Ill Will, Dan Chaon, Hardcover, 480pp, March 2017, Ballantine Books
Multiple unreliable narrators, voiced through physical text purposely out of whack — words and punctuation missing, ends of sentences dropped off, odd spacing, pages divided into multiple columns of story — all meant, I think, to keep the reader off balance, uncomfortable, yanked from complacency, make Dan Chaon’s Ill WIll a book unlike most others, a Dadaist approach to literary fiction, experimental to the point of distraction.
The story is told as collage, time jumping and changing points of view. I was enjoying it for the first two hundred pages or so but around that halfway mark I came to suspect there was not going to be satisfactory resolution nor sufficient motivation for all the trickery; that I was never going to get complete backstories of the characters; and that what I was reading was something written as an exercise in effect, less a story about the characters than a story about the author’s prowess and daring.
That show-offy quality, the bleak and hopeless tone, and the unearned length wore me out. But this novel is MUCH LOVED by many literary critics and reviewers, so, don’t take my word for it. This is just my opinion.
The Rules Do Not Apply, Ariel Levy, Hardcover, 224pp, March 2017, Random House
Ariel Levy has been through the mill. Actually, she’s been milled, ground up, beaten into biscuit-dom, chewed, swallowed, egested, and still, somehow, managed to go on.
It is not a spoiler to say that during the course of this memoir she loses a child, a spouse, and a home. I think measuring tragedies against one another a fool’s occupation, but, I’m something of a fool, and I think the loss of a child is one of the most devastating sufferings one can endure — if, endure it one can. There is no coming back to who you were before your child was ripped from your reality; you are forever changed and forever measuring the loss, and, from my experience talking to those who’ve lost a child, forever numbed to happiness and on guard against loss in a way you were not before the tragedy.
To lose your mate as well, to have to surrender one’s home, all on top of the loss of your child — how do you survive? Ariel Levy, I suspect, manages to continue living by putting words in order, one after another, in ways that make sense and have shape — logic and form and reason that are lacking in her real life, because, there is no way to make sense or find form in the loss of a child. No way.
So, she wrote this book. She manages to convey much of the horror but it is never done in a weepy-poor-me singing the blues sort of style. She is a successful reporter/profiler (she’s worked at both New York Magazine and The New Yorker) and she lays out the story — her story — in artful prose, swiftly, not dwelling on the ache and the pain, but, rather, illustrating it, conveying it in reasoned but moving prose. This is a very short and quick book, almost a long-form article, which I read in one sitting.
Any longer would likely have lost me because there is so much pain here. But, if Ariel Levy can write this well about her own life, I have been encouraged to start searching for her profiles and reportage on the lives of others.
Where The Dead Lie (Sebastian St. Cyr #12), C.S.Harris, Hardcover, 338pp, April 2017, Berkley Books
How did I miss the first eleven episodes in C.S.Harris’s Sebastian St. Cyr series? This is just my cup of tea — possibly laced with arsenic and served by a butler with a terrible secret who is probably blackmailing my guest, a not so nobleperson who is of questionable parentage.
A Regency London set mystery full of intriguing and complicated characters, artfully woven period details and history, and compelling, fast-paced storytelling written with style, grace, and wit.
In this installment, when an orphaned street urchin of London is murdered in a most brutal and disgusting way, Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin is called in by a law enforcement type unwilling to sweep the death of a child under a rug, no matter how little the child mattered and how many would gladly dismiss the death of one more useless beggar. Devlin is determined to get to the bottom of it and discovers along the way that this urchin is not the first to have disappeared mysteriously and been used and abused in such a manner. In Devlin’s relentless pursuit of the truth and the killer, he is forced to interact with the darkest sides of London’s lowlife and discover their unsavory connections to the higher born who are part of Devlin’s own circle, and, perhaps, family.
Loved this. Great distraction from life. Horrifying subject but not done in a way that sickens one. Credit where credit due; it was because of the back cover blurb by one of my favorite writers, Deanna Raybourn, author of the Veronica Speedwell (among others) series, that motivated me to sign this book out of the library. Thank you to her. I am now struggling with going back to number one through eleven in the series — MY TO BE READ PILE IS ALREADY FILLING A ROOM!
So, off I go, to read another in my stacks.