Such narration carries this novel—and it’s a weighty, worthwhile load.
A long-suffering kid draws the bars of his own cage, in Woodrell’s tender and downright merciless seventh novel (after Tomato Red, 1998).
The author’s previous work reaped praise for its depiction of Ozark lowlifes, as well as for capturing the inadvertent beauty of redneck speech. These elements are present again, but having 13-year-old Shuggie Akins narrate quells the comedy and heightens the pathos. The boy is an unresourceful Huck Finn, including even the brutal father but without the option of hopping on a raft and skipping town. Father Red’s orneriness (“he had a variety of ugly tones to speak in and used them all at me on most days”) is intensified by his not being Shuggie’s real father; and when not off “scallybippin’” with his one obsequious crony, or roughing up the family, Red makes the boy break into bed-ridden people’s homes to steal dope. Woodrell’s sketches of invalids are windows into tiny realms of helplessness. But the weirdest and most affecting moments come when Red is out of town (which is often) and attention shifts to Shuggie’s relationship with his mother Glenda, who, skimpily dressed, steadily downs her rum-and-cola “tea.” As caretakers isolated in the middle of a graveyard, mother and son address each other in creepily unorthodox ways: she calls him “hon,” he calls her Glenda: “Living alongside the gathered dead of our town was a thing me and Glenda never did fear ’cause we never done them no dirt when they lived.” The actual plot—in which Glenda tempts the wrath of Red with an ill-chosen affair—has trouble generating interest beside the eerie revelations of character and the artfully artless language: “Except for the noise of the tractor it rode about the way I figured some horses might. Except also for the stink of the smoke and gas and the noise when the gears gnashed.”
Such narration carries this novel—and it’s a weighty, worthwhile load.Pub Date: May 21, 2001
ISBN: 0-399-14751-9
Page Count: 208
Publisher: Putnam
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: April 1, 2001
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
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
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
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