Kerrigan’s unresolved angst is the artificial heart of this real, joyous celebration of Copenhagen.
A sui generis work, the third in the author’s Copenhagen Quartet, following In the Company of Angels (2010) and Falling Sideways (2011); these stand-alone novels have nothing in common save their Copenhagen setting.
Though the viewpoint character Kerrigan is not Kennedy’s alter ego, they overlap. Both are Irish-American expatriate writers, long resident in the Danish capital. Kerrigan’s current commissioned project is to sample Copenhagen’s bars (there are over 1,500) and write up the best 100; for the research, he has an associate, a woman in her late 50s, like himself. The bars they visit are itemized in boldface, guidebook style. It’s a hopefully never-ending project for Kerrigan, a serious drinker and a lover of Copenhagen (the novel is subtitled “a love story”). That love expands to pay tribute to the city’s history and its literary giants (Kierkegaard, Hans Christian Andersen). Coiled in this thicket of names, among the dates he rattles off like an auctioneer, is the story of Kerrigan’s devastating loss. He was lecturing at the university on verisimilitude, the writer’s creation of illusion, when a student transfixed him. Blonde, blue-eyed Licia was 20 years his junior but appeared equally attracted. They married, had a baby. Then, pregnant again, Licia disappeared with their daughter. Divorce papers followed. That was three years ago; the wound is still raw. What festers most is her accusation: “You are so blind.” Kerrigan is haunted by the irony that he, an authority on illusion, had been blinded by the illusion of love. All this he confesses to his associate, after bedding her; but, still in turmoil, he takes a quick trip to Dublin, meditating on Joyce. This attempt “to clothe himself in history and literature” doesn’t work, and a solo pub-crawl back in Copenhagen almost does him in. It’s 1999, fin de siècle, and maybe fin de Kerrigan, for the doctor has discovered clotting in both lungs.
Kerrigan’s unresolved angst is the artificial heart of this real, joyous celebration of Copenhagen.Pub Date: June 11, 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62040-109-5
Page Count: 256
Publisher: Bloomsbury
Review Posted Online: March 30, 2013
Kirkus Reviews Issue: April 15, 2013
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
A modern day fable, with modern implications in a deceiving simplicity, by the author of Dickens. Dali and Others (Reynal & Hitchcock, p. 138), whose critical brilliance is well adapted to this type of satire. This tells of the revolt on a farm, against humans, when the pigs take over the intellectual superiority, training the horses, cows, sheep, etc., into acknowledging their greatness. The first hints come with the reading out of a pig who instigated the building of a windmill, so that the electric power would be theirs, the idea taken over by Napoleon who becomes topman with no maybes about it. Napoleon trains the young puppies to be his guards, dickers with humans, gradually instigates a reign of terror, and breaks the final commandment against any animal walking on two legs. The old faithful followers find themselves no better off for food and work than they were when man ruled them, learn their final disgrace when they see Napoleon and Squealer carousing with their enemies... A basic statement of the evils of dictatorship in that it not only corrupts the leaders, but deadens the intelligence and awareness of those led so that tyranny is inevitable. Mr. Orwell's animals exist in their own right, with a narrative as individual as it is apt in political parody.
Pub Date: Aug. 26, 1946
ISBN: 0452277507
Page Count: 114
Publisher: Harcourt, Brace
Review Posted Online: Nov. 2, 2011
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Aug. 1, 1946
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