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THE CARD

Halting and clunky; this is a story that stops rather than ends.

A recycled Christmas card, which the protagonists annually update, tracks the trajectory of their friendship.

Jane and Diana are temperamentally ill-suited to one another. First paired as Boston College roomies in 1963, Diana is large, brash and sloppy, while Jane is a petite, demure neat freak. Diana yearns to emulate her father, a Florida newspaper magnate, while Jane’s ambitions are limited to marrying her Harvard med-student boyfriend, David. From the start, David and Jane’s marriage is in trouble: David’s snobbish parents don’t approve of her homespun New England ancestry, and his father cuts the couple off when Jane fails to produce a grandson (the couple have one daughter, Kate). Diana, meanwhile, moves to Paris, taking a job with a journal run by Maurice, an acquaintance of her father. Savagely beaten by the police while covering the May 1968 student uprisings, Diana spends months recovering, after which she has a string of lovers and adventures until her father’s heart attack necessitates her return to Florida to manage his newspapers. David narrowly escapes disinheritance when his parents perish in a car accident and becomes a suburban gynecologist. As David turns increasingly cold and judgmental, wife Jane returns to her former job with a textbook publisher. After surprising him in bed with an assistant, Jane files for divorce, eventually scoring a hefty settlement. Diana marries Maurice after his wife, Solange, dies, and begins to come to terms with her mother’s insanity and lifelong confinement to a mental institution and her father’s homosexuality. Jane, singed by office politics, starts her own business, and Diana loses Maurice to lung cancer. From 1967 to 1986 the friends exchange the same Christmas card, alternately adding a line—it’s a clever device left largely unexploited.

Halting and clunky; this is a story that stops rather than ends.

Pub Date: Oct. 3, 2005

ISBN: 1-59414-417-6

Page Count: 308

Publisher: Five Star/Gale Cengage

Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Sept. 1, 2005

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IF CATS DISAPPEARED FROM THE WORLD

Jonathan Livingston Kitty, it’s not.

A lonely postman learns that he’s about to die—and reflects on life as he bargains with a Hawaiian-shirt–wearing devil.

The 30-year-old first-person narrator in filmmaker/novelist Kawamura’s slim novel is, by his own admission, “boring…a monotone guy,” so unimaginative that, when he learns he has a brain tumor, the bucket list he writes down is dull enough that “even the cat looked disgusted with me.” Luckily—or maybe not—a friendly devil, dubbed Aloha, pops onto the scene, and he’s willing to make a deal: an extra day of life in exchange for being allowed to remove something pleasant from the world. The first thing excised is phones, which goes well enough. (The narrator is pleasantly surprised to find that “people seemed to have no problem finding something to fill up their free time.”) But deals with the devil do have a way of getting complicated. This leads to shallow musings (“Sometimes, when you rewatch a film after not having seen it for a long time, it makes a totally different impression on you than it did the first time you saw it. Of course, the movie hasn’t changed; it’s you who’s changed") written in prose so awkward, it’s possibly satire (“Tears dripped down onto the letter like warm, salty drops of rain”). Even the postman’s beloved cat, who gains the power of speech, ends up being prim and annoying. The narrator ponders feelings about a lost love, his late mother, and his estranged father in a way that some readers might find moving at times. But for many, whatever made this book a bestseller in Japan is going to be lost in translation.

Jonathan Livingston Kitty, it’s not.

Pub Date: March 12, 2019

ISBN: 978-1-250-29405-0

Page Count: 176

Publisher: Flatiron Books

Review Posted Online: Feb. 16, 2019

Kirkus Reviews Issue: March 1, 2019

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THE SECRET HISTORY

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

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