A journey into the dark that’s more titillating then illuminating.
Three brothers share one bed…all their lives.
Clinch’s second novel spans 60 years but begins at the end, in 1990. Vernon, Audie and Creed Proctor are dairy farmers in upstate New York. Old man Audie, mentally challenged, wakes to find Vernon dead but the bed dry (Vernon was a bedwetter). Creed reports the death, which is deemed suspicious. The urine-soaked mattress is impounded. Might Creed have smothered his brother? The police force a dubious confession from the barely literate Creed. Clinch has incorporated some elements of the 1990 Delbert Ward case, just as E.L. Doctorow used the Collyer brothers, the Proctors’ urban counterparts, for his 2009 novel Homer and Langley. Real life supplied a legal resolution in the Ward case. Not so here. Clinch shuffles time periods as he did in his debut Finn (2007), which featured the monstrous Pap. Lester Proctor, the boys’ father, is almost as evil. A mean drunk, he takes the boys on a fishing expedition and almost drowns Vernon through his negligence. Another time he has Vernon cut off his damaged finger. He regrets he hasn’t killed Audie, the “idiot child.” Facing such brutality, it’s no wonder the boys huddle together protectively. Lester dies young in a mule-and-wagon accident; their beloved mother dies of cancer; little sister Donna gets out fast. The brothers keep the farm going, quaint figures from an earlier time. But don’t get misty-eyed; they’re caked in dung and smell terrible. Clinch uses various voices and viewpoints for his group portrait. The brothers are seen as ants, Okies or cavemen (but never kings). Walking a fine line, not wanting us to dismiss them as freaks, Clinch uses their neighbor Preston to anchor the novel. A kindly soul, Preston respects their willingness to endure. A secondary story line, involving their nephew Tom, a marijuana grower and dealer, is a mistake, distracting us from the sad riddle of the Proctor boys.
A journey into the dark that’s more titillating then illuminating.Pub Date: July 6, 2010
ISBN: 978-1-4000-6901-9
Page Count: 416
Publisher: Random House
Review Posted Online: Jan. 2, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: April 1, 2010
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.
The time is the not-so-distant future, when the US's spiraling social freedoms have finally called down a reaction, an Iranian-style repressive "monotheocracy" calling itself the Republic of Gilead—a Bible-thumping, racist, capital-punishing, and misogynistic rule that would do away with pleasure altogether were it not for one thing: that the Gileadan women, pure and true (as opposed to all the nonbelieving women, those who've ever been adulterous or married more than once), are found rarely fertile.
Thus are drafted a whole class of "handmaids," whose function is to bear the children of the elite, to be fecund or else (else being certain death, sent out to be toxic-waste removers on outlying islands). The narrative frame for Atwood's dystopian vision is the hopeless private testimony of one of these surrogate mothers, Offred ("of" plus the name of her male protector). Lying cradled by the body of the barren wife, being meanwhile serviced by the husband, Offred's "ceremony" must be successful—if she does not want to join the ranks of the other disappeared (which include her mother, her husband—dead—and small daughter, all taken away during the years of revolt). One Of her only human conduits is a gradually developing affair with her master's chauffeur—something that's balanced more than offset, though, by the master's hypocritically un-Puritan use of her as a kind of B-girl at private parties held by the ruling men in a spirit of nostalgia and lust. This latter relationship, edging into real need (the master's), is very effectively done; it highlights the handmaid's (read Everywoman's) eternal exploitation, profane or sacred ("We are two-legged wombs, that's all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices"). Atwood, to her credit, creates a chillingly specific, imaginable night-mare. The book is short on characterization—this is Atwood, never a warm writer, at her steeliest—and long on cynicism—it's got none of the human credibility of a work such as Walker Percy's Love In The Ruins. But the scariness is visceral, a world that's like a dangerous and even fatal grid, an electrified fence.
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.Pub Date: Feb. 17, 1985
ISBN: 038549081X
Page Count: -
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin
Review Posted Online: Sept. 16, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 15, 1985
SEEN & HEARD
BOOK TO SCREEN
Absolutely enthralling. Read it.
A young Irish couple gets together, splits up, gets together, splits up—sorry, can't tell you how it ends!
Irish writer Rooney has made a trans-Atlantic splash since publishing her first novel, Conversations With Friends, in 2017. Her second has already won the Costa Novel Award, among other honors, since it was published in Ireland and Britain last year. In outline it's a simple story, but Rooney tells it with bravura intelligence, wit, and delicacy. Connell Waldron and Marianne Sheridan are classmates in the small Irish town of Carricklea, where his mother works for her family as a cleaner. It's 2011, after the financial crisis, which hovers around the edges of the book like a ghost. Connell is popular in school, good at soccer, and nice; Marianne is strange and friendless. They're the smartest kids in their class, and they forge an intimacy when Connell picks his mother up from Marianne's house. Soon they're having sex, but Connell doesn't want anyone to know and Marianne doesn't mind; either she really doesn't care, or it's all she thinks she deserves. Or both. Though one time when she's forced into a social situation with some of their classmates, she briefly fantasizes about what would happen if she revealed their connection: "How much terrifying and bewildering status would accrue to her in this one moment, how destabilising it would be, how destructive." When they both move to Dublin for Trinity College, their positions are swapped: Marianne now seems electric and in-demand while Connell feels adrift in this unfamiliar environment. Rooney's genius lies in her ability to track her characters' subtle shifts in power, both within themselves and in relation to each other, and the ways they do and don't know each other; they both feel most like themselves when they're together, but they still have disastrous failures of communication. "Sorry about last night," Marianne says to Connell in February 2012. Then Rooney elaborates: "She tries to pronounce this in a way that communicates several things: apology, painful embarrassment, some additional pained embarrassment that serves to ironise and dilute the painful kind, a sense that she knows she will be forgiven or is already, a desire not to 'make a big deal.' " Then: "Forget about it, he says." Rooney precisely articulates everything that's going on below the surface; there's humor and insight here as well as the pleasure of getting to know two prickly, complicated people as they try to figure out who they are and who they want to become.
Absolutely enthralling. Read it.Pub Date: April 16, 2019
ISBN: 978-1-984-82217-8
Page Count: 288
Publisher: Hogarth
Review Posted Online: Feb. 17, 2019
Kirkus Reviews Issue: March 1, 2019
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