Even Cowgirls Get the Blues (1976) had enough liberation-chic amid the pop gyrations to win Robbins a cultish following—and he'll certainly need a preconditioned audience for this even less substantial concoction. It's the love-story/ fairy-tale of Princess Leigh-Cheri Furstenberg-Barcalona, daughter of an exiled royal South American family living in Seattle—who, on a trip to Hawaii to attend a "Geo-Therapy Care Fest," meets and is swept off her feet by Bernard Mickey Wrangle a.k.a. "The Woodpecker," an outlaw political bomber given to eating Hostess Twinkies, saying "Yum" constantly, and philosophizing about outlaws, the moon, pyramids, and the profundity stored in the Camels cigarette package. When their ecstatic love is interrupted by The Woodpecker's temporary jailing (dynamite remains his hobby; he wears gunpowder T-shirts), Leigh-Cheri languishes, finally agreeing to marry an importunate Arab playboy if he'll promise to build for her a modern pyramid. But—enter The Woodpecker again; he and Leigh-Cheri are sealed within the pyramid by the jealous Arab; and, ultimately, it's dynamite once more to the rescue. Robbins lays all this down in three basic kinds of writing: plain cute, wise cute, and abstract cute. Plain: "Their underwear just lay there, gathering dust, like ghost towns abandoned when the nylon mines petered out." Wise cute: "Without the essential (inanimate) insanity, humor becomes inoffensive and therefore pap, poetry becomes exoteric and therefore prose, eroticism becomes mechanical and therefore pornography. . . ." Abstract cute: "Surface incident sets up internal relationships, and internal relationships break down the external gestalt, the publicness." Several writers do this sort of Zen shtick much better—e.g., Pierre Delattre's Walking On Air (p. 381)—and Robbins' sermons here (which sound strangely like those of a buzzed Arthur Godfrey) often are downright embarrassing. For diehard Robbins fans only, then (a largely paperback-oriented crowd); others will find it insufferable.
Pub Date: Sept. 29, 1990
ISBN: 0553348973
Page Count: 268
Publisher: Bantam
Review Posted Online: April 9, 2012
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Sept. 1, 1980
IN THE NEWS
The story's very ambiguity steadily feeds its mysteriousness and power, and Danielewski's mastery of postmodernist and...
An amazingly intricate and ambitious first novel - ten years in the making - that puts an engrossing new spin on the traditional haunted-house tale.
Texts within texts, preceded by intriguing introductory material and followed by 150 pages of appendices and related "documents" and photographs, tell the story of a mysterious old house in a Virginia suburb inhabited by esteemed photographer-filmmaker Will Navidson, his companion Karen Green (an ex-fashion model), and their young children Daisy and Chad. The record of their experiences therein is preserved in Will's film The Davidson Record - which is the subject of an unpublished manuscript left behind by a (possibly insane) old man, Frank Zampano - which falls into the possession of Johnny Truant, a drifter who has survived an abusive childhood and the perverse possessiveness of his mad mother (who is institutionalized). As Johnny reads Zampano's manuscript, he adds his own (autobiographical) annotations to the scholarly ones that already adorn and clutter the text (a trick perhaps influenced by David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest) - and begins experiencing panic attacks and episodes of disorientation that echo with ominous precision the content of Davidson's film (their house's interior proves, "impossibly," to be larger than its exterior; previously unnoticed doors and corridors extend inward inexplicably, and swallow up or traumatize all who dare to "explore" their recesses). Danielewski skillfully manipulates the reader's expectations and fears, employing ingeniously skewed typography, and throwing out hints that the house's apparent malevolence may be related to the history of the Jamestown colony, or to Davidson's Pulitzer Prize-winning photograph of a dying Vietnamese child stalked by a waiting vulture. Or, as "some critics [have suggested,] the house's mutations reflect the psychology of anyone who enters it."
The story's very ambiguity steadily feeds its mysteriousness and power, and Danielewski's mastery of postmodernist and cinema-derived rhetoric up the ante continuously, and stunningly. One of the most impressive excursions into the supernatural in many a year.Pub Date: March 6, 2000
ISBN: 0-375-70376-4
Page Count: 704
Publisher: Pantheon
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Feb. 1, 2000
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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