This is one of those books where you realize you are not reading it, but moving your eyes consciously across the lines, over the words, absorbing nothing. It's a collection of vignettes apparently linked by the notion of the world's memory being lost and reconstructed (badly, it appears). The grandiloquent style only makes it more difficult to comprehend what, exactly, is being discussed. Since the book offers no narrative, there is nothing to guide one through the clumsy, unrelated mini-chapters.

I admire Mamet's plays and movies, but it's depressing to think trees may have fallen for this mess.

The writing of David Mamet can be simple, much like a open jaw- steel bear trap lying exposed, at your feet. Or this open jaw- steel bear trap can really be a ravenous black hole in the center of your literary universe, a hungry black hole waiting to devour you, if you are dumb enough to go spelunking into it's center, the vortex. While reading "Wilson" ask yourself the following questions:
1)Is this a book or is it a con?
2)Is "Wilson" a series of unpublished chapters from previous works by the author?
3)Or, is "Wilson" really a surrealistic landscape onto itself much like "The Interzone" of William S.Burroughs?
Do not read "Wilson" in chronological order!
Very rarely does an author such as David Mamet compose a snub- nose revolver like "Wilson" in which the printed words within begin to tell us everything about the author's style, but always end by telling us almost nothing about the writer's style. Good!
David Mamet has informed and confounded us again.

Marvelous. Very twisted, slowly captures you in a world that reminds you of those insidious thoughts that you had trapped in a bad history class...and the plot only comes into view in the corner of your eye, but when you try to focus on it...

Forget *Swingers*, forget *High Fidelity*, forget Tarantino's trash-talking hoods, David Mamet got there way before these belated young Turks. *Sexual Perversity in Chicago* is a brilliant, in-your-face series of vignettes sloshing through the muck of modern relationships. Two men and two women lock horns in a lewd scrimmage of blackly funny narcissistic power-plays, a despairing search for flitting, short-lived solace and pleasure, blasted by cruelty, impatience, tooth-and-claw feral soliloquy on why the opposite gender is one-part vampire, one-part Machiavel, can't live with them, can't sell them for parts (tee-hee).

Metropolitan swingers circling the drain of mean-streets cynicism and tough-talking bachelorhood, trawling the muddy waters of singles bars and yuppie night spots, searching for that ephemeral ounce of pleasure in a world of subterfuge and delay, mind-games and cruel deception, an odium of broken expectations and buried dreams.... Funny as the play is, it's distressing to have our noses rubbed in this point-blank opprobrium of our own basest impulses, the Spirit of Revenge which contaminates many of our frantic attempts to love and be loved.

Refreshingly, the women in Mamet's play seem much more interesting than the men, if only because their cynicism is more richly varied, more intellectually pungent. As shellshocked veterans of the gender war, it remains difficult to decide whether Mamet's scenarios are A: exaggerated worst-case aberrations, or B: (gulp) true-to-life tableaux on how perversely we are prone to behave toward one another, a vicious circle of paranoid self-hatred razing the purlieus of conventional "happiness" (or post-coital afterglow, once the bar is dropped).

Mamet suggests that at the outer limits of cynical self-abasement, human beings will "experiment" with cruelty the same way an S&M enthusiast would assay with handcuffs and bullwhip, the minds and hearts of anonymous lovers beaten like a Teletubbie pinata with the broomstick of our own wounded narcissism.

*The Duck Variations* is a classic low-budget scenario about two post-Beckettian bumps on a log pontificating on life, death, and the migratory patterns of Midwestern fowl. In the mind's eye theater I was forced to cast Jack Lemmon and the late Walter Mathau as Emil and George, two grumpy old men shadow-boxing in the dusklands of existential twilight. Mamet seemed still unable (or unwilling) at this point to write a full-length, tightly plotted drama, but the fragmentary dialogue presented here is brilliantly caustic, evocative, piercing and droll. Emil's and George's sedentary anxiety over the park wildlife that play out and exemplify the human condition, their ability to sublimate the necrophobic terrors of old-fogeyhood with caustic wit and good-natured foreboding, is presented with dashing brilliance and aplomb, a wonderfully true friendship between two men skirting the edges of karmic inquiry. Written in Mamet's early twenties, *The Duck Variations* exemplifies the brash virtuoso cunning that would go on to contribute *Glengarry Glen Ross* and *Speed-the-Plow*, amongst other masterworks, and is still worth reading a quarter-century later. (Also recommended for young actors as an exercise in brevity, timing, precision, and economy of affect.)

All in all, this book represents Mamet-in-embryo, the birth of a playwright, another fine anthology of one-liners and intellectual jousts to make the reader's anxieties seem a little less peerless and unparalleled, a little less alone in the world.

Nature, the Duck, and Death...is it all morbid useless talk? Not to David Mamet. In his play, The Duck Variations, the true ways of this fowl creature are discussed humorously, leaving the audience or the reader in stitches. I personally used an excerpt of this piece this past year for duo interpretation for my speech and debate team, and I promise that these ducks never let us down. A great play for those who like different approaches to theatre.

David Mamet proves time and time again that he has mastered the language of men and women alike. Sexual Perversity is an abrasive but honest look at the state of sex in the minds of adults during the post-collegiate and early career building years. Mamet, as in all of his plays, shows honest humanity in tangible, easily-believed characters. The language is obscene & perverse but horrificly true-to-life and natural. Working with nothing more thant stereotypes, he chisels out characters so real and so vivid as to leave the audience thirsting for more. David Mamet has proven himself time and time again that he is a not only the definitive analysis of pop culture and modern trends, but also a brilliant wordsmith as well.

David Mamet is certainly an excellent story-teller and an accomplished writer. No one can take that away from him.

But this story - which in Mamet's mind is intended to combat bigotry and racism toward Jews - actually enhances bigotry and racism toward other groups that are being marginalized in current American society.

Mamet gives us a story where an innocent Jewish man is mistakenly convicted of rape and suffers a harrowing fate at the hands of a lynch mob. Mamet tells us that this happened because of anti-Semitism. Fair enough.

Mamet's character then goes on to deliver a two-fisted verbal assualt on Christians of the "evangelical" variety ("they say they've been saved. Saved from what?"), who he portrays as evil, stupid, and lazy. (They bask in "inherited glory," although they've contributed nothing to society, "invented no vaccines," as Mamet puts it.)

First of all, there is no evidence that the historical killers in this case were "evangelical Christians." It's a big stretch to say that just because a murder occurred in the south, that it was committed by Bible-thumping Southern Baptists.

Second, "evangelical Christians" comprise about 7 to 10 percent of the current American population (a number that is consistently revealed in polls by Gallup, Barna, Smith, etc.). That's about the same as the number of Jews and Muslims in America combined. They are consistently villified as "right-wingers" who want to take over the government, impose a theocracy, and kill homosexuals - none of which is true. (The typical evangelical is a moderate Republican of the John McCain variety.) Aside from the rather sympathetic portrayal of Ned Flanders on the Simpsons, the entire media establishment is arrayed against this one segment of our population. The lies and stereotypes directed against these people are as pernicious and hateful as those directed against the Jews in Nazi Germany. (The Jews, too, were out to take over society, according to the Third Reich.) Mamet's hateful scree against people "who say they've been saved" is just fuel for the fire. It takes a feeble-minded coward to throw himself wholeheartedly into society's accepted mode of bigotry, and well, Mamet lives up.

Third, evangelicals are hardly stupid people who bask in "inherited glory" from the Pilgrim days. Evangelical accomplishments are many - from revolutionizing the field of linguistics (Kenneth Pike) and Philosophy (Alvin Plantiga), to improving the lives of millions of Latin Americans after the abysmal failure of Roman Catholicism to confront oppression and injustice, to helping freedom of religion and freedom of speech spread throughout the globe, Evangelicals have contributed much to modern society. Of course, they haven't contributed much to the Entertainment industry, and perhaps that's the only industry Mamet cares about.

In The Old Religion, historical figure Leo Frank, a Jewish factory owner in the old American South falsely accused of rape and murder, then imprisoned and eventually lynched by an organised mob, is turned by Mamet into a religious philosopher, an all but obssessive turner over of truths and half truths, propositions and the voices within voices of a disputatious mind from a disputatious people. But the heart of it is still the same: "To be a man," the Rabbi said, was to behave as a man in that situation where there were neither the trappings nor the rewards of manhood: scorned, reviled, abandoned, humiliated, powerless, terrified, mocked. "Now be a man..." the Rabbi said."

And in The Edge, a movie by Mamet, the millionaire played by Anthony Hopkins is an obssessive learner and compiler of facts, a man detached from his emotions, who through the forces of a melodrama plot, (a plane goes down stranding him in the wilderness with his wife's lover, the fashion photographer Alec Baldwin who wants him dead) is forced to confront himself and, stripped to his essentials, survive. In a sense, The Edge is the opposite story to The Old Religion in that the former has as its central motif a canoe paddle on whose two sides a rabbit and a ravenous beast, I cannot quite recall what, co-exist. Why is the rabbit not afraid? "Because he knows he's smarter then the.." Fox, I believe the beast is. It is significant that the line, among the best in the film, is not quite memorable enough to hold the mind. And the central, memorable sequence of the film is millionaire and adulterous rival being forced to collaborate in killing a bear. That bear was more memorable than the characters or the dialogue. In The Old Religion the opposite moral is operative, Frank is in no useable way smarter than his employee Jim, who uses the white Southern mob's unwillingness to believe in the intelligence of a "nigro" to fool them and gets away with murder, dooming the outsider Jew. You cannot be smarter than the fox and disruptive nature, chaos; the forces of darkness cannot be conquered - you must only stand and face them as you may, that is the true heart of Mamet's reveries.

The trouble is that this does not always amount to a compelling fulcrum, in and of itself, it must accompany colour or is bland, a blank stare in the face of onrushing doom - Mamet's stoic glance in the face of the cancer look.

In The Old Religion, Frank's habits of dissecting, homelitically commenting on and generally discoursing throughout and over every event of his downward course lend the book the air of a series of absent minded sermons, underpinned with occasional colourful clues as to motive, projection through space and narrative to fate, the taste of life. As Mamet points out somewhere in his book of actors' sermons "True or False"- intentions are not interesting, a person's qualities are not interesting, only actions are interesting. Hence the only memorable thing about the Rabbi, a key figure of the last third of the book, is the way he lights a match, his way with a cigarette. This is actual character. Mamet doesn't give either Frank or the Rabbi or any of the other characters quite enough internal colour, a personal smell or feeling, to make them anything - an actor could not successfully play them without addition and a reader cannot happily create them in the mind's eye because aside from the endless discourses- as Mamet's Frank asks himself at one point "what part of reason is not simply the recoil of fear?" - there is nothing much going on. The only thing which defines Frank's response in the face of the onrushing catastrophe is his reversion to the "Old Religion" of Judaism away from the "Old Religion" of the South, of America, of the belief in progress. This is not really, in itself, much that you can play. As Mamet the actor would put it: What's the objective? And it cannot really be said that Mamet the novelist has given the actor or reader much in the way of lines on a page to sustain the illusion of character.

At the novel's early parts, before chaos unfolds, one feels a little like the inhabitant of a Aharon Appelfeld novel, where bitter laughter and irony is beneath every casual detail of the lives of comfortable Jews on the lip on an abyss. And Mamet's skill is always wordily present - for probably two thirds of the novel he manages to keep you reading, keep you turning the pages, despite very little meat between his odd moments of concrete detail. This is no small skill. But his aesthetic position about acting is disproved in his own work, in this particular book. Not enough blood in these characters to sustain the book.

I love David Mamet's plays (recently, I laughed my way through the movie adaptation of State and Main), but this novel was disappointing. The event itself (described on the book jacket) is much more interesting than a fragmented interior monlogue by a less-than-fascinating protagonist. The idea invoked The Stranger, but unlike Camus who does a brilliant job, Mamet is much less brilliant. This read more like a literary experiment in a writing workshop than a polished piece by Mamet. If you want to read the master of this genre, stick to Camus.

For a Mamet play, this one sure was a let-down. The play deals with the relationship between two actors - one older and one younger. Occasionally the dialogue between the two is mildly interesting, but more often than not it is tedious and boring. The scenes are short and virtually interchangable with no real depth of character. If you've read one exchange between the characters, you've basically read them all. Only a Mamet fanatic would truly enjoy this work.

this is a slight and unimpressive play, especially when one takes into account mamet's impressive body of work. This play focuses on the huge gap between an older, waning actor and a young promising one. The interaction between the two is often fascinating, and the scenes in which they perform from the play they are acting in are very telling of their 'real life' characters. Overall this was a disapointment, and should probably only interest completist mamet fans.

O.K., I know that many Mamet fans were disapointed with this one but I, for one, wasn't. This was actually the first Mamet play that I was introduced to (Before then I didn't even know that David Mamet existed) and I absolutly loved it, after reading it a few times. Yes, at first the dialouge (SP?) seems rather bland but, as my title says, you need to read between the lines! Use your imagination! There is something powerful about this piece because of all the underlaying tension. So read it! If you're patient, that is.

"Aren't those Vermonters cute ?" "Aren't I profound ?" This collections of anecdotes, snippets, and name dropping sure doesn't sound like the people of Cabot, Vt., that I know. In Tom Wolfe's 'Bonfire of the Vanities', Wolfe left out writers. Keep watch on Mamet. If this book really expresses his thoughts, he should self-ignite soon.

I spent several years in Vermont and still go back as often as I can. Mamet captures much of the simple magic about the state and its people. The chapters are disconnected fragments, but that is fine. The impressions combine to give a good picture of life in this curiously unspoiled place.
I have read 3 volumes in this National Geographic Discoveries series and have just ordered 3 more. They are short, insightful and written by some of the best writers out there. The whole series is worth a careful look. If they sold them on subscription, I would sign up. Someone good is doing the commisioning here.

I live just north of Mamet's hometown of Cabot, Vermont, and know many of the places and some of the people in the book (I've never met Mamet himself). For most of us who live in or close to the Northeast Kingdom, it is a beautiful, but gritty place to make a go of it. There is much to exult about and much to damn. Mamet's take is mostly dead on. While some of the book romanticizes life here, other passages criticize both himself (directly) and others (obliquely). I found myself agreeing with much of his analysis and many of his honest portrayals. Those inhabiting the right fringe of the political spectrum might find some of Mamet's opinions distasteful, but they have it coming.
Although the word "vide" was used too often, I like a book that stretches one's vocabulary. Keep a dictionary close by if you buy this book. I also like a book whose whole is greater than the sum of the parts and that reads, at times, like poetry. The evocative black and white photos help capture this unique vision of Vermont's Northeast Kingdom. I look forward to rereading this book.