If E.L. Doctorow were a painter, he would be an impressionist. His 1985 novel “World’s Fair” doesn’t seem to have much of a plotline. A Jewish boy grows up in the Bronx during the Depression and beginnings of World War II. His parents fight a lot and he looks up to his older brother, Donald.
I was 75 percent of the way through the book and kept wondering when they were going to get to the part about the World’s Fair. That doesn’t happen until the end when young Edgar wins honorable mention in an essay contest, and free admission to the fair for his family. It was a moment of great triumph for the 9-year-old and a source of pride to his parents, who enjoy themselves for the first time in years when the fair offers them a glimpse of a bright new world.
What makes this book worth the read is the vivid description of small moments in a young boy’s life. Doctorow describes the simplest occurrences with a bit of awe, as experienced by a boy who takes in everything around him. I suspected, but didn’t know for sure, that this was an autobiographical novel. I knew that Doctorow was a Russian Jew who would have grown up in those days of “The Green Hornet”, washboards, and Philco radios.
About halfway through the book the boy’s name is uttered for the first time by his mother. “Edgar” she says, and that’s when I knew for sure that Edgar in the book was Edgar L. Doctorow. At that point it was even more amazing that a man who at that point would be 54 could have such vivid memories of childhood. Certainly, we all remember things about growing up, but the sensual specifics that make up this tale are simply astonishing.
