A book that toys with brilliance but falters in the bog of its own telling.
A young artist seeks the subject of her work within the teeming ontology of the city.
The unnamed narrator of this debut novel is an artist. This facet of her identity, the fact that she is an artist, is indisputable to her in spite of the fact that her art—its subject, its premise, and its form—is, as of yet, inscrutable both to others and to herself. The question of what exactly is her work is one that consumes her, occupying her near total attention as she walks the streets of her city, slots answers into the “completed” column at her absurdist job, eats unsatisfying, overpriced sandwiches, or moves items from place to place inside her tiny studio, aka apartment. It seems possible that the permutations of the question “what is my work?” could occupy the narrator’s thoughts more or less endlessly, especially in a time when, in the narrator’s words, it is acceptable “to make art from anything, with anything, about anything, the world constituting the art world in my time being undelimited in a liberating or terrifying manner”; however, a deadline of sorts has been superimposed on this question because the artist has a meeting. This meeting, set up by a well-known artist friend of the narrator’s whose artistic endeavor consists of “setting up situations,” is with a gallerist whose attention may just help the narrator place her work in the public eye, if only she knew what that work was. In recursive prose—mirroring the art-world use of deliberately abstracted language with an expert’s ear—the narrator circles the question of her identity, her interiority, her agency, and her originality, even as she circles the location of her long-anticipated meeting through familiar streets that have become defamiliarized by the intensity of her observation. Surreal, heady, and elliptical, this book reads like a Seinfeld episode if it were co-written by Beckett and Derrida. Unfortunately, much of the wit, trenchant observation, and insight are occluded by the density of the language. This clearly intentional, even integral, stylistic choice is at the heart of the novel’s attempt to elevate even the most utterly banal elements of modern life to the level of “the work,” and yet it will prove a barrier to all but the most dedicated of readers.
A book that toys with brilliance but falters in the bog of its own telling.Pub Date: May 10, 2022
ISBN: 978-1-628-97397-6
Page Count: 120
Publisher: Dalkey Archive
Review Posted Online: April 12, 2022
Kirkus Reviews Issue: May 1, 2022
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
If it’s indeed the end, Barnes has closed his career gracefully.
An autofictional remembrance from the Booker Prize winner, keeping an eye on the exit.
“This will be my last book,” writes Julian Barnes, the narrator of this novel, early on. Age and illness are deciding factors; diagnosed with a manageable but incurable blood cancer, he fills many of the pages with matters of mortality and the deaths of his literary friends Christopher Hitchens and Martin Amis. But he’s also questioning the merits of novel-writing as an endeavor, the way it prompts the writer to exaggerate and betray. As Exhibit A, he points to his role in the relationship of two friends, Stephen and Jean, classmates at Oxford who would later split and then (with Julian’s assistance) reconcile. “You fucking novelist, couldn’t resist, could you?” Jean snaps when she’s ambushed by the two men, resentful of his determination to turn life into a story. Julian had also promised not to use their relationship as novelistic fodder, but his life is a trail of “your harsh forgettings, your dissimulations, your broken promises, your infidelities of word and deed.” Late Barnes has been a mix of tart domestic dramas (The Only Story, 2018) and gentler, Proustian reminiscences (Elizabeth Finch, 2022); this shades closer to the latter, intensified mainly by the pressure created by death’s inevitable approach. The story, such as it is, meanders, but it’s clear that Barnes is writing with a certain urgency, not to take a victory lap but to quit on his own terms, though even his cheer is cut by darkness. (“Let me thank you for your sturdy presence—invisible yet lurking, like my cancer,” he writes to the reader.) Does he mean it when he says he’s done? A book so concerned with a novelist’s urge to lie and betray suggests it’s at least an open question.
If it’s indeed the end, Barnes has closed his career gracefully.Pub Date: Jan. 20, 2026
ISBN: 9780593804506
Page Count: 176
Publisher: Knopf
Review Posted Online: Sept. 27, 2025
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Nov. 1, 2025
SEEN & HEARD
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