French writer Belloc's first novela slender evocation of a young homosexual hustler's life in 1960's Parisis minimalism to a fault: the stark tone here tends to keep the promiscuous episodes of sex and sexual violence from becoming too graphic. Narrator ``Denis'' (``I live in enormous loneliness'') is a neglected and abused child. His father, a drunk, was killed in 1951 in a sideshow boxing match, and Denis's motherafter sending him for a time to an old woman in the countrymarries a brick-mason and keeps Denis, though there isn't much affection (``Christmas, but without any toys, just one Christmas tangerine''). Meanwhile, Denis cares for two things: his painting and his brother Alain. The stepfather (``the Spaniard'') abuses Denis, whose mother, siding with her husband, decides ``he's turning into a real devil.'' Denis then begins to find solace in public restrooms, and, soon enough, he's living a life of prostitution and petty crime. There are trips to Holland, car-stealing episodes, portraits of lovers and fellow underworld lurkers, including ex-cons, transvestites, and a variety of johns. Finally, there's a stint in prison. By age 20, Denis has turned into a hardened ex-con, a self-described ``piece of trash.'' His mother, who works in an old folks' home, has begun to paint, and, by the close, Denis (``comatose'' after a gang-rape) may also return to paintingbut there's little to salvage the bleak lives here, certainly no salvation, save a sardonic black humor that's kept under strict control. All of this is written in a terse hard-boiled manner straight out of a pulp novela style appropriate for a dispatch about a life from which all sweetness has been blanched out.
Pub Date: May 15, 1991
ISBN: 0-87923-869-0
Page Count: 102
Publisher: Godine
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: April 1, 1991
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
This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.
Written with quiet dignity that builds to a climax of tragic force, this book about the dissolution of an African tribe, its traditions, and values, represents a welcome departure from the familiar "Me, white brother" genre.
Written by a Nigerian African trained in missionary schools, this novel tells quietly the story of a brave man, Okonkwo, whose life has absolute validity in terms of his culture, and who exercises his prerogative as a warrior, father, and husband with unflinching single mindedness. But into the complex Nigerian village filters the teachings of strangers, teachings so alien to the tribe, that resistance is impossible. One must distinguish a force to be able to oppose it, and to most, the talk of Christian salvation is no more than the babbling of incoherent children. Still, with his guns and persistence, the white man, amoeba-like, gradually absorbs the native culture and in despair, Okonkwo, unable to withstand the corrosion of what he, alone, understands to be the life force of his people, hangs himself. In the formlessness of the dying culture, it is the missionary who takes note of the event, reminding himself to give Okonkwo's gesture a line or two in his work, The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.
This book sings with the terrible silence of dead civilizations in which once there was valor.Pub Date: Jan. 23, 1958
ISBN: 0385474547
Page Count: 207
Publisher: McDowell, Obolensky
Review Posted Online: April 23, 2013
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 1, 1958
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
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