A gripping fictional exposé of a tempest no teapot can contain.
Mr. Chips meets Gordon Gekko in Harris’ (Peaches for Father Francis, 2012, etc.) novel of academe.
Roy Straitley is a relic of the English prep school past: he's taught Latin at St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys for decades and otherwise leads a celibate and austere life in his nearby flat, his only luxuries being licorice candies, Gauloise cigarettes, and strictly moderate alcohol intake. But lately St. Oswald’s is in turmoil. A new headmaster, Johnny Harrington, has arrived, flanked by consultants and spouting modern theories of branding, political correctness, and trigger warnings, to effect the academic equivalent of a corporate takeover. Smooth, impeccably turned-out Harrington manages to co-opt the school’s older faculty by deluding them into thinking they have a future in the new St. Oswald’s. Instituting the contradictory motto Progress Through Tradition, Harrington replaces the Honors Boards—large placards lining the school’s corridors “inscribed with the names of our old boys”—with glossy advertising posters, imposes coeducation, and promulgates an anti-bullying policy that protects bullies. But most disturbing to Straitley, the new regime’s only dissenter, is the fact that Harrington is a graduate of St. Oswald’s who, without actually being implicated himself, was at the center of an incident in 1981 which led to the prosecution of a gay English teacher, Straitley’s best friend, Harry Clarke, for pederasty and murder. Now Harrington seems bent on banishing Straitley to the bleak underworld of involuntary retirement unless the old Latin master, armed with Roman political savvy, can upset the smarmy new head’s overly polished apple cart. Interspersed with the present narrative, set in 2005, are diary excerpts from a nameless St. Oswald’s student, written mostly circa 1981, addressed to Mousey, a boy from the slums whom he once tried to kill. In addition to describing the torture and drowning of animals, the diarist confesses to jealously acting out in a horrific way when his crush on Harry Clarke goes unrequited. Harris expertly manipulates reader expectations as to the identities of St. Oswald’s true villains, past and present.
A gripping fictional exposé of a tempest no teapot can contain.Pub Date: Dec. 27, 2016
ISBN: 978-1-5011-5551-2
Page Count: 416
Publisher: N/A
Review Posted Online: Oct. 18, 2016
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Nov. 1, 2016
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
A tasty, if not always tasteful, tale of supernatural mayhem that fans of King and Crichton alike will enjoy.
Are we not men? We are—well, ask Bigfoot, as Brooks does in this delightful yarn, following on his bestseller World War Z(2006).
A zombie apocalypse is one thing. A volcanic eruption is quite another, for, as the journalist who does a framing voice-over narration for Brooks’ latest puts it, when Mount Rainier popped its cork, “it was the psychological aspect, the hyperbole-fueled hysteria that had ended up killing the most people.” Maybe, but the sasquatches whom the volcano displaced contributed to the statistics, too, if only out of self-defense. Brooks places the epicenter of the Bigfoot war in a high-tech hideaway populated by the kind of people you might find in a Jurassic Park franchise: the schmo who doesn’t know how to do much of anything but tries anyway, the well-intentioned bleeding heart, the know-it-all intellectual who turns out to know the wrong things, the immigrant with a tough backstory and an instinct for survival. Indeed, the novel does double duty as a survival manual, packed full of good advice—for instance, try not to get wounded, for “injury turns you from a giver to a taker. Taking up our resources, our time to care for you.” Brooks presents a case for making room for Bigfoot in the world while peppering his narrative with timely social criticism about bad behavior on the human side of the conflict: The explosion of Rainier might have been better forecast had the president not slashed the budget of the U.S. Geological Survey, leading to “immediate suspension of the National Volcano Early Warning System,” and there’s always someone around looking to monetize the natural disaster and the sasquatch-y onslaught that follows. Brooks is a pro at building suspense even if it plays out in some rather spectacularly yucky episodes, one involving a short spear that takes its name from “the sucking sound of pulling it out of the dead man’s heart and lungs.” Grossness aside, it puts you right there on the scene.
A tasty, if not always tasteful, tale of supernatural mayhem that fans of King and Crichton alike will enjoy.Pub Date: June 16, 2020
ISBN: 978-1-9848-2678-7
Page Count: 304
Publisher: Del Rey/Ballantine
Review Posted Online: Feb. 9, 2020
Kirkus Reviews Issue: March 1, 2020
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK TO SCREEN
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.
The time is the not-so-distant future, when the US's spiraling social freedoms have finally called down a reaction, an Iranian-style repressive "monotheocracy" calling itself the Republic of Gilead—a Bible-thumping, racist, capital-punishing, and misogynistic rule that would do away with pleasure altogether were it not for one thing: that the Gileadan women, pure and true (as opposed to all the nonbelieving women, those who've ever been adulterous or married more than once), are found rarely fertile.
Thus are drafted a whole class of "handmaids," whose function is to bear the children of the elite, to be fecund or else (else being certain death, sent out to be toxic-waste removers on outlying islands). The narrative frame for Atwood's dystopian vision is the hopeless private testimony of one of these surrogate mothers, Offred ("of" plus the name of her male protector). Lying cradled by the body of the barren wife, being meanwhile serviced by the husband, Offred's "ceremony" must be successful—if she does not want to join the ranks of the other disappeared (which include her mother, her husband—dead—and small daughter, all taken away during the years of revolt). One Of her only human conduits is a gradually developing affair with her master's chauffeur—something that's balanced more than offset, though, by the master's hypocritically un-Puritan use of her as a kind of B-girl at private parties held by the ruling men in a spirit of nostalgia and lust. This latter relationship, edging into real need (the master's), is very effectively done; it highlights the handmaid's (read Everywoman's) eternal exploitation, profane or sacred ("We are two-legged wombs, that's all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices"). Atwood, to her credit, creates a chillingly specific, imaginable night-mare. The book is short on characterization—this is Atwood, never a warm writer, at her steeliest—and long on cynicism—it's got none of the human credibility of a work such as Walker Percy's Love In The Ruins. But the scariness is visceral, a world that's like a dangerous and even fatal grid, an electrified fence.
Tinny perhaps, but still a minutely rendered and impressively steady feminist vision of apocalypse.Pub Date: Feb. 17, 1985
ISBN: 038549081X
Page Count: -
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin
Review Posted Online: Sept. 16, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Jan. 15, 1985
SEEN & HEARD
BOOK TO SCREEN
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