Local color. Good talk. Festive music. Disease." That's how a downtown bar is described in Don DeLillo's new novel; it also describes the novel, which, to an even greater degree than last year's Players, fails to hang together and therefore provides only fitful, disjointed satisfactions. Glen Selvy, trained-to-kill, works as special buyer for a U.S. Senator who collects erotic objets d'art as well as outright objets de porno. Glen really works for PAC/ORD, a government intelligence unit that has secretly gone into profitable private business in covert-operations-for-hire. The Senator has been investigating PAC/ORD, so Selvy needs to get dirt on the Senator-like his porno collection and especially his participation in the mad scramblae (involving the Mafia and a murder) for possession of a film supposedly showing orgies in Hitler's bunker. Also interested in this whole scene is Moll Robbins, an investigative reporter for semi-underground Running Dog magazine, and she and Glen have "dusky sex" (Glen breaks his rule against sex with unmarried women). If all this sounds confusing, you should know that DeLillo makes little effort to facilitate comprehension as he nixes and matches, in cinematic slow motion, imagined and realistic debasements of a society gone past all limits. Like, for instance, the "nude storyteller" (a momentarily hilarious idea) whom Selvy picks up in Times Square on his suicidal, running-dog, cross-country escape from his ruthless Intelligence masters. Or like the audience that disappointedly watches the Hitler home movies (not porno at all but grosser still: Hitler humanized) while Selvy self-destructs—a numbingly clumsy piece of paralleling. DeLillo is obviously working from a sincere sense of revulsion ("What happened to normal? Where is normal?" asks a boy-impresario of smut), but few readers will be able to do more than discern a vague outline of the author's attitude and respond to the few glimmers of a talent gone slack and self-defeatingly private.
Pub Date: Sept. 11, 1978
ISBN: 0679722947
Page Count: 246
Publisher: Knopf
Review Posted Online: Sept. 22, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Sept. 1, 1978
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
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.
A retelling of ancient Greek lore gives exhilarating voice to a witch.
“Monsters are a boon for gods. Imagine all the prayers.” So says Circe, a sly, petulant, and finally commanding voice that narrates the entirety of Miller’s dazzling second novel. The writer returns to Homer, the wellspring that led her to an Orange Prize for The Song of Achilles (2012). This time, she dips into The Odyssey for the legend of Circe, a nymph who turns Odysseus’ crew of men into pigs. The novel, with its distinctive feminist tang, starts with the sentence: “When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist.” Readers will relish following the puzzle of this unpromising daughter of the sun god Helios and his wife, Perse, who had negligible use for their child. It takes banishment to the island Aeaea for Circe to sense her calling as a sorceress: “I will not be like a bird bred in a cage, I thought, too dull to fly even when the door stands open. I stepped into those woods and my life began.” This lonely, scorned figure learns herbs and potions, surrounds herself with lions, and, in a heart-stopping chapter, outwits the monster Scylla to propel Daedalus and his boat to safety. She makes lovers of Hermes and then two mortal men. She midwifes the birth of the Minotaur on Crete and performs her own C-section. And as she grows in power, she muses that “not even Odysseus could talk his way past [her] witchcraft. He had talked his way past the witch instead.” Circe’s fascination with mortals becomes the book’s marrow and delivers its thrilling ending. All the while, the supernatural sits intriguingly alongside “the tonic of ordinary things.” A few passages coil toward melodrama, and one inelegant line after a rape seems jarringly modern, but the spell holds fast. Expect Miller’s readership to mushroom like one of Circe’s spells.
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.Pub Date: April 10, 2018
ISBN: 978-0-316-55634-7
Page Count: 400
Publisher: Little, Brown
Review Posted Online: Jan. 22, 2018
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2018
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