A tragic love story that ignores context and needs a more critical eye.


A lonely writer falls for a barely teenage girl, and together they embark on a disquieting road trip to wed in Mexico.

Jack Strabler is a lonely author living in the backwoods of Bristol, Tenn., whose solitary childhood and lack of close relationships have turned him into a reclusive figure motivated by his compulsions. The greatest of these is to write and battle his romantic loneliness, even entertaining the unsolicited email advances of a Russian girl named Natalya. But both writing and his Russian correspondence are swiftly forgotten when he encounters 13-year-old Audrey Miland—a precocious girl with eyes full of a perverse maturity and a past of hidden abuse. Overtaken by her coquettishness, Jack begins a vague, abstinence-based courtship with her. When they are found out and forbidden from contacting one another, Audrey finds a shrewd, horrifying solution. Renaming Audrey “Natalya,” the fugitive lovers flee to Mexico to get married, his Talya’s sole caveat for consummating their relationship. Kersh’s (Hotel Sarajevo, 2000) sophomore novel presents a modern-day version of Nabokov’s Lolita that often acknowledges but never escapes its own derivativeness, adding few contemporary flourishes to the narrative beyond superficial cultural references (Hollister, Lady Gaga). Underdeveloped as both a protagonist and narrator, Jack makes few attempts to evoke sympathy for himself, and it’s difficult to form a clear picture of him as a character since his personality shifts constantly. At times, he seems a pathetic figure, broken and obsessed only with matters outside himself, while in other situations he appears indifferent to everything save Audrey, a compelling contradiction that goes unexplored. The novel misses several similar opportunities, perhaps none richer than the ever-fluctuating roles Audrey and Jack take on in their relationship. Along with being disturbing lovers and clumsy friends, both take on complex parental roles with each other, a dichotomy disappointingly buried beneath their crossing obvious taboos. The novel downplays much of the vulgarity, attempting to accentuate the beauty, even the “magic,” of Audrey’s budding sexuality, but somehow it achieves the opposite, basking in a kind of titillation that is as confusing as it is disconcerting.

A tragic love story that ignores context and needs a more critical eye.

Pub Date: Oct. 12, 2012

ISBN: 978-1479207084

Page Count: 290

Publisher: CreateSpace

Review Posted Online: March 8, 2013

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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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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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