An unlikely exposition eventually grinds into gear and once settled in, the remaining two-thirds of this Murphy's-Law fable are increasiFaulty Towers
An unlikely exposition eventually grinds into gear and once settled in, the remaining two-thirds of this Murphy's-Law fable are increasingly engrossing.
Morag Joss has read her Rendell, her Highsmith, and also her Poe; what we have here is a tale of grotesques, enlarged & protean creatures that are forced into smaller and smaller corners by their own actions. The alternating senses of pressure and release, panic and calm are the dynamic of the plot. (Unfortunately, the Stephen King parallels are there, too, and not necessary; this has way too much going for it in its solemn core to have to get close to that line...)
Perhaps the nearest near-relative is Shirley Jackson in her Everyday-Gothic best; while the days pass with a regularity (let's make jam ! let's see if there's champagne in the cellar !) and calm incompatible with the circumstances, our happy grotesques are never able to diverge from the disastrous inevitable, and that's the ongoing suspense here.
Author Joss gets her ducks in a row by the halfway point of the book and manages an effective, deluxe coup de théâtre with the return of the grandfather. Arriving late in the second act, this stroke propels the rest of the novel to it's impending appointment with ... what's coming.
Looking forward to the next in Morag Joss' catalog; there is much here that is already the mark of a very accomplished plot and atmosphere writer. The prose itself is exquisite, by turns rapturous, enchanted, and then convincingly raw. What's left is character, and that's the quibble. Her lovely grotesques are by no means regular characters, and that's fine, they're meant to be maniacs. But not plausible or predictable from one scene to the next --(near-suicidal, hyperdepressive, shy Michael masquerading as a posh lord of the estate to fool the authorities ? ..) --tears a little, even at the fable level.
My hope is that she either takes it to the limit, drawing even more outlandish lunatics and madmen or, better, tightens the reins a bit more and brings her maniacs more intimately into the fabric of the everyday mania we live in. The Rendellian split-screen narative requires a strict (even, especially, if mad--) coherence, and a deft interweave. And I think that's where Joss is headed, but we shall see...
This was a lesson in what constitutes progress. Found this on a rainy day in Venice Public Library and decided it might be sort of time-capsule creepyThis was a lesson in what constitutes progress. Found this on a rainy day in Venice Public Library and decided it might be sort of time-capsule creepy, a mouse-hole view into another era.
If I had had any idea whatsoever that this was in fact a companion novelization to a popular Stephen King miniseries... it would've remained on the shelf. But on this day I needed something to read, and my holds had yet to appear in the arrivals stack. Nothing about cover, flyleaf notes, or interior designations indicate that it was anything other than a 1902 diary, brought to light as historical artifact. So it was chosen the old fashioned way, without resort to pre-release info, review-page or online investigation.
We now forget how valuable those guidelines can be for choosing books. A few pages in, I wagered that the "actual diary excerpts" guarantee here was fake, but things proceed slowly enough in the initial chapters for that to stay a non-issue. After some chapters had passed, though, there was ample reason to think that this was all phony.
Most conspicuously Our Heroine, who is shockingly worldly and composed for a blushing Edwardian teenage bride. Considerations of corporate responsibility in the world markets, and an amazing openess to other cultures, combined with a virtual Our Bodies Our Selves enlightenment on things feminine conspire to give the game away.
By the middle of the book I realized I was thinking of her as some kind of turn-of-the-century Sarah Palin, all at once conversant on any theme that arises, and yet-- so permanently clueless.
This was once a tiny little penny-candy sitting on some counter of future delights, an unopened Bazooka Bubble Gum of a good idea. As it is, it's a black gooey blob on the underside of lost endeavors. But who really wrote this, who reworked it into senseless oblivion, and who really cares---- will all have to remain unanswered.
If I were a nine-year old girl in some pre-internet culture, who had never read any worthwhile fiction, I would love this book. As it actually stands, well ..... no.
If you've paid close attention to the newspapers and wire services in the last eight years, you really don't need to read Angler The Cheney Vice PresIf you've paid close attention to the newspapers and wire services in the last eight years, you really don't need to read Angler The Cheney Vice Presidency. You knew what was happening all along. But it may be worth it to read through as a summation, a reminder of the kind of rampant malfeasance in office that the national citizenry allowed, and by their silence, approved.
What's interesting, for those who don't need to read it, may just be the most minute facets of machiavellian process, as perfected by Cheney and Select Associates once in power. This little detail, for example, in the aftermath of the Abu Ghraib attrocities :
As allies and public sentiment in Arab and Muslim countries turned savage, John Bellinger composed a memo for George Bush. Bellinger told Condi Rice, his immediate superior, that the president had to demonstrate his outrage at a moment of national disgrace. He wrote a formal transmission memo, with a cover note to Rice and a draft directive from Bush to Rumsfeld. The president would tell the defense secretary that he was deeply troubled by this taint upon the nation , directing him to report back in thirty days with an explanation and a plan of action. And then Bellinger found out something that, in three years as a top adviser to Rice, he had never known. Every time he wrote a memo to his boss, a blind copy was routed to the vice president's office. Scooter Libby, according to one official, made the arrangement with Steve Hadley, Rice's deputy. It was not advertised, and neither was it reciprocated; what happened in Cheney's office stayed in Cheney's office.
Just another little aspect of a White House job, and a lesson--- watch your back, your front, your thoughts, because you are being watched.
This book is well researched, strains at every difficult juncture to be fair-minded, and is scrupulously footnoted. It does suffer slightly from being composed in the age of google, and dissimilar 'search result' snippets end up all over an otherwise tight narrative line.
What I thought most impressive here was the generally strict insistence on staying away from the sensational & mythic aspects of the Cheney era. Americans now don't need fantastic exaggerations about the darth vader of bush junior's negligent terms in office. They need straight examples, clear reporting, and accurate timelines. Material to add to the broad evidence that constitutional abuse took place, and to underline the fact that a prosecution would serve justice now and for generations to come.
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