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THE ANATOMY SCHOOL

Slow and somewhat aimless, but a nice account all the same of youth lusting after experience.

Booker-winner MacLaverty (Grace Notes, 1997, etc.) portrays the coming of age of three Belfast boys during the early 1970s.

Although it’s pretty much the norm for adolescent boys the world over to feel cooped up and suffocated, in Northern Ireland this could be considered a rational understanding of the situation. Especially in the post-Beatles age, the provincial sectarianism of Belfast must have seemed rather galling to those who were just on the cusp of discovering the world for the first time. MacLaverty here takes us through the last year of high school with three Catholic boys who are all, in different ways, butting their heads against the same brick wall of complacent ignorance. Martin Brennan is the most sensitive of the three: a diligent but slow student, he is trying for the second time in two years to pass his examinations and qualify for a civil service job—but keeps coming back to the question of whether he should enter a religious order as a welcome escape from the harsh realities of life on the outside. Martin’s friends Kavanagh and Foley are also products of Belfast, and they have similar frustrations seen from very different perspectives: Foley is a foul-mouthed rebel who scoffs at the Church and scorns Belfast (“A godforsaken backwater where they lock up the swings on a Sunday”), while Kavanagh has fallen in love with the Protestant Philippa Dobson, who not only refuses to sleep with him but wants him to accept Jesus as his savior. This is a leisurely old-fashioned Bildungsroman in which much of the attention is devoted to the discovery of new ideas, and the arguments that they engender among the young, and the sense of nostalgia is palpable from the start. By the end, Martin has changed as much as Belfast (and the world) has.

Slow and somewhat aimless, but a nice account all the same of youth lusting after experience.

Pub Date: April 1, 2001

ISBN: 0-393-05052-1

Page Count: 368

Publisher: Norton

Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 15, 2002

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IF CATS DISAPPEARED FROM THE WORLD

Jonathan Livingston Kitty, it’s not.

A lonely postman learns that he’s about to die—and reflects on life as he bargains with a Hawaiian-shirt–wearing devil.

The 30-year-old first-person narrator in filmmaker/novelist Kawamura’s slim novel is, by his own admission, “boring…a monotone guy,” so unimaginative that, when he learns he has a brain tumor, the bucket list he writes down is dull enough that “even the cat looked disgusted with me.” Luckily—or maybe not—a friendly devil, dubbed Aloha, pops onto the scene, and he’s willing to make a deal: an extra day of life in exchange for being allowed to remove something pleasant from the world. The first thing excised is phones, which goes well enough. (The narrator is pleasantly surprised to find that “people seemed to have no problem finding something to fill up their free time.”) But deals with the devil do have a way of getting complicated. This leads to shallow musings (“Sometimes, when you rewatch a film after not having seen it for a long time, it makes a totally different impression on you than it did the first time you saw it. Of course, the movie hasn’t changed; it’s you who’s changed") written in prose so awkward, it’s possibly satire (“Tears dripped down onto the letter like warm, salty drops of rain”). Even the postman’s beloved cat, who gains the power of speech, ends up being prim and annoying. The narrator ponders feelings about a lost love, his late mother, and his estranged father in a way that some readers might find moving at times. But for many, whatever made this book a bestseller in Japan is going to be lost in translation.

Jonathan Livingston Kitty, it’s not.

Pub Date: March 12, 2019

ISBN: 978-1-250-29405-0

Page Count: 176

Publisher: Flatiron Books

Review Posted Online: Feb. 16, 2019

Kirkus Reviews Issue: March 1, 2019

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THE SECRET HISTORY

The Brat Pack meets The Bacchae in this precious, way-too-long, and utterly unsuspenseful town-and-gown murder tale. A bunch of ever-so-mandarin college kids in a small Vermont school are the eager epigones of an aloof classics professor, and in their exclusivity and snobbishness and eagerness to please their teacher, they are moved to try to enact Dionysian frenzies in the woods. During the only one that actually comes off, a local farmer happens upon them—and they kill him. But the death isn't ruled a murder—and might never have been if one of the gang—a cadging sybarite named Bunny Corcoran—hadn't shown signs of cracking under the secret's weight. And so he too is dispatched. The narrator, a blank-slate Californian named Richard Pepen chronicles the coverup. But if you're thinking remorse-drama, conscience masque, or even semi-trashy who'll-break-first? page-turner, forget it: This is a straight gee-whiz, first-to-have-ever-noticed college novel—"Hampden College, as a body, was always strangely prone to hysteria. Whether from isolation, malice, or simple boredom, people there were far more credulous and excitable than educated people are generally thought to be, and this hermetic, overheated atmosphere made it a thriving black petri dish of melodrama and distortion." First-novelist Tartt goes muzzy when she has to describe human confrontations (the murder, or sex, or even the ping-ponging of fear), and is much more comfortable in transcribing aimless dorm-room paranoia or the TV shows that the malefactors anesthetize themselves with as fate ticks down. By telegraphing the murders, Tartt wants us to be continually horrified at these kids—while inviting us to semi-enjoy their manneristic fetishes and refined tastes. This ersatz-Fitzgerald mix of moralizing and mirror-looking (Jay McInerney shook and poured the shaker first) is very 80's—and in Tartt's strenuous version already seems dated, formulaic. Les Nerds du Mal—and about as deep (if not nearly as involving) as a TV movie.

Pub Date: Sept. 16, 1992

ISBN: 1400031702

Page Count: 592

Publisher: Knopf

Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 1, 1992

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