
So, I think everyone can agree, right now, that things are a mess, and have been for a while. Of course, being a fan of both dystopias and alternate histories, I decided to pick this book up from my bookshelves, after avoiding it for the last year or so. It Can’t Happen Here was Sinclair Lewis’s imaginings of what could happen if fascism took hold in 1930s America, following the events as they play out in the life of newspaper editor Doremus Jessup and his family. And while at times it feels a little hokey, it’s also chilling.
The book does a pretty good job of exploring the idea of a fascist 1930s America. The thing is, I love dystopias but they’re often far enough removed from one’s own reality as to lose a little bit of horror. With this book, the setting and the character of the place is familiar enough (even with the strange 1930s-style language and references and such) that its all a little more real. The bare glimpses of what happened in our own world during WWII makes the events all the more disturbing at times.
I mean, I must admit, at times the situations feel a little far-fetched. There’s certainly a rush-job as far as setting up this totalitarian state, but for all those moments there’s another line that sounds sounds straight out of an article printed today, capturing a time ‘when [instead of standard politics] the electorate hungered for frisky emotions… baptism by emersion in the creek, young love under the elms… fear of death when an automobile teeters above a canyon… -all the primitive sensations which they thought they found in the screaming of Buzz Windrip.” The words of the novel echo the news headlines and internet gossip of today, and doesn’t that just make one feel all warm and cozy and not ready to scream into the night.
A problem arises with the dialogue, however, in that it’s weird and stilted at times. It feels vaguely like watching a melodramatic film from the same time period, to the extent that my brain was framing many of the scenes in black and white 30s movie sets. It was a notable problem, in that, while reading, I’d suddenly noticed the quality of the writing dipping… and then I realized it was because I’d hit into a section of dialogue. This is one of the only books I’ve read in which I found myself preferring the narration over the portions with verbal character interaction.








