Category: Reviews

Defending Jacob by William Landay
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I was in Maui. I was on vacation. I had already read three novels. They were, each of them, kind of heavy. Not hard to read, not over-long, just, you know. I wanted something a little more pulpy. So someone recommended Defending Jacob. I’ve read my fair-share of lawyer novels, and police procedurals, and family dramas. They’re not my first go-to, but the person who recommended this one said “I think about that book a lot.” Compelling! So I gave it a try.

And now that I’m done, lawyer novels and police procedurals and family dramas are still not going to be my first go-to. I’m not saying William Landay should have stuck to just the one theme, I’m just saying that none of those themes made this novel any better.

Let’s start with the lawyer theme, the court-room stuff. Its all a little too realistic. Verisimilitude is supposed to be a good thing, right? Yes, if you need to be authentic—but authentic does not equal interesting. Landay tries, by giving the judge an interesting character, for example, and providing background on some of the other courtroom personalities—but none of it is put to any use. It’s just a trial. We only get to see theatrics in the book’s “frame,” where the narrator himself has been called to testify before a grand jury for a different case altogether. But it’s not enough.

Then there’s the police procedural, which kind of melts into the family drama sections. It gets started when the main character, an ADA, assigns himself to a homicide- but then he’s taken off the case, and the procedural sort of fizzles.

And then there’s the family drama, which is mainly driven by two contradictory ideas. The main character says, several times, that he knows his son, knows him well, knows him well enough to know that he is innocent. He also points out that his son is a teenager, and teenagers are mysterious, withdrawn, and live in a world all their own, impenetrable and unknowable by adults.

So I found myself shrugging through the entire read. I’m fine with an unreliable narrator, but not an unreliable writer. And then there’s two convenient moments of deus-ex-machina to, first, tie things up, and then, throw a curve ball so that the writer can tie things up again. In a slapdash, overly dramatic, sensationalistic (and let’s face it predictable) manner. The novel went from interesting to pedestrian to boring to cheesy.

I have no idea why the person who recommended this to me “thinks about it a lot.” I’ll have to ask.

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The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This is a terrible novel. It’s very well written and compelling and immersive. And just awful. It won the Booker Prize in 1997 and deserved it. It’s Arundhati Roy’s only novel to date and we can only hope she’ll write more exquisite prose like this. And it’s a horrible book.

I don’t mean it’s bad. I mean I felt miserable the entire time I was reading it. Vivid, lurid descriptions of a small village in southwestern India, the people who live there, the sharp lines drawn between the classes, young and old, men and women. I was dazzled by the colors. I could almost smell the rot. I could feel the filth dripping from every branch, from every grimy soul.

There are no good people in this book. Ostensibly, the main characters are good. And their best friend. But they’re not even real people, just foils for cruel injustice. To call the caste system inhumane, to call adults abusive, to call the men sexist, is all so much understatement. This is a squalid, depressing, odious, nauseating little book.

I suppose there are a few scenes of beauty and grace, but they’re too meager to make up for everything else. Too last-minute, too seemingly-tossed in. They do not balance with otherwise overwhelming sense of despair that the rest of the book offers.

By all means, go ahead and read The God of Small Things. Arundhati Roy has a way with words that is unique, fascinating, brilliant. I wish she would write more. As much as this novel made me feel bad, I still want to read other books by her. I think that’s the only good thing I can say about this read.

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The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A friend of mine told me he’s read this book fifty or more times, often while on vacation. To quote him:

I always take it with me on every trip. …it makes travel all the more bearable….travel to me is a way of life and exciting and something that’s been a part of me since I was born, but it still scares the hell out of me, it’s still uncomfortable and difficult, and The Sun Also Rises is my antidote. I love reading it in foreign cities, countries. When your credit card is declined in Tangier and you have $10 to your name, you can buy a cup of sweet tea and read it and you’re back in Spain. When you’re sleeping on the floor of a flophouse in Mexico after a 12-hr bus ride among people who don’t speak your language and you’re hungry and it’s 1am, you can read it and be eating in Paris. And every character you’ve met before, both in the novel and in real life. In yourself.

Now how could I hope to offer a review better than that? I can’t, so what follows is not an attempt. To be fair, you’ve either read this book or have not, and if you have not, I don’t see how a recommendation from a stranger is going to get you to read it now.

Maybe that’s what you should do, you should seek out a friend who’s already read The Sun Also Rises, and get him or her to talk about it. Because this is not a one-off novel that you just pick-up, read, put down, and move on. It bears discussion and debate, comparison to other books you’ve read, good and bad, other experiences you’ve had, good and bad.

So the novel’s got depth, and at the same time, it’s damned readable. Again, you either know Hemingway, or you don’t. For those who don’t, his style is well-known to be simple, straightforward, the opposite of flowery, the opposite of purple. (The opposite of this ham-handed “review.”) But it’s also compelling. As my friend points out, when reading The Sun Also Rises, you find yourself sitting in a smoky bar in post-WWI Paris, or watching the bulls on parade in Pamplona, the sun on your neck, sweat trickling down your back.

It’s been called a Roman a Clef, so there’s that, if historical criticism is your thing. It’s not mine, but it bears mentioning if only because they characters in the novel have fairly complicated relationships. My point is, for a book written 90 years ago, it’s modern. My understanding is that when it was written, it was considered, maybe, too modern—so Hemingway was ahead of his time. Or something. This is not an “old” book. You’ll find something to relate to in there, I promise.

I’m trying to say, are you doing any travelling soon? Need something to keep you company? The Sun Also Rises is an excellent choice. And when you’re done, you’ll have found something for your next trip too. And the ones after that.

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Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Not sure if there’s any point to writing a review about a book that’s been out since before I was born, but what the hell. My so-called reviews are basically just blog entries anyway. Have you read Wise Blood? Maybe you should. If you’re a writer, anyway. It’s the kind of book that locks down a style and does not let go. Doesn’t compromise because it doesn’t have to. If you want to know what a “voice” is and what it can do, read Wise Blood.

And if you’re a reader, the kind of person who likes to open a book and plant his or her eyes on the first word and get pulled along and then look up eventually and realize half the day is gone. And this without much of a plot to speak of. Flannery O’Connor manages, somehow to plop you down in the post-war South without too much flowery language. You’ll get a few mosquito bites and tend to mop at your brown with a damn handkerchief and you won’t even realize it until you think about it.

I came to Wise Blood because a friend of mine was reading it, and he’s going through a rough patch, and O’Connor’s a go-to for him when he needs some perspective. But I’d read some of the short stories it’s based on before, which made parts familiar. I think you’ll find that multiple readings just make this book better. Being familiar with Flannery O’Connor in general, and this book in particular, will show off its depth, which can be glossed over, since it’s so easy to read otherwise.

Of course a novel set in the American South in the 40s is going to have some racist language in it. But to her credit, O’Connor doesn’t accept or promote racist ideas- they’re just part of the background. The distinction is necessary, otherwise every novel set in America would either be a racist screed or a pamphlet for social-justice. The former is to be abhorred, and the latter applauded, but not every book has to be about race. Nevertheless, the language can be uncomfortable. Some people don’t read Mark Twain for this reason. I’m not going to blame them- there are too many books in the world to have endure something you don’t want to endure if you’re just looking for a good read.

On the other hand, rest assured that in Wise Blood, at least, there’s not much of it. Same can’t be said for other works by O’Conner, but this one’s more about religion than anything else. Or a lack of religion. Or what happens when a fellow tries to get rid of something he hasn’t got in the first place.

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Quarantine by Jim Crace
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I read Jim Crace’s Harvest and said of it: “I’m looking forward to going back and reading his other award-winning writing.” And now I have done so, although I am embarrassed to say this is the third book I’ve read by him, not the second. When I went to look up his other novels, I realized I had already read Being Dead. I say I’m “embarrassed” because, apparently, I’m not very good at remembering authors.

But I’ll say this, that reading someone you “know” is different from reading someone you don’t. I read Harvest with no expectations. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for Quarantine. I admit, I went in, expecting to be as moved, and I was not. Which may have been the fault of having expectations.

And here is a story with Jesus in it—virtually no one would be able to read a novel with Jesus in it and not have a picture in their head already. This, too, could lead to disappointment. Crace’s Jesus is not holy enough. Or he is too holy. Or too human. Not human enough. Too historically authentic. Lacking in reverence. Too reverential. Take your pick. It is a testimony to Crace’s creativity that this Jesus will be nothing like anyone’s expectations.

This is a novel that uses all the language and imagery and sensibility of religion, but is not in the least religious. Here is hard-scrabble account, the harsh reality of spending 40 days in the desert, that somehow evokes a calmness and a peace.

But for all that, Jesus is not the main character in this novel. The main character is the devil that tempts him, but not a biblical devil. An evil, but the kind that’s as familiar as any jerk that cuts you off in traffic. As ubiquitous as the lies that eat away your soul—the ones that you are told, and the ones you accept.

It would be too easy to liken one’s dropping oneself into a book to a quarantine, a fast, a spiritual journey begging questions of a god, the author. That’s maybe glib, and certainly not the point of this novel. But whenever I go into these books, either wide-eyed or jaded, I always come out of them either plump or emaciated, dirtier or cleaner—but never the same as when I started. That’s all one can really ask of a good read. I expected something else, was not satisfied in that expectation, and yet I’m not left wanting.

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No Game For a Dame by M. Ruth Myers
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

A hard-boiled detective novel—but hey, the dick’s a dame! How about that for a twist? Yeah, well, as “neat” as that is, I don’t know if it’s that big of a deal.

Which is not to say this was a bad novel. It’s your basic procedural, your basic private-eye story, with many of the tropes we enjoy, the reason we read these things. The language, the attitude, the seedy bars, the gangsters, the run-ins with the cops. Maggie Sullivan delivers.

Then there’s the new stuff, the stuff you don’t get in the male version. Knitting needles, elaborate hats, a boarding house for women only. Don’t worry, none of it’s sexist or derivative. Just part of the tapestry, and used in the execution of detective duties.

There’s maybe a little too much misogyny tossed around for my tastes. I mean, yeah, sure, that’s the way it was back then, but I don’t read these detective stories for the history lesson. Feels less like an attempt at verisimilitude and more like self-indulgence. Like, I’m supposed to respect this dame more because she solves crimes and has to deal with institutional sexism.

No thanks. I’d rather just read a good story. And No Game for a Dame is a good story, more or less. The question I have to ask myself is, would this story have worked if the main character had been a guy? Sure— so on the one hand, kudos for not making this merely a by-gals-for-gals thing.

But on the other hand, why bother with the title, then? Look, I haven’t read a lot of women-as-private-eye novels. But it seems to me that there’s gotta be more one could do than just throw a female into a by-the-numbers paperback and add a little sexist window-dressing for good measure.

Then again, maybe that’s me being sexist. Bottom line—if you’re looking from some kind of feminist screed, give this one a pass. But if you’re looking for a decent little crime novel, go right ahead.

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Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Grabbed this one up because a Silicon Valley genius-type said he was reading it, and looked interesting. The first chapter, was, indeed, great, but then it sort of petered out. Ever read a non-fiction book and get far enough into it that you feel you need to finish, but you’re keeping an eye on that page count the whole time? “ 60 to go, 50 to go…” And then, hooray! The last 40 pages are end notes and index. Whew! Yeah, that was this book.

Not that it was bad, or poorly written—just a bit longer than it needed to be. Perhaps this could have been condensed into a long chapter in a different book about human evolution or the history of people, or whatever.

The points he makes are good ones—homo sapiens has developed, over time, and most of that very recently, through a series of “revolutions” which, specifically, where revolutions in cognition, agriculture, social unification, and science. This is to say: we got big brains, grew crops, got religion, and invented the steam engine.

Along the way we found time to kill off the other neo-humans, invent money, and create the internet. And yet, for all of that, nothing has changed, in as much as the universe is still hostile and indifferent, there’s no right or wrong, and happiness is nice but ultimately pointless. At least, that’s what I gleaned from my reading.

But the problem with a book like this, in my opinion, when it goes a bit long, is that the author can get a little preachy. A little sanctimonious. That’s fine, I guess, since he says right off the bat there’s no right or wrong—so there’s no hypocrisy, right? The thing is: opinions are boring. (There—I just gave you my opinion. Hypocrisy achieved.)

Many of the facts were interesting, however. The most successful organism on the planet to date is wheat. People are dying from violence orders of magnitude less often than they used to. But shove that up against repeated finger shaking, like for example, that maybe we’re too cruel to animals… and that’s why I found myself counting pages, glad when it was over.

Glad I finished it, though, glad I read the thing. Something to discuss with those Silicon Valley genius types if we ever meet up.

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Arthur Rex by Thomas Berger
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I came across Arthur Rex twenty seven years ago, in my high school library. That day I discovered two things: the joy of browsing stacks and finding random gems, and the joy of reading Thomas Berger.

Arthur Rex was like no other book I’d ever read, (nor was it like any other Berger wrote, I’d come to find). Seemingly gussied up with thees and thous, it was nevertheless easy to read. Such a matter-of-fact style. And that whole “show, don’t tell” rule? Annihilated.

Berger sticks to the Arthurian romance most of us already know, and gets us through the big stories: Arthur’s accidental fathering of Mordred, Tristram and Isolde, Guinivere and Lancelot, Gawaine and the Green Knight, to name a few. But in the finer details, Berger maintains a consistency that would be otherwise missing if this was just a gathering of the old stories. Gawaine, for example, when tested by temptation before he faces the Green Knight, speaks no ill of women (unlike the “Pearl Poet version) when he realizes the nature of the Green Knight’s game. In this way, Berger takes the traditional definition of “romance” and updates it to mean what it meant all along: novel.

I decided to reread Arthur thanks to being able to get it “free” on my e-reader via Kindle Unlimited, and I found myself reading it on all of my devices that support the Kindle App. On my tablet before bed, on my PC at work, on my phone waiting in the doctor’s office. Berger’s prose style for Arthur Rex is that easy to fall into. It really does feel like you’re being told a story by your old grandpa. The Princess Bride treatment of The Round Table.

Lovers of the King Arthur stories should read this book, as it stands up against any other telling, including Mallory, White, and Pyle. Lovers of Thomas Berger should read this book, as it shows how his subtle hand can nevertheless create a deep and rich tapestry. Lovers of reading should read this book because it’s just fun to read.

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The Global War on Morris by Steve Israel
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Picked this up at the library because I liked the title and the inside jacket description was intriguing. And at first the book delivered. A sort of funny main character, dripping in stereotypes. More caricatures in subsequent chapters, those evil republicans that ran the US government during Bush II. Lots of fun Government Acronym Salad (GAS), lots of fun idiosyncratic GAS bureaucracy.

But that was it. Nothing bloomed in this fertile soil. The stereotypes stayed stereotypes, and the so-called climax came half-way through the book. This comedy of errors ended up being nothing more than a parody of itself. And a boring one at that.

And since the climax came half-way through the novel, the ending was drawn-out and tedious. And fell flat. Maybe the difficulty for the writer was that he was trying to base this on too much reality, and just as the Bush II era kinda fell flat and ended lamely, so too the book. Too many punches pulled, too many opportunities skipped over.

In my opinion, this was a novel that tried to excoriate but also poke fun, and you really can’t do both at the same time. Not if you want to stay historically accurate. Novels require larger-than-life characters or plots, or at the very least, larger-than-life themes. The Global War on Morris has none of these.

It has an old man who makes only a few mistakes, that aren’t really mistakes, and an actual malefactor who goes entirely unpunished. Only in writing this, in a review does such a juxtaposition warrant analysis; in the novel itself, these factors are minutiae lost in the details of the aforementioned GAS.

I guess we were supposed to marvel at a conservative-built computer AI that made all of the decisions leading to our reluctant protagonist’s suffering. If this is supposed to be a symbol of Red State Paranoia, it was meagerly applied. RSP would have everyone flagged as a potential threat to our nation, and I found myself not really caring what happened to anybody in this novel.

Except that actual malefactor I mentioned, and as I said, nothing happened to him. I finished the book dissatisfied.

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