit, and a way of life. 

Over the course of the night, every burst of song and even the minute's silence chorused with that theme: “Manchester, Manchester, Manchester”; “Manchester la la la”; “Oh Manchester is wonderful”. Sparse and simple words, layered and complex meanings.

The match itself was a curious affair. Rarely has it mattered so little whether or not United won; rarely has it been so special that they did. Manchester United do not represent or appeal to everyone in Manchester but they epitomise a similar brilliance to Manchester, brilliance which they take to the world. Brilliance like youthfulness, toughness, swagger and zest; brilliance which has been to the fore these last three days, despite it all.

Last night they drew upon their most prosaic aspects, outfighting and outrunning a willing but callow opponent to win the only trophy to have eluded them. They did not make things better, but they did bring happiness and positivity at a time when happiness and positivity needed to be brought; football is not “the most important of the least important things,” it is the least important of the most important things.

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