Evidently even John Steinbeck "takes a walk" now and then. This is it. We hope he doesn't continue to walk downhill. For here is a book that will inevitably be a bitter disappointment to those who have put John Steinbeck at the top of the roster of American writers today. Always before his bums, his down and outers, his "under-privileged", his Okies, his itinerant workers, his drifters have invoked a certain magnetic fascination rootet in the sheer love of their creator for his creations. Some have accused Steinbeck of being sentimental about his people. Nobody could accuse him of being sentimental about any of the unprepossessing aggregation of unpleasing humanity brought together at a wayside safe from which a short line bus operates. There's the proprietor, driver of the bus, Juan- least objectionable, perhaps, and warmed by a spirit of charity. There's his temperamental, possessive and violent wife, Alice, who takes out her spleen on all and sundry, with flies and the downtrodden hired girl, Norma, as chief victims. There's Pimples-most unpalatable of adolescents, who is a mechanic of sorts, sex ridden and depraved. And then there are the passengers held over while the bus is repaired- an unsavory lot, from the Pritchads, who hated each other but tried to put up a front as a united family, to the salesman with a suitcase full of rather morbidly unpleasant tricks, and the girl whose sex lure provided the flash which set off the latent dynamite. The story is a slight one, and rarely does it emerge from the mire of fleshly obsession, the mark of language and motives and concentration on the physical. A thoroughly distasteful and unpleasant book, unredeemed by the flash- the spark that to most justified anything John Steinbeck wrote. Because what he does well, he does so extraordinarily well, it is all the more appalling when he descends to the depths of vulgarity.
Pub Date: Feb. 17, 1946
ISBN: 0142437875
Page Count: 312
Publisher: Viking
Review Posted Online: Oct. 5, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 1946
No one captures the flavor and experience of a summer place—the outdoor showers, the seafood, the sand in the...
A celebrity chef’s sudden death leaves his widow, exes, children, and best friend in a quandary.
And since this is a Hilderbrand novel, is there any doubt that the dilemma involves Nantucket real estate? A somewhat dilapidated (or at least, dated) and decidedly downscale beachfront cottage known as American Paradise serves as plot driver and central symbol. As his success grew, Chef Deacon Thorpe bought the house with his first wife, Laurel, as a repository of happy memories for his son, Hayes—the kind that Deacon himself had been denied. (He had one idyllic day on Nantucket with his own father, who then mysteriously and permanently disappeared.) Deacon and Laurel never wanted to upgrade the house, and there are still reminders of earlier inhabitants, including a ghost supposedly occupying the smallest attic room. Now, Deacon has died (on the cottage’s back deck, of a coronary), leaving nothing but debt. American Paradise is facing foreclosure due to the three mortgages Deacon took out, unbeknownst to his family. Surprisingly, or perhaps not given Deacon’s (and Hilderbrand’s) sense of humor, he has left the place to his three spouses, current and former—Laurel, Belinda, the movie star he left her for, and official widow Scarlett, the Southern belle who was the nanny for his and Belinda's adopted daughter, Angie. Best friend Buck, Deacon’s long-suffering fiduciary, has called the wives and children to American Paradise to scatter Deacon’s ashes and—a duty Buck has been dreading—read the will. Each member of this unique blended family has a say, as they squabble over turf and mull over their past and ongoing missteps, loves, and addictions. Angie, a talented chef in her own right, prepares lavish meals (rendered in mouthwatering detail, including recipes). The question looms—if Deacon’s Nantucket legacy can’t be shared, can it be saved?
No one captures the flavor and experience of a summer place—the outdoor showers, the seafood, the sand in the floorboards—like Hilderbrand.Pub Date: June 14, 2016
ISBN: 978-0-316-37514-6
Page Count: 416
Publisher: Little, Brown
Review Posted Online: May 3, 2016
Kirkus Reviews Issue: May 15, 2016
Florian’s seventh collection of verse is also his most uneven; though the flair for clever rhyme that consistently lights up his other books, beginning with Monster Motel (1993), occasionally shows itself—“Hello, my name is Dracula/My clothing is all blackula./I drive a Cadillacula./I am a maniacula”—too many of the entries are routine limericks, putdowns, character portraits, rhymed lists that fall flat on the ear, or quick quips: “It’s hard to be anonymous/When you’re a hippopotamus.” Florian’s language and simple, thick-lined cartoons illustrations are equally ingenuous, and he sticks to tried-and-true subjects, from dinosaurs to school lunch, but the well of inspiration seems dry; revisit his hilarious Bing Bang Boing (1994) instead. (index) (Poetry. 8-10)
Pub Date: April 1, 1999
ISBN: 0-15-202084-5
Page Count: 158
Publisher: Harcourt
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 1999
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