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THE MAKING OF HENRY

Unproductive navel-gazing.

Jacobson’s turgid eighth outing tells you more than you ever wanted to know about the life of a retired university lecturer.

Henry Nagel, pushing 60, has recently moved to a posh London neighborhood after a lifetime in the North of England. He has come into possession of a fancy apartment, which, he speculates, belonged to his father’s mistress, both now deceased. A timid soul, Henry is preparing for death without having lived a life, and Jacobson walks us through some big moments in Henry’s story, starting with his birth on Christmas Day in a Manchester nursing-home. We squirm with Henry as he gets into trouble for not bringing home the change from the grocery store and wince with Henry as a schoolboy when someone calls him a girl (oh, Jacobson loves the name “Henry” to death). Not that Henry had a hard childhood: He was cosseted by his doting Jewish parents. If Henry grew up afraid of his own shadow, it wasn’t the fault of his father, Izzi, a magician and fire-eater who believed in fun times. And his great-aunt Marghanita embodied “the unutterable voluptuousness of family.” Though Henry loved having women in his life, he couldn’t handle the responsibility of a relationship, so he “borrowed” the wives of colleagues at his obscure university, where his career never took off (we get some feeble satirical swipes at “radical feminists”). Finally, in London, he meets Moira, the lively owner of a local patisserie, who gets Henry to lighten up. Might he be ready for the first-ever mature relationship? Can life begin at 60? Will Jacobson (The Very Model of a Man, 1994, etc.) deliver the goods? Well, no, he’ll leave us hanging. Answers are delayed as Henry discovers it was his mother, not his father, who had the secret life, plunging him into another round of speculation about the past. All this, and walking the neighbor’s dog (a major production), elbows out his romance with Moira.

Unproductive navel-gazing.

Pub Date: Sept. 14, 2004

ISBN: 1-4000-7861-X

Page Count: 352

Publisher: Anchor

Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 15, 2004

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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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