A contemporary, razor-edged fairy tale—very dark chocolate but likely to be gobbled up.
In Harris’s sequel to Chocolat (1999), the paranormally gifted chocolate-maker Vianne Rocher has moved from rural France to Paris, where she tries to create a life of anonymity.
After an unfortunate “accident”—a child’s magical impulse gone astray—Vianne has forsworn her paranormal power to ensure her family’s stability. Using an assumed name, she lives above her chocolate shop in Montmarte with 11-year-old Anouk (now called Annie by schoolmates) and four-year old Rosette, who does not speak but possesses special gifts for drawing, signing and creating her own “accidents” despite her mother’s attempts to avoid them. Vianne herself no longer makes her own “special” candies. Her middle-aged, well-meaning but conventional landlord, Thierry, has become her suitor, and she has exchanged her red dress for basic black. Enter Zozie de l’Alba, flamboyant, charming and soulless, a woman who lives by stealing identities, whether by literal theft of credit cards or by more supernatural means. Zozie is attracted to the energy of the chocolatier and particularly to Anouk, who is struggling with heightened preteen anxieties and resentments, a desire both to fit in and remain different. Iago-like Zozie insinuates herself into Vianne’s family. She draws much-needed new customers by redecorating the shop and charming patrons while encouraging Vianne to make her own delicious, if no longer magical, candies. She becomes Vianne’s friend and a confidante to Anouk as the girl sorts out social problems at school. But Zozie lets readers know early on that her plans are sinister. She wants Vianne’s identity and carefully drives a wedge between mother and daughter. Then Vianne’s old lover, and Rosette’s secret father, Roux, shows up. Zozie senses a kindred amoral spirit. The psychology of these characters is as complicated and spellbinding as their purported magic.
A contemporary, razor-edged fairy tale—very dark chocolate but likely to be gobbled up.Pub Date: April 8, 2008
ISBN: 978-0-06-143162-3
Page Count: 444
Publisher: Morrow/HarperCollins
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 15, 2008
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
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SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
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