Robinson Crusoe was the man, man

In a world of White Stripes and Radioheads, it's always good to have Beatles. Likewise, in a world of Brown-comma-Dans and Crichton-comma-Michaels, it's nice to have Defoe-comma-Daniels. Reading Robinson Crusoe, a voluble novel first published in 1710, there's an aroma of innovation never found in modern books. That sole quality is enough to keep it on its feet.

Inspired by a true story about an intransigent shoemaker who lived for five years on a deserted island, Robinson Crusoe follows an ambitious but naive eponymous protagonist who wants to see the world. His father variably pulls a Truman Show on him, saying "you'll die if you leave," and highlighting the virtues and peace of agriculture:

He bade me observe it, and I should always find, that the calamities of life were shared among the upper and lower part of mankind, but that the middle station had the fewest disasters, and what not exposed to so many vicissitudes as the higher or lower part of mankind..."

Not to be dissuaded, Robinson sets out anyway, and through a series of mishaps eventually finds himself stranded on an island. This is the key part of the novel------here Defoe's consistently compelling story could falter, and we'd die of ennui. Thankfully, he times everything perfectly: after an upsetting portrayal of the fateful storm, Robinson fastidiously documents his solutions, notes the milestones of the second and third years, and then, right when it matters, provides excitement. Our eyes perk up. Then more excitement. And more. And then, uh, the excitement doesn't end...

The prose, while fleeting and elongated, is certainly more capturing than Djuna Barnes. The run-on sentences aren't interminable; it feels like Crusoe's telling us his story over a campfire. For a first-person narrative like this, it can't get much better. The novel also isn't particularly long (290 pages in medium-large print), so it makes for an expeditious read.

The narrator is also stupendously likable. First off, he's honest. Rather than pulling heroic John-Smith-esque exaggerations, Crusoe is frank about his naivety, even acknowledging his father's wisdom and accepting responsibility for his actions. The Biblical references he splashes upon the story are also neat (i.e., Jonah)-----some of them are tacit, others the reader wouldn't notice before their mention. It actually makes the work more respectable-----Crusoe lived in a pious time and clearly contributed something to his creed.

The novel is not perfect. Once the great adventure is over, Crusoe becomes the paragon of garrulousness we feared he was; Defoe inserts stories into the last few chapters which could've been condensed into a brief epilogue. The last thirty pages induce get-on-with-its and borderline-stertorous breathing, detracting from a hitherto thrilling oeuvre.

Yet for what it was then and now, Robinson Crusoe earns an uneasy five-stars (uneasy as in one of them considers leaving). Translated and condensed hundreds of times, the story is filling for all ages, never high-falutin and almost always entertaining.

Rating: A-