Review: Syntax By Zac Porter

By Jack Moody

 

The issue I’ve found with many contemporary postmodern novels is that they really have nothing to say. They stumble along without rhythm or a sense of identity, banishing the slightest hint of any discernable plot in favor of esoteric, vaguely experimental-adjacent prose in the hope that these aimless philosophical musings will effectively distract the reader enough to forget that nothing is happening and nothing remotely compelling will be gleaned if one is willing to stick with it until that final page. This is a symptom of a much larger truth, which is that many writers are now largely incapable of conjuring original ideas, and in addition, do not live lives from which interesting or worthwhile stories can be mined. And yet, because the writer must write, they will pour words onto the page regardless, not because they have something to say, something that must be shared, but because it’s what they’ve decided must be done in order to inject the assumption of meaning into a life, a society, a world, a zeitgeist—that is entirely devoid of any such thing.

 

Syntax by Zac Porter is an example of one of these novels. Though I’d consider it more so a loose collection of vignettes strung together to feign the skeleton of a discernable narrative so that the real meat of the writings can be—again—supported by the assumption of actual meaning. In essence, this is a book about a number of modern bohemian-types visiting one another’s houses, going to bars and one another’s art shows, all the while throwing themselves into rambling conversations akin to a group of hungover college students during an eight a.m. sociology class, while our protagonist Paul muses about life to his pen pal Demian (one of many clear nods to esoteric branches of Christian doctrine that all ultimately lead nowhere.) The prose clearly wants to appear smart and educated, constantly paraphrasing or referencing other great thinkers, philosophers, religious figures, artists, etcetera, in lieu of any new concepts—or even new perspectives on these concepts. And it’s one thing to unabashedly dive headfirst into pretentiousness, but to do so with such a clear lack of purpose, plot, and substance as foundations for these floaty, flowery sentiments just feels lazy. At least attempt to form a conclusion from this hodgepodge of pedagogical references or produce even a flimsy plot that compels the reader to want to absorb 145 pages of what amounts to a Religious Studies essay doused in wine stains and tucked within the pages of an autobiography on Thomas Aquinas.

 

I just can’t pretend to care about these kinds of books anymore. They don’t add anything of value, they do nothing that hasn’t been done before, say nothing that hasn’t already been said much more cogently—but the worst crime of all, Syntax is painfully boring. Literature as a medium is dying. We can no longer afford to drown ourselves in mediocrity veiled as intellectualism and call it worthwhile fiction. Otherwise it’s just words. And anyone can write those.