The back-from-the-dead premise is such a stretch, and Louise is so whining, wheedling, groveling, and desperately seeking...


Novelist/nonfiction author Schulman (The Revisionist, 1998, etc.) offers yet another tale of an angst-ridden late-thirtysomething obsessing about relationships.

She’s smart, she’s attractive, she’s got a good job, and none of that means much to Louise Harrington because the men in her life . . . aren’t. That is, either they’re not actually in her life, or they don’t really qualify as men in any grown-up sense of the word. Two exceptions: (1) physics professor Peter Harrington (good, kind), but Louise divorced him four years ago for reasons she still can’t quite come to grips with, and (2) Scott Feinstadt. The trouble with Scott is that he died in 1960. Or did he? Suddenly, mysteriously, there’s reason to wonder. Louise, acting admissions coordinator at Columbia University, comes across a startling, unnerving application—from Scott Feinstadt. Flashback to her senior year at suburban Larchmont High, when the adored if elusive Feinstadt was her very reason for being, when she stalked him assiduously enough to convert detachment into something that could pass for responsiveness. Never mind that she subsequently lost him to her unscrupulous best friend, then lost him permanently in a highway accident. He remained the one, true love of her life. And now, incredibly here’s this “recycled” Feinstadt, a painter, too, exactly like his forerunner. Born on the very same day, would you believe. Residing in Mamaroneck, a stone’s throw from Larchmont. But, lucky Louise, this one turns out to be an improved Feinstadt: equally handsome, more erotically adept, and sweeter-natured to boot. If only she could be absolutely certain he wasn’t a ghost.

The back-from-the-dead premise is such a stretch, and Louise is so whining, wheedling, groveling, and desperately seeking that—in her own description—she lacks dignity. Which goes to the heart of why it’s so hard to like her.

Pub Date: May 10, 2001

ISBN: 1-58234-157-5

Page Count: 240

Publisher: Bloomsbury

Review Posted Online: June 24, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: March 15, 2001

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

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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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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

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