Unpleasantly self-righteous characters gather accusingly around a narrator who’s awfully clueless for a shrink—though well...
A psychiatrist with a major Mom problem grapples with guilt and rage in this latest exploration of gothic family ties from McGrath (Port Mungo, 2004, etc.).
“My mother’s first depressive illness occurred when I was seven years old,” Charlie Weir tells us in the opening sentence, “and I felt it was my fault.” That’s pretty much the whole bleak story right there. When his parents fought, Charlie tried to placate them; after his father left, he tried to comfort his increasingly gloomy, hard-drinking mother, while older brother Walter left him to deal with it. So of course Walter became a famous artist and Mom’s favorite. In 1979, when the main action begins, she has just died and left the family’s Upper West Side Manhattan apartment to him. Charlie gets nothing, but he has bigger problems. He’s still haunted by his failure to prevent the suicide of his brother-in-law Danny seven years ago, and by his misbegotten decision to leave his wife Agnes, Danny’s sister, in the wake of that tragedy. Danny was one of a group of Vietnam veterans Charlie was treating; after his death, Charlie made his reputation writing about post-traumatic psychiatric disorders. “We gave special emphasis to the creation of a trauma story, the detailed narrative of the emotion, the context and the meaning of trauma,” he explains—and few readers will miss the overdetermined parallel to Charlie’s own narrative. As he embarks on an affair with a woman who is obviously also Walter’s mistress, Charlie reveals with nearly every lugubrious word that his basic problem lies far deeper than guilt over Danny’s death. We might care more about his original oedipal trauma, finally revealed in the novel’s closing pages, if Charlie didn’t seem throughout to be almost as cold and obtuse as everyone is always claiming.
Unpleasantly self-righteous characters gather accusingly around a narrator who’s awfully clueless for a shrink—though well written and shrewdly perceptive, as always, this isn’t one of McGrath’s more compelling efforts.Pub Date: April 11, 2008
ISBN: 978-1-4000-4166-4
Page Count: 224
Publisher: Knopf
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2008
Suspenseful, full of incident, and not obviously necessary.
Atwood goes back to Gilead.
The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), consistently regarded as a masterpiece of 20th-century literature, has gained new attention in recent years with the success of the Hulu series as well as fresh appreciation from readers who feel like this story has new relevance in America’s current political climate. Atwood herself has spoken about how news headlines have made her dystopian fiction seem eerily plausible, and it’s not difficult to imagine her wanting to revisit Gilead as the TV show has sped past where her narrative ended. Like the novel that preceded it, this sequel is presented as found documents—first-person accounts of life inside a misogynistic theocracy from three informants. There is Agnes Jemima, a girl who rejects the marriage her family arranges for her but still has faith in God and Gilead. There’s Daisy, who learns on her 16th birthday that her whole life has been a lie. And there's Aunt Lydia, the woman responsible for turning women into Handmaids. This approach gives readers insight into different aspects of life inside and outside Gilead, but it also leads to a book that sometimes feels overstuffed. The Handmaid’s Tale combined exquisite lyricism with a powerful sense of urgency, as if a thoughtful, perceptive woman was racing against time to give witness to her experience. That narrator hinted at more than she said; Atwood seemed to trust readers to fill in the gaps. This dynamic created an atmosphere of intimacy. However curious we might be about Gilead and the resistance operating outside that country, what we learn here is that what Atwood left unsaid in the first novel generated more horror and outrage than explicit detail can. And the more we get to know Agnes, Daisy, and Aunt Lydia, the less convincing they become. It’s hard, of course, to compete with a beloved classic, so maybe the best way to read this new book is to forget about The Handmaid’s Tale and enjoy it as an artful feminist thriller.
Suspenseful, full of incident, and not obviously necessary.Pub Date: Sept. 10, 2019
ISBN: 978-0-385-54378-1
Page Count: 432
Publisher: Nan A. Talese
Review Posted Online: Sept. 3, 2019
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Sept. 15, 2019
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
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
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
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