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SCISSORS

Name: SCISSORS
Author: Stéphane Michaka
ISBN: 978-0-385-53749-0

by Stéphane Michaka ‧ RELEASE DATE: Aug. 13, 2013

Daring and impressive.

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Loosely based on the life of Raymond Carver, this book is more than a love triangle—it's a love polygon?—of a writer, his work, his editor, his significant other and alcohol.

Scissors is the nickname of Raymond’s editor, Douglas, a man with such a high opinion of himself that he might be divine. Raymond is married to Marianne. They married young and were parents before they knew it. Burdened with debt, working dead-end jobs, Raymond and his wife sacrifice so Raymond can write, and he does, but he drinks, too. When Raymond’s work finds its way to Douglas’ desk, lives are changed: Douglas’, Raymond’s, Marianne’s and readers’. As Douglas observes, “If Raymond hadn’t existed, I would have invented him.” Raymond is that good and that important to Douglas’ sense of his mission. But Douglas cuts so much from Raymond’s work that it is unrecognizable. As Raymond and Douglas exchange letters and finally meet, as they struggle over Raymond’s work, the novel becomes a slippery study of writing and re-writing. Raymond’s a mess; as he becomes successful, he feels fraudulent. Is the work his or not? Four short stories appear in the novel. Douglas’ savage cutting of the first two is dramatized exquisitely. The book’s weakness is that one of the included stories is too good an imitation of bad writing. Raymond’s life, Douglas’ life and the "lives” of the later stories are inextricably linked in unexpected ways. The book’s debts to its famous subjects are repaid. It is a measure of the book’s success that readers need no knowledge of its famous subjects to appreciate it.

Daring and impressive.

Pub Date: Aug. 13, 2013

ISBN: 978-0-385-53749-0

Page Count: 240

Publisher: Nan A. Talese

Review Posted Online: May 29, 2013

Kirkus Reviews Issue: June 15, 2013

Categories:

LITERARY FICTION

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IF CATS DISAPPEARED FROM THE WORLD

by Genki Kawamura ; translated by Eric Selland ‧ RELEASE DATE: March 12, 2019

Jonathan Livingston Kitty, it’s not.

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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

Categories:

LITERARY FICTION

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THE SECRET HISTORY

by Donna Tartt ‧ RELEASE DATE: Sept. 16, 1992

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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.