If Richard Feynman, Flann O’Brien, Raymond Queneau and Dario Fo had ever gotten together, it might have been on Hobson’s...


Power politics and metaphysical paradoxes dominate this free-range comic parable, a 1988 novel by the late (1910–88) Polish-born British author.

Themerson, who also wore the hats of physicist, architect and filmmaker, takes readers on a merry ride increasingly reminiscent of the loose plot of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. It begins when French computer reps rescue the embattled “monarch” (actually “not so much a dethroned king as a deposed president of an African republic”) from revolutionary assassins, and sell him—for 78 bottles of wine—to itinerant “Consul” Plain-Smith, skipper of the good ship Resurrection. Renamed (at his request) Dr. Archibald Janson, the king/president disappears for many, many pages, after we’ve learned that he’s the half-brother of Italy’s Princess Zuppa, and that the eponymous island (off Ireland’s west coast) where he’ll be given sanctuary was formerly owned by eccentric multimillionaire Thomas Hobson, and is presently inhabited by the family of its late caretakers’ incestuous siblings. There’s much more: the stories of pacifist stockbroker Sean D’Eath’s troubled relationship with his son Adam, an atheist scientist devoted to producing WMDs; a mysterious corporation perhaps planning to employ Hobson’s Island as a weapons cache and/or nuclear waste dump; a punk teenaged girl’s romance with a great writer’s son, whose mind has been disturbed by reading Samuel Beckett; and interpolated speculations about “the mystery of the body”—its stubborn survival instinct’s conflict with its natural momentum toward death. The story’s structure is anything but shapely, yet Themerson’s characters woolgather memorably (e.g., wondering whether “God” is a noun or a verb), and issues of conquest and exploitation are ingeniously linked to marriage and parenthood, global politics, biblical history and unenforceable natural law.

If Richard Feynman, Flann O’Brien, Raymond Queneau and Dario Fo had ever gotten together, it might have been on Hobson’s Island.

Pub Date: Sept. 26, 2005

ISBN: 1-56478-417-7

Page Count: 196

Publisher: Dalkey Archive

Review Posted Online: May 20, 2010

Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 15, 2005

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A tasty, if not always tasteful, tale of supernatural mayhem that fans of King and Crichton alike will enjoy.

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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. 10, 2020

Kirkus Reviews Issue: March 1, 2020

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Suspenseful, full of incident, and not obviously necessary.

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Atwood goes back to Gilead.

The Handmaid’s Tale (1985), consistently regarded as a masterpiece of 20th-century literature, has gained new attention in recent years with the success of the Hulu series as well as fresh appreciation from readers who feel like this story has new relevance in America’s current political climate. Atwood herself has spoken about how news headlines have made her dystopian fiction seem eerily plausible, and it’s not difficult to imagine her wanting to revisit Gilead as the TV show has sped past where her narrative ended. Like the novel that preceded it, this sequel is presented as found documents—first-person accounts of life inside a misogynistic theocracy from three informants. There is Agnes Jemima, a girl who rejects the marriage her family arranges for her but still has faith in God and Gilead. There’s Daisy, who learns on her 16th birthday that her whole life has been a lie. And there's Aunt Lydia, the woman responsible for turning women into Handmaids. This approach gives readers insight into different aspects of life inside and outside Gilead, but it also leads to a book that sometimes feels overstuffed. The Handmaid’s Tale combined exquisite lyricism with a powerful sense of urgency, as if a thoughtful, perceptive woman was racing against time to give witness to her experience. That narrator hinted at more than she said; Atwood seemed to trust readers to fill in the gaps. This dynamic created an atmosphere of intimacy. However curious we might be about Gilead and the resistance operating outside that country, what we learn here is that what Atwood left unsaid in the first novel generated more horror and outrage than explicit detail can. And the more we get to know Agnes, Daisy, and Aunt Lydia, the less convincing they become. It’s hard, of course, to compete with a beloved classic, so maybe the best way to read this new book is to forget about The Handmaid’s Tale and enjoy it as an artful feminist thriller.

Suspenseful, full of incident, and not obviously necessary.

Pub Date: Sept. 10, 2019

ISBN: 978-0-385-54378-1

Page Count: 432

Publisher: Nan A. Talese

Review Posted Online: Sept. 4, 2019

Kirkus Reviews Issue: Sept. 15, 2019

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