I felt fearful when I opened Diaz's newest novel Trust for the first time. Right after the title page there's a page called, "Contents" under which are four listings and the actual page numbers in the novel where each of those four sections begin.
The first is "BONDS" with a name under it, "Harold Vanner." We're told it starts on page 3, and in the actual novel that's where it begins, on the very next page.
Why is part of a novel called "BONDS?" Who is Harold Vanner? Those are questions the author expects us to ask.
Directly under that is a second all-caps listing, "MY LIFE" with another name, "Andrew Bevel." That section begins on page 127. Sure enough that's where MY LIFE begins in Diaz's novel.
You might ask, "Why should that cause you to feel fearful. That's nothing more than a table of contents."
Ah, but novels never have "a table of contents." Never.
I was fearful because I immediately sensed Hernan Diaz was up to something revolutionary, experimental, innovative and very difficult to pull off. If somehow he were able to pull it off, I instinctively doubted if I could fully appreciate the implications and effects he was creating with his innovative story-telling methods.
This opening item called "BONDS" isn't a chapter—it's a mini-novel in its own right, except I think it's more helpful to call it a "proto-novel," sort-of-a-make-believe novel which is written in a specific style that differs from the writing styles used in the other sections. All four employ radically different styles. Somehow, mysteriously, as one reads all four proto-fictions, a story of intrigue and cruel, powerful psychological force takes form in our minds. We wonder if a perfectly sane character is being kept against her will in a sanatorium in a drugged state. Make no mistake: The "author" of BONDS, "Harold Vanner" is discussed at length in the other three sections of Trust. So are the "authors" of the other three parts, especially Andrew Bevel.
MY LIFE by Andrew Bevel is supposedly comprised of the notes that an extremely wealthy individual, a bond trader on Wall Street, jots down about what he wishes a ghostwriter to cover in his memoir. The ghostwriter who Andrew Bevel hires for that ghostwriting job is Ida Portenza.
The fourth section is titled, "FUTURES" by Mildred Bevel. It's supposedly a diary kept by the wife of the bond trader, who may be keeping his wife at a sanitarium in a drugged state. We're not sure, but we're suspicious.
Every element in Diaz's novel is fiction, a product of the author's towering, soaring imagination. I sense what he's up to: Diaz isn't able to portray emotions directly in his fictions. I could detect that by reading his proto-novels, and proto-memoirs. So how does he work around his deficiency? I think he invents a fresh, alternative method to induce you and me, the readers, to become involved in the story without him ever having to portray character emotions in a head-on, conventional way. The characters aren't overly involved with their emotions, but I felt strong emotions as I read Trust when it came to what the characters were going through, the immense pressures being placed on their psyches, especially in the case of Ida Partenza, the proto-author of the third section which we're told is Ida's "found memoir." It might sound hokey, but it pulled me in. It worked like gangbusters. I became concerned for Ida's personal safety as a father might be concerned for the safety of his daughter, as I'll bet you will become, too, if you choose to read Trust. Early on I stopped reading Trust for its conventional story; Diaz teaches us to read looking for and finding morsels of story, or links between and among the four proto-sections. Diaz creates tremendous intrigue and suspense in Trust by controlling these (for lack of a better descriptor) "story evidences." I know this sounds strange, but when you read this novel—and in my opinion, although it takes a lot of energy to read, its lovely and elegant. It's worth reading. But, you'll see: Instead of reading a novel, as you delve into Trust, you'll find yourself examining, investigating, and scouring documents for clues. Diaz turns us into detectives who are way too emotionally close to a case, detectives who have long ago surrendered their objectivity. Finally, for me, it all comes down to the title of the novel. So I ask you: What is the single thing a finely written novel has in common with a 30-year bond or a relatively safe currency like the U.S. dollar? It's the emotion of trust, the feeling that the bond, currency and novel will all pay off. (Thank God, after last weekend, we can continue to call the U.S. currency "safe" and "universally trusted." Well, sort of.) As readers, we're always putting ourselves in the hands of novelists. We trust them to deliver a unique experience. You won't be disappointed when you read Trust. Just don't look for a conventional story told in a conventional manner. You won't find it. What you will find is a wonder to behold. For I do believe that Hernan Diaz, recognizing his severe artistic limitations (in regards to his writing about emotions head-on) discovered innovative workarounds which directly account for why, only weeks ago, his novel, Trust, won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction.
