Not especially groundbreaking but emotionally astute; a pleasure.
Mechling’s first novel for adults is a sharp dissection of the fraught dynamics of 30-something female friendship.
In their first years of adulthood, Sunny, Rachel, and Geraldine worked together at a Toronto magazine, where they became, if not a trio—Sunny and Rachel never got along—then at least an intimate triangle. And then they scattered: Sunny, an artist and illustrator whose life has always flowed with an ease befitting her name, moved to New York and married rich; Rachel, a confessional lifestyle writer and an American, returned to her native Brooklyn, where she married a nice man, had a baby, and took up a fledgling second career writing YA novels; and Geraldine, the unlucky one despite her beauty, who stayed in Toronto and who—since getting dumped by her fiance—has been living in Sunny’s old apartment, a demonstration of Sunny’s magnanimity. And then Geraldine moves to New York. This, in itself, does not disrupt their equilibrium, though it does expose the fissures. What disrupts their equilibrium is that, in New York, amid a dying industry, Geraldine is a success. The plot is minimal, in terms of what actually “happens”—Sunny’s glamorous life is not so glamorous; Rachel worries she’s wasted her career on fluff; Geraldine gets into podcasting; media is flailing; men are difficult—because what actually matters is what’s happening in the characters' heads. Their relationships to each other are delicate and often painful but also essential to their understanding of their own adult lives: More important than liking each other, they’ve built their identities around each other. Mechling details these dynamics with accountantlike precision so that the action is in the small slights and hurts and oversights that have accumulated over the years between them. While the novel flits lightly on the surface, even occasionally bordering on satire (Mechling, herself a journalist, is well-acquainted with the absurdities of the media industry), there is a profound and wistful melancholy at its core.
Not especially groundbreaking but emotionally astute; a pleasure.Pub Date: June 25, 2019
ISBN: 978-0-525-55938-2
Page Count: 320
Publisher: Viking
Review Posted Online: March 30, 2019
Kirkus Reviews Issue: April 15, 2019
Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.
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. 22, 2018
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2018
PROFILES
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 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 1, 1992
BOOK REVIEW
BOOK REVIEW
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
SEEN & HEARD
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