Review: PANIK

PANIK by Chris Selwyn James
My rating: 1 of 5 stars



View all my reviews

Review: The Truants

The Truants by Kate Weinberg
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I just turned the final page of this novel, closed my Kindle and breathed deeply the sharp night air snaking in from the open window, under and around my blinds. For the past six hours, and for an hour last evening, I had been shrouded in the blanket of oppressive closeness created by this author—an absolute heaviness that enveloped me and pressed down while chapter after chapter reeled out as if behind a gauzy curtain, just slightly out of focus. The effect is at once unsettling and alluring.

This magnificent book, Weinberg’s first, is tragically beautiful. The story is one that has been told a thousand times over—the exploration of self that is part and parcel of a first year college student caught in the romance of the experience. Never before, however, has the story been told with such poignant and exquisite language. Weinberg’s prose is absolutely captivating as she unfolds each character, encouraging us to fall in love with each of them even while exposing the tragic flaws that simmer just below the surface.

The story is linear, but insights are always hindsight and aspects of the tale are revisited and turned over to reveal hidden intent. It’s an engaging approach, though it does have its limits. The final pages that complete the journey to the conclusion meander and sometimes read like a stream of consciousness. It is here that the reader is shaken and forced to pay close attention, to activate prior knowledge gained in early pages and to keep up with the overactive thought processes of the narrator. As such, this is not a beach read, but rather a deep dive that requires a great deal of concentration to achieve a satisfying payout. This forced focus adds to that feeling of an elephant sitting on your chest as you read—you desperately want him to move so that you can breath again, but in this case, moving the beast means ending the novel. The reader is faced with a dilemma of wanting to emerge from the suffocating tone, where the cruelty of truth lays bare betrayal and deceit, and yet wanting to remain in a drowsy, romantic state, where the wine flows freely and the possibilities are endless; where that fine line between love and lust is obliterated.

I hope that this isn’t the last we hear of Weinberg. Her ability to manipulate language so that it, in turn, fully immerses the reader is unparalleled. It’s only January, and I’m sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that this will feature in my top reads of the year. Right now, it’s at number one and has set quite the bar!

View all my reviews

Review: The Likely Resolutions of Oliver Clock

The Likely Resolutions of Oliver Clock by Jane Riley
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I just turned the last page of this unique novel and find myself ambivalent regarding its merits. Whilst the writing is solid, the structure well-constructed, there was just something missing.

Oliver Clock is a 39 year old man experiencing his very own midlife crisis. As his name implies, his clock is ticking, and he has suddenly become acutely aware of his lot in life. Oliver inherited the family business (a funeral home that enjoyed reputable status within the community) when his father quite suddenly passed away. This unexpected loss thrust Oliver into the role of running the entire enterprise, though his overbearing and rather abrasive mother retains 20% ownership and a highly coveted 99% of the decision making. Oliver is alone and lonely, though he fantasizes about a woman whom he professes to love from afar—the married florist who does the majority of the floral pieces for the funerals Oliver organizes. The story follows Oliver through his 39th year of life as he faces tremendous personal loss, becomes mired in his grief, then seeks redemption through a reawakening of self. It is this painfully slow journey toward self awareness that consumes the majority of the pages.

The story told is a straightforward first-person narrative from Oliver’s perspective, and so we must trust that he is a reliable narrator—even as we discover him to be a profoundly boring character. I never felt invested enough to root Oliver on or to wish him ill-will. In fact, the same held true for each of the characters—rather flat and predictable, with a few even portrayed as cringe-worthy stereotypes. I found myself simply disinterested and reading to just muddle through in order to finish the book.

The single redeeming factor was the author’s generous use of both similes and metaphors, figurative language that brought to life the colorful visuals. There are no true stunning moments, but rather a gentle integration of details that lifted the story from the pages and tickled the senses. For example, these few sentences when Oliver draws a bath and adds perfumed elements to the water:

“Instantly the water went yellow and fizzed like sherbet. Purple cornflower petals swirled like tea leaves. Steam aromatic with an oily fragrance curled up from the bath.”

Additionally, for those who appreciate a very dry humor, there are a few moments sprinkled throughout that tease a smile. For the most part, however, it’s a painful drudge as the story stumbles toward a predictable conclusion without ever gaining any momentum.

This author is clearly gifted, and as I’ve never read any of her other work, I cannot attest to growth or movement in her abilities. In the end, however, I’d leave this one on the shelf.


View all my reviews

Review: In My Father's Basement

In My Father's Basement by T.J. Payne
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

If you had told me before I started reading that I would absolutely be held hostage to a book about a rather neurotic, dysfunctional man who just so happened to be the son of a serial killer, I may well have laughed (or at the very least scoffed). This book, however, grabbed me from the beginning with its incredible, almost poetic language, as well as its matter-of-fact treatment of the abhorrent acts of a depraved serial killer. I raced through each page, unable to turn out the lights before I finished, then unable to turn them off because I HAD.

Devouring the book in its entirety was, I must admit, a rather exhausting exercise in one’s ability to separate fact from fiction, as Walter relates the story of his descent into madness to his son, Isaac. Just as the reader is certain that Isaac has finally discovered the truth of what happened those many years ago, Walter’s entire narrative is reduced to ashes, and the reader is forced to start over in developing a trust that in the end must simply be blind faith that is repeatedly robbed. Over and over again, Walter weaves tales of the catalyst to his horrifying acts of depravity, seemingly enjoying the deception even as he systematically destroys his son in the process. As Isaac faces long hidden truths about his father, he is taken on a rollercoaster ride that leaves him keeled over and vomiting in its wake. Though while Walter has been telling tall tales, Isaac has a few secrets of his own, and whilst the sins of the father continue to be exacted on the son, Isaac’s own meager and unstable life is deconstructed one episode at a time until the destruction of both father and son is complete.

Themes of loyalty to family, greed and nature vs. nuture are all hidden within the chapters, teased out into the open by a story so disturbing that the reader will be left contemplating his own darkness and the seemingly endless capacity of man’s cruelty to man. Read it for the plot or read it as a cautionary tale, read it for the story at its surface or the implications that lie between the lines of text. Whichever you choose, just do it with a healthy amount of skepticism and at a time where you don’t need to put it down for even a second.

View all my reviews

Review: The Rabbit Hunter

The Rabbit Hunter by Lars Kepler
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I will first admit to never having read any of the other works by this husband and wife team who write under the pen name Lars Kepler. That may have worked against me here, as the novel contained references to past events that might have added another layer to the story. Overall, however, I just wasn’t impressed—though I think I know why.

The story here is woven in various fits and starts that eventually come together. Though the story actually begins to unwind around the 75% mark, it weaves and bobs and carries the reader on a wild ride that could have been enjoyable. I say “could have”, as the writing itself is just a hot mess. My theory is that the author who handled the translation from Swedish to English just wasn’t completely up to the task. The sentence structures are choppy, transitions are awkward (at times even nonexistent), and the nuances of the Swedish language are simply lost.

I wish I had been able to read this in its original form, as I would be willing to bet that it is a true page turner. As I don’t read or speak the language, however, I will have to settle for this novel being a brilliant story, told in a mediocre way through a muddled translation that simply missed the mark. If you are Swedish fluent, definitely give this one a go. Otherwise, steer clear and spend the time either learning the language or finding another read.

View all my reviews

Review: Trust Me When I Lie

Trust Me When I Lie by Benjamin Stevenson
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

So a caveat before I begin. About four months ago, I began taking a new opiate for chronic pain management. I hadn’t THOUGHT it was having any effect on my thought processes. Trying to muddle through this plot, however, has made me wonder if perhaps these drugs are more potent than I realize. It’s either that OR this is just really confusing storytelling, written without regard to chronology and lacking any real method of organization. It’s as if the author put together a series of significant events, placed each on on a separate sheet of paper, then drew them randomly from a fishbowl to determine the order in which they appeared in the book. No? Maybe it’s me. With that said, the chapters alternate between different moments in the past and present, jumping from one to the other like a hooker at a truck stop. Add to this frenetic approach the author’s tendency to be over indulgent with language, and what could have been a fine read becomes nothing more than an exercise in one’s ability to puzzle out the sequence of events and follow the chaotic musings of the main character, Jack. The worst example of this is as follows, as Jack attempts to describe his bulimia:

“He could feel the food inside him, acutely aware of where it sat. It swelled, an island, the seas of his stomach sloshing against it. But the cliff faces of that island weren’t eroding and falling into the sea, as they should have been. Instead, they were taking hold, scuttling ships and pulling more rocks into their tide. Clogging him up. He felt it. His acrobat, arms extended, wandered from shipwreck to shipwreck, mast to mast, above the jagged outcrop and vicious seas. Twirling his baton, jester’s hat wobbling, bells ringing. The sea arced beneath the acrobat, spat up, hissed.”

Seriously.

Read at your own intellectual peril.


View all my reviews

Review: The Inn

The Inn by James Patterson
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

There was a time when each thing I read by James Patterson was better than the last—a time when I actually looked forward to his next book and marked upcoming publication dates on my calendar. Ah, those were the days. Recently, however, it seems as if Patterson is selling his name to the highest bidder in an effort to see himself on the cover of as many volumes as possible, quality be damned. The Inn is a prime example.

First, the style here is nothing like the Patterson of days gone by. Instead, there is a vibe within these pages that is distinctly female (not such a bad thing), coupled with a romanticized approach that is at once immature and overly sentimental (a very bad thing indeed). It was as if the novel just couldn’t decide what it wanted to be, so it settled down in frustration somewhere in the middle of a gritty cop tale that had been invaded by an idealistic adolescent. The ex-con in a wheelchair, brazen and raw, is suddenly smitten by the female author prone to flowery language and over-the-top drama. The mysterious houseguest brought in by a former FBI agent is sniper perfect with a gun, doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, and then from a house drain pulls a rat—that becomes her pocket pet. I could almost hear the teenage “squee!” when the rodent (monikered Crazy) would make an appearance. These dueling sentiments tore at the fabric of the story itself and removed me from the action in a way that dulled any reader investment. The plot is full of blood and revenge and evil, then softened into palatable fluff with unicorns and rainbows. Just. No.

In the end, I was able to work my way through the pages, but not without a fair amount of head-shaking. Please, Mr. Patterson, sit down and write another winner. This is just getting old.

View all my reviews