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THE WOODEN NICKEL

Name: THE WOODEN NICKEL
Author: William Carpenter
ISBN: 0-316-13400-7

by William Carpenter ‧ RELEASE DATE: March 26, 2002

An insouciant antipastoral as bracing and bitter as a January nor’easter. Don’t miss it.

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Archie Bunker would look like Ralph Nader alongside the robust, profane life force who easily dominates this zesty, entertaining second novel by the Maine poet and author (A Keeper of Sheep, 1994).

He’s Lucas “Lucky” Lunt, a native of fictional Orphan Point who has survived both Vietnam and a bad ticker, spent 30 years leading the hard life of an independent lobster fisherman, and has just about had it with rival lobstermen, tightfisted middleman Clyde Hannaford, and Lucky’s increasingly combative family: wife Sarah, who’s become an “artist” producing “little sea glass sculptures”; smart-mouthed college-age daughter Kristen; and 20-year-old skinhead high-school dropout Kyle, who gives evidence of being uneducable, unemployable, mad at the world, and gay. As if this isn’t enough, Lucky hires Clyde’s estranged sexpot wife Ronette as “stern man” aboard (his boat) The Wooden Nickel, gets her pregnant, splits with Sarah, and fires a “warning shot” that goes astray during a “lobster war” over disputed fishing areas. As a result, Lucky is courted by an affable ex-con plotting to burgle rich out-of-staters’ houses and by wily Mr. Moto, who specializes in marketing illegal oversized “Godzilla lobsters” and whale meat. Carpenter keeps his busy plot boiling, as Lucky and Ronette encounter a nasty cetacean tangled in fishing lines, then must survive a rescue by a boatful of horny rednecks. It all reads as if Carolyn Chute had moved eastward to the coast, or Richard Russo’s townies had grown extra layers of grit and cussedness. And Lucky is a terrific creation: ribald, cranky, deeply conservative, homophobic, xenophobic, irrationally violent—and the unquenchable source of malevolently funny one-liners that can drop you dead in your tracks (dealing with chopsticks in a Chinese restaurant, for example, is “like going after a dog turd with a pair of oars”).

An insouciant antipastoral as bracing and bitter as a January nor’easter. Don’t miss it.

Pub Date: March 26, 2002

ISBN: 0-316-13400-7

Page Count: 320

Publisher: Little, Brown

Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 15, 2002

Categories:

LITERARY FICTION

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HUMAN ACTS

by Han Kang translated by Deborah Smith ‧ RELEASE DATE: Jan. 17, 2017

A fiercely written, deeply upsetting, and beautifully human novel.

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The brutal murder of a 15-year-old boy during the 1980 Gwangju Uprising becomes the connective tissue between the isolated characters of this emotionally harrowing novel.

In May 1980, student demonstrations ignited a popular uprising in the South Korean city of Gwangju. The police and military responded with ruthless violence, and Han (The Vegetarian, 2015) begins her novel in the middle of a disorienting atmosphere of human-inflicted horror. While searching for a friend, a young boy named Dong-ho joins a team of volunteers who look after the bodies of demonstrators who were killed. He keeps a ledger with details on each corpse, pins a number to its chest, and keeps candles lit beside the ones with no family to grieve beside them. The details of this world seep off the page in a series of sickening but precisely composed images. Han’s evocation of savagery and grief is shockingly sensory and visceral but never approximate or unrestrained. Each character’s voice seems to ring in its own space, and though they are all connected by Dong-ho’s experiences in Gwangju, they exist in an uncanny isolation. The novel is divided into seven parts: six acts that each focus on a different character and an epilogue that pulls in the author herself. The parts shift in time from 1980 to 2013 and in point of view, making the reader intimate or complicit to different degrees with the voice of a dead person, a survivor of torture, a mother suffering from regret and memory. Han explores the sprawling trauma of political brutality with impressive nuance and the piercing emotional truth that comes with masterful fiction. In her epilogue she writes, “Soundlessly, and without fuss, some tender thing deep inside me broke.” Her novel is likely to provoke an echo of that moment in its readers.

A fiercely written, deeply upsetting, and beautifully human novel.

Pub Date: Jan. 17, 2017

ISBN: 978-1-101-90672-9

Page Count: 224

Publisher: Hogarth

Review Posted Online: Oct. 4, 2016

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Oct. 15, 2016

Categories:

LITERARY FICTION

- BOOK REVIEW
GREEK LESSONS
by Han Kang ; translated by Deborah Smith & Emily Yae Won

- BOOK REVIEW
THE VEGETARIAN
by Han Kang ; translated by Deborah Smith

- PROFILES
Han Kang

- AWARDS
Han Kang Wins the Nobel Prize in Literature

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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.