Reviewed by TONY BAER:

   

DAVID GOODIS – Retreat from Oblivion. E.P. Dutton, hardcover, 1939. To be published in paperback by Stark House Press, paperback, October, 2024. (See comments.)

   Peyton Place meets WWII. Extramarital affairs between friends and neighbors in the rising middle bracket of Manhattan, circa 1939.

   Herb and wife Jean, they’re a pretty bad scene. Jean’s screwing Herb’s friend Paul. And frankly, Jean dear, he don’t give a damn.

   Then Jean gets preggers and Paul heads with her to China to become a fighter pilot against the Japanese. Which is good for the reader because Goodis can really write a good pulpy aviation yarn (given his record of selling air adventure stories to the aviation pulps).

   As Jean absconds with Paul, Herb’s on the make. He’s feeling reckless (was just at a go-kart track with a list of rules including ‘no wreckless driving’. The ‘w’ in ‘wreckless’ still visible through the white-out). Herb heads to Harlem and starts following a very attractive Italian looking girl. She stops and recommends the prostitutes one street over. He says he just needs someone to talk to. And it turns out, so does she.

   Her name’s Dorothy. Her husband is fighting the fascists in Spain. So now Herb feels guilty and can’t sleep with her. Even though she first tells him it’s okay and later begs for it.

   More good news for the reader. Dorothy’s hubbie being in the Spanish Civil War allows Goodis to write alternating chapters teleporting the reader from Peyton Place to the war in Spain with plenty of battle scenes for the losing cause.

   So that’s the picture. Peyton Place melodrama montaged with wartime atrocities.

   What it could have amounted is a critique of the hypocritical Manhattan high-life where everybody’s trying to screw their neighbor in every way they can, whilst elsewhere people are heroically facing death and destruction.

   Yet when the time comes to hammer this point home, Goodis settles for the Hollywood ending. Perhaps seeking a Hollywood ending for himself, picturing himself in pictures, retreating from the existential oblivion that would hound him til the end.