The translation is pleasingly idiomatic, the translator’s introduction illuminating. Perec’s yarn, though, will largely be...

PORTRAIT OF A MAN KNOWN AS IL CONDOTTIERE

“Leonardo is dead, Antonello is dead, and I’m not feeling too well myself.” Thus we read in French experimentalist Perec’s long-forgotten, rejected debut, now rescued from the dustbin of literary history.

One sympathizes with the Gallimard editor who turned the book down nearly 60 years ago for its “excessive clumsiness and chatter.” Though there’s no real sign of the Oulipo extravagance that would follow, there’s plenty of busy wordplay, a plot that’s not always coherent, and a curiously doubled narrative that turns from internal monologue, complete with bursts of furious paddling down the stream of consciousness (“A single movement and then curtains....One thrust would be enough....His arm raised, the glint of the blade...a single movement”), to more or less ordinary expository prose, though always with a twist. (Or a thrust, for that matter.) The plot, as it is, is fairly slender: A well-born young man with mad skills and loose ethics meets up with an art forger and goes to work revising the history of the Renaissance, churning out an occasional impressionist masterpiece in the bargain, while keeping his cover working the legit side of the art world. Naturally, young Gaspard soon aspires to outdo himself, creating a supposedly unknown work by an Italian master that will be the glory of his career—and accepted at once as the real goods. Blood figures into the plot, as does then Communist Yugoslavia. Not surprisingly, given the time of composition, there are some Camus-ian moments (“Nothing is easy. Nothing is quick. Everything is wrong.”). There are also plenty of loose threads, befitting a work that recounts “the double, triple, quadruple game of a fake artist pastiching his own pastiche.”

The translation is pleasingly idiomatic, the translator’s introduction illuminating. Perec’s yarn, though, will largely be of interest to students of postwar French literature and social history, who will find that it makes a nice if not especially memorable puzzle.

Pub Date: April 6, 2015

ISBN: 978-0-226-05425-4

Page Count: 144

Publisher: Univ. of Chicago

Review Posted Online: Jan. 29, 2015

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 15, 2015

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Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.

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CIRCE

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. 23, 2018

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2018

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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 20, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 1, 1992

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