Used Books Blog

Fiskadoro by Denis Johnson is a jumbled, frustrating post-apocalyptic novel. Don’t expect a paint-by-numbers approach to revealing how things went wrong, nor what happened between that fateful day and the present. There is no omniscient character to provide the necessary background. There is no guide. Instead Johnson’s characters inhabit the world as it is, without the explanation that might bring clarity to the reader.

I admire what Denis Johnson is trying to do in Fiskadoro. He immerses the reader in what it might really be like to be a survivor. History is lost or, worse, is a warped collection of things heard or imagined. The connection to the past is limited, receding away until it vanishes like a sunset never to return. What remains isn’t well understood or is taken for granted as part of daily life.

Admiration and enjoyment don’t always go hand in hand.

Johnson creates a realistic world in which the survivors, and reader, are often fumbling for answers. The survivors crave those answers. They want to know what happened, how it happened and what comes next. And so did I! There are a few sign-posts in Fiskadoro that point to a quarantine and some sort of civilization in Cuba. There is one particular scene late in the book that paints an interesting portrait of the hours or days after the bombs fell. But it’s not enough to quench my thirst for answers. And while I know that’s what Johnson wants me to feel, it leaves me frustrated.

Yes, I enjoy post-apocalyptic novels and Johnson provides one reason I might be drawn to this theme.

Can we help it if sometimes we like to tell stories that want, as their holiest purpose, to excite us with pictures of danger and chaos?

I’ll admit that I see part of myself in that statement. But it’s overwhelmed with the idea of starting again; of battling back from the brink; of stripping down all the old conventions and building anew; of how you might respond should civilization disintegrate. What would you do if …? I am intrigued by this idea.

A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller Jr., Lucifer’s Hammer by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle, Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood, The Postman by David Brin and Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell all answer this central question and satisfy in different ways. Fiskadoro doesn’t.

Oddly, the best passages in the book revolve around the past life of a now elderly, nearly mute, woman. The reader is taken back to her harrowing escape from Saigon. This is where the book comes alive and Johnson is certainly drawing some parallels between the two timelines with themes such as the breakdown of society, of leaving the past behind completely and of survival.

I don’t doubt Johnson’s writing ability. He’s talented, with interesting insight …

The sabotage of knowledge by a wealth of facts - they weren’t professors, but guerrillas.

and observations.

The seagulls walked back and forth at the border of the water, all bellies and beaks, throwing out their chests with an air of flat assumption like small professors.

In the end Fiskadoro proves that the post-apocalyptic genre is tough to get right, even for gifted writers. With all the great post-apocalyptic novels out there, I simply can’t recommend Fiskadoro by Denis Johnson.

Restless by William Boyd is a fascinating novel that exposes the British Security Coordination (BSC), an extensive British covert spy operation aimed at persuading the US to enter World War II. However, this engrossing spy intrigue is hamstrung by non sequitur characters and over-reaching thematic metaphors.

Restless takes place in two time lines: the mid-1970s and early 1940s. The reader joins Ruth Gilmartin as she discovers the mysterious and heretofore unknown past of her mother - Eva Delectorskaya.

The chapters that chronicle Eva’s indoctrination and participation in the BSC are absorbing and suspenseful. Unfortunately, the chapters that follow Ruth’s daily life wind up a disappointment. Her world is populated with a number of characters and plot lines that never connect to the rest of the story. At the end of the novel I simply regarded these passages as unwanted filler. Instead, I wanted three more detailed chapters on Eva and her relationship with Lucas Romer, her BSC mentor.

The activities of BSC agents, the cat and mouse tactics, are what drive Restless. The concept behind the BSC was to use the media to actively bring the US into WWII. The BSC did this by surreptitiously planting fake stories that pointed at Nazi aggression or expansion past Europe. The BSC was an extensive spy network dedicated to information and spin!

Information wasn’t neutral … if it was believed or even half believed, then everything began subtly to change as a result - the ripple effect could have consequences no one could foresee.

In today’s information rich society, particularly in an election year, this theme resonates strongly. The fact that it was taking place 60 years ago is both interesting and frightening given what could be accomplished today.

The other downfall of Restless is Boyd’s seeming need to make the novel about more than just the personal stories that reveal the BSC. Does anyone really know another person? Are we all waiting for the proverbial other shoe (aka death) to drop? These themes and metaphors are a stretch and, frankly, detracted from my enjoyment of the taut spy thriller that was at the core of Restless.

Last but not least, there was no acknowledgment or afterword that told me what parts of the novel were based on fact. Instead I had to search the Internet to find … a fantastic piece Boyd did in The Guardian titled The Secret Persuaders. If only Boyd had used more of this material in Restless!

I’m being hard on Boyd because Restless was good but had the potential to be great. Ladies, don’t be scared away by the idea that this is a nuts and bolts spy story. It isn’t. The main characters are strong women embroiled in a great and sometimes romantic intrigue. Both my wife and I enjoyed Restless by William Boyd, with reservations, and recommend it as good summer reading.

The Rider by Tim Krabbe is a bicycling book that will appeal to more than just hardcore cycling fans. In fact, The Rider is the best sports book I’ve ever read. This slim fast-paced novel follows bicycle racer Tim Krabbe on a grueling one-day race in mountainous France. Krabbe chronicles the cat and mouse strategy of cycling; the competitive camaraderie; the blinding physical pain; the superstitions; and the internal stream of consciousness battle that takes place as a rider pushes themselves to the limit.

I know a bit about bicycling because … I ride. Since the age of 13 I’ve been rewarded with great personal victories like riding from Philadelphia to Long Beach Island with my Dad and finishing the Mount Diablo Challenge in 1:25:10. I’ve also fought back from pain and tragedy, pushing through exhaustion and getting back on the road after being hit by a car.

Bicycling gives you perspective and insight that you translate to your life and career. Yes, it all sounds very new age and perhaps you’ve heard other athletes lecture monotonously about the subject. But it is … the truth. When you crest the summit of a mountain or finish a 100 mile century ride there is an immense sense of accomplishment. Not just for the actual deed but for how you overcame your own weaknesses. You think about all the times your body wanted you to stop and how many times the lesser part of your nature shouted persistently and persuasively: “turn around, you can’t do it, just give up, there’s no shame in stopping.”

Tim Krabbe captures this perfectly in The Rider. No other bicycling book I’ve read details that roller coaster of emotions and the ebb and flow of pain, determination and elation that is cycling. Even those not into bicycling will be drawn into this personal battle and will want to know how the race turns out. Does Krabbe win? This can’t fail plot device is executed with precision.

Amid all of this the hardcore cyclist is treated to anecdotes and references to some of the most revered names of cycling such as Merckx, Anquetil and Coppi. One of my favorites comes at the beginning of the novel:

Jacques Anquetil, five-time winner of the Tour de France, used to take his water bottle out of it’s holder before every climb and stick it in the back pocket of his jersey. Ab Geldermans, his Dutch lieutenant, watched him do that for years, until finally he couldn’t stand it any more and asked him why. And Anquetil explained.

A rider, said Anquetil, is made up of two parts, a person and a bike. The bike, of course, is the instrument the person uses to go faster, but its weight also slows him down. That really counts when the going gets tough, and in climbing the thing is to make sure the bike is as light as possible. A good way to do that is: take the bidon out of its holder.

So, at the start of every climb, Anquetil moved his water bottle from its holder to his back pocket. Clear enough.

This is such a perfect way to illustrate the ways in which cyclists deceive themselves in order to succeed. On the face this makes no sense at all, but as a rider, I can absolutely understand the ‘value’ of this behavior.

The style of The Rider also makes it an easy read. The short journal like entries that document the kilometer by kilometer progress throughout the race are tight, visceral and compelling. The prose isn’t detailed or overblown. It matches the dichotomous experience of the rider, mixing an economy of words with free association.

First published in Holland in 1978, it took and obscene 14 years until The Rider was translated into English. Now is your chance to read The Rider by Tim Krabbe. It is entertaining, informative and inspirational to both cyclists and non-cyclists.

Now … off for a ride of my own.

Darwin’s Children by Greg Bear is a satisfying but imperfect follow-up to Darwin’s Radio that reaches too far outside the scientific realm and into politics and religion. Bear is a gifted storyteller with a knack for building great suspense. Bear uses a scientific framework to create interesting characters and places them in situations that compel you to read on to find out what happens next. Darwin’s Children is no different.

Darwin’s Children picks up 11 years after where Darwin’s Radio ended. Bear doesn’t do a whole lot to catch the reader up, so if you haven’t read Darwin’s Radio you might be a bit confused. I definitely recommend reading Darwin’s Radio before Darwin’s Children. (Jeez, how many Darwin’s can you fit into a paragraph!)

The story revolves around the treatment and integration of a new type of human, children born through a retrovirus embedded deep in our DNA. As with all Bear novels, you’re treated to a bit of hard science. I personally enjoyed learning about the differing nature of viruses; a disease but also as a carrier of information. But the story is really about the Rafelson family who were central to Darwin’s Radio.

We follow Kaye Lang, a scientific researcher who essentially discovered the new virus; Mitch Rafelson, a former archaeologist who made a critical discovery in Darwin’s Radio; and Stella Nova, their “virus child” daughter. Stella is the most interesting because we get insight into these new humans.

Virus children have a hyper developed sense of smell that allows them to sniff out emotions. In addition, they can produce scents that can persuade others, a subtle type of mind control. Their faces are freckled and these freckles can be manipulated to produce patterns that allow non-verbal communication. In the verbal arena, they’re able to carry on two streams of conversation at once. Bear does a fine job of exploring the evolving ways in which these new humans will form relationships and develop new social patterns.

Alone, this type of speculative sociology would be interesting but Bear places his characters in tense, explosive situations. Can the Rafelson family evade capture by government agencies bent on placing Stella, and all of her kind, in internment camps? Will Stella survive a new disease that is ravaging this new breed of humans? And that’s just the first act of Darwin’s Children.

In fact, Bear creates three consecutive suspense stories which is both good and bad. The set-up is great but in many cases the climax never came. Instead you’re thrown head long into another set-up. So just when you’re warming up to how the situation would be resolved … the rug is pulled out from under you and you’re back to square one.

Yes, they all did support the final resolution, but I found the final story weak, the novel petering out near the end, ambling into cliche territory. In addition, Bear takes on a bit too much, straying into politics and religion.

On politics he takes very transparent shots at governing by fear and the erosion of freedom. I completely agree with Bear’s clear sentiment, but didn’t need or want them in this context. Yes, it’s easy to create some parallels but inference would have been better than exposition.

Bear also brings religion or God into the mix when it does nothing for the story and doesn’t lead anywhere. It’s simply his own personal observation and, from reading the caveats section, personal experience. My advice is to write up an essay or put this into another novel entirely. It’s distracting here and unnecessary.

Despite these failings Darwin’s Children is a good read as Bear deftly draws you into a new reality. Not his best by any stretch of the imagination, but worthwhile if you’ve read Darwin’s Radio and appropriate for those who enjoy readable hard Sci-Fi.

The Long Rain by Peter Gadol is a great suspense novel that explores relationships, morals and guilt. Jason Dark is putting the pieces of his life back together. He’s moved to a family vineyard, opened up a small law practice in the rural town and is renewing relationships with his estranged wife and troubled son. But then things go awry. On a rainy night on a country road he accidentally runs over and kills a teenager. No one is around for miles and miles.

What would you do?

Maybe the answer is easy for you and you do the right thing, but Peter Gadol explores the sinister side - the weak side - that might try to cover it up. Dark convinces himself that nothing good can come of his admission. The boy is dead and will stay dead. As a lawyer, Dark sees jail or a civil suit that takes away all he’s just reclaimed. He must accept the burden of guilt to protect his family and new life.

The Long Rain is a great suspense novel. Don’t mistake it for a mystery novel. This isn’t a whodunit because you know who committed the crime. It’s not quite a thriller either. You won’t find gory descriptions of a serial killer, no chases with gun waving thugs and nothing blows up in a fiery orange ball. You will be treated to a fascinating internal, psychological drama.

Gadol puts you right smack in the middle of this queasy situation. Good people sometimes make bad decisions. Once Dark lies, he can’t seem to go back and reveal the truth. It’s like that friend you were supposed to call and the longer you wait the worse you feel and the tougher it is to call and explain why you flaked. The beauty of The Long Rain is that you get to live this nightmare vicariously. Guilt and anxiety eat at Dark, threatening to consume his new life. And like Dark, I often found myself sitting, shoulders near my ears, with knots twisting my stomach, thinking ‘will he get caught?’

Vivid descriptions of the vineyard and the detailed process of making wine provide needed breaks from the treacherous plot. Some may find the explanations of the crush, fermentation and cultured bacteria to be too detailed. But if you’re even a little interested in wine, these sections should be interesting. Either way, they are welcome spots of relaxation in an otherwise tense novel. There are also a few overly coincidental plot points, but they weren’t glaring enough to derail my enjoyment of the story.

The Long Rain taps into basic human flaws and puts them on display. It asks and answers a number of unsettling questions. Page by page the anxiety grows. You can’t help but feel the pressure of the situation. This isn’t an easy paint by numbers portrait. It’s a messy, emotional, visceral drama that exposes how secrets and guilt can damage trust and twist relationships. Enjoy the chaos knowing you can always close the book on the drama.

Foop! by Chris Genoa is an appealing science-fiction farce with healthy doses of amusing social commentary. I liked Foop! but wanted to like it more. All the ingredients were there, and it did taste good, but I couldn’t help but think that a dash more of this and a little less of that would have really made it a great read.

The story follows a rather overwhelmed and juvenile Joe, a time travel tour guide. We join Joe in crisis, having to step in for John Wilkes Booth and assassinate Abraham Lincoln. (I can’t help but think of Sarah Vowell right out of the gate and have to believe she’s read Foop!) It’s in these first few chapters that we’re introduced to how time travel works in Foop! and the ’shaved cat’ principle that ensures that any changes made in the past do not effect the future. Or do they?

The story pinballs, nay, ricochets from character to character and wacky, odd-ball scene to the next. There’s Joe’s macho yet tender boss Burk; Martini, an Eeyore-like needy co-worker; Ba Hubba Tree Bob, a new age religious leader; and Boogedy and Nibbles, a mute alien Laurel and Hardy team that stalk Joe throughout time. Genoa stitches these scenes together artfully, particularly since the plot isn’t exactly the cohesive force it could be in the novel.

The vaudeville like tone to Foop! is enjoyable and you can feel a Christopher Moore vibe going on. And perhaps it’s because Moore is so accomplished, or that Tim Scott was successful in doing something similar, that makes me want more from Foop! It’s like early Neal Stephenson, he knew how to start, but had problems really closing the deal. Because there are some deeper messages buried in Foop!, about how we live, about being connected to those around us, and about the general conduct of humans.

But there was too much of the crude Judd Apatow (Superbad, 40 Year Old Virgin) humor steeped in genitalia and bodily orifice jokes. Once in a while and it can be humorous. Frequent use makes me feel like I’m listening to a 14 year-old trying (and failing) to have adult conversation. In addition, the main character seemed a bit uneven, oscillating from spineless stunted geek to acerbic dominant bully.

So, at the end of the day I liked Foop! but hope that, like many first time authors, Chris Genoa turns out an even better sophomore effort.

Syrup by Maxx Barry is as good as an icy cold Coca Cola on a sweltering hot summer day. In other words, Syrup is satisfying! It’s a fun romp that takes well deserved swipes at marketing, Hollywood, ambition and corporate ethics. Amid the social commentary is a romantic plot that, while a bit one-dimensional, is … well … fun. It’s not the romantic swoon you’ll get from Audrey Niffenegger’s Time Traveler’s Wife, but more like … Sawyer and Kate’s relationship on Lost. Yes, it’s a TV reference, but it’s apt in my opinion, particularly given the role books are playing in that series.

Syrup follows Scat (formerly Michael George Holloway), a recent college graduate, who seeks to become famous. Really famous. Acknowledging his lack of acting ability he seeks to make fame and fortune in business and marketing. The premise is that everyone has at least three big ideas in their lifetime. Three ideas that, if pursued, can make millions of dollars. And it just so happens that Scat has one of these amazing ideas about a new brand of cola named Fukk.

Scat’s idea brings him into contact with 6, a beautiful, young, driven marketer at Coca Cola. No, that’s not a typo, her name is the number 6 and the back story to this unusual name is one of the more intriguing gems in Syrup. Barry doesn’t follow this thread, but I wish he had. Scat is immediately smitten and immersed into the shark tank of corporate politics and ladder back-stabbing. Fukk is a success but doesn’t make Scat millions. In fact, it creates an arch-nemesis, Sneaky Pete, who Scat and 6 fight together through the rest of the novel.

Syrup is composed of very short micro-chapters much like Steve Erickson’s Zeroville. This format lets Barry be creative and playful. You can feel his energy and passion for the story. He’s having fun and thereby, the reader is as well. The format also lets Barry sprinkle in bite size case studies like the following:

Pick a random chemical in your product and heavily promote its presence. When your customers see “Now wth Benzoethylhydrates!” they will assume that this is a good thing.

This is a tongue in cheek send-up which flirts with deeper issues like the difference between perception and reality, the friction between art and commerce and finding yourself. But Barry never delves into any of these areas in greater depth. They’re nearly offhanded comments or topic sentences to a potentially longer essay. Could he have done more? Maybe. Would it have worked? Maybe. Is it necessary to make this novel complete? No!

Syrup by Maxx Barry is fast paced and funny, a marriage of soap opera and satire that is a pleasure to read.

Outrageous Fortune by Tim Scott is a rare blend of action, humor, absurdity, science-fiction and personal insight. You know things are going to be interesting when the first word of Outrageous Fortune is ‘Fuckers’, uttered by main character, Johnny X67. He has every right to be pissed. His house has just been stolen. But that’s not even in the Top 10 of strange things that Johnny encounters in this non-stop adventure.

The world that Tim Scott creates is a fantastic collection of interesting ideas, vivid imagery and incisive social commentary. On top of that he’s laid out a riotous action plot coupled with interludes of penetrating observations. I knew I was hooked when he described a city that had been divided by music genres. Such a brilliant concept I’m green with envy!

The Classical section is high-brow and well maintained with sound ordinances and large signs that chide the noisy with large flashing ’shhhhh’ signs. In Jazz you have all sorts of strange free-form architecture but can’t be sure to get a decent pizza since they might be ‘experimenting’ with an ‘all olive’ phase. Or visit Compilation, the haven for those pale, boring souls who don’t have taste enough to identify with any one type of music. And stay away from Holiday Song, an area with perpetual snow and roaming, ho-ho-ho-ing Santas.

Scott takes readers on a fast-paced ride that reminds me of the movie After Hours and Brazil. It’s a desperate, funny, bizarre world where you (and the characters) are struggling to catch-up and digest what is going on. You don’t want to put the book down because you know something else is going to happen in the next few pages.

The only thing that distracted me was the mix of English and American phrases and places. Scott is English and that comes through unmistakably through his prose. However, the novel takes place in America in some sort of composite of Santa Cruz, Los Angeles and San Francisco. Perhaps the cultural collision is intentional and part of the alternate reality Scott wants to create. I don’t know, but it jolted me out of the regular reading and flow of the story.

Amid the Monty Python meets Philip K. Dick prose are amazing reflections on relationships, religion, reality and happiness.

On relationships:

I watched her character shrink before me and I felt so helpless. The spirit I’d loved her for had turned into fear, so that she no longer thought she could cope with the world; was so scared of the thought of being on her own that she crushed the present, suffocating any joy from life, and turned everything into a battle for survival. I knew this was not right - not for us, not for people who had a house and food and friends. And the more she clung to me, the more we both drowned, sinking under an invisible sea of desperation.

On religion:

Now the emphasis was on seeking peace rather than clinging to spurious explanations for our existence - and once the focus moved toward peace, religion seemed to lose a lot of its hold over the masses. Religions never had been interested in peace that much, anyway.

On happiness:

What mattered was regaining who I was, because the pleasure of being alive is not pining for different lives, or different things, but just being.

For every talking elevator who tells bad jokes there is a literary gem. Tim Scott gives readers both sizzle and steak; swashbuckling science-opera and high-minded literature. Read Outrageous Fortune and then wait for Scott’s next novel.

Brasyl by Ian McDonald is a bloated, confused novel that obscures an otherwise interesting story. Reading Brasyl was a struggle and I had to fight off the urge to put it down nearly every time I picked it up. The novel is composed of three different stories, one in the past, one in the present and one in the future. The plot revolves around the nature of the universe, or in this case the ‘multiverse’, and how these different stories converge and intersect.

I have never read Ian McDonald before and I’m not sure I will again. He’s received a lot of praise and some nice awards. I can only hope that his body of work that made it difficult for an editor to take a red pen to Brasyl. I’m not a writer (well I am, but I don’t get paid for it) nor an editor, nor an ivory tower literati. However, I think I can spot poor writing when I read it - and Brasyl has it in spades.

The warm humidity help and amplified smells; the fruity, blousy sickliness of the bougainvilleas that overhung the fundacao’s fighting yard, the rank smokiness of the oil from the lamps that defined the roda, the honey-salt sweetness of the sweat that ran down Marcelina’s upraised arm, the fecund, nurturing sourness of her armpit.

That’s but a sample of the overblown prose that litters the pages of Brasyl. McDonald can’t help but attach not one but (at least) two adjectives to every noun. More adjectives do not make better descriptions! McDonald does this repeatedly, not trusting the reader to use his or her imagination to fill in the blanks.

In addition, McDonald overuses native language. Again, it seems McDonald worked to put at least one native word per sentence. I’m not opposed to it as a rule, but in this instance it does little to enhance the story and makes it even more difficult to read. I know he’s trying to reach for Burgess or Gibson like dialects, but it simply never comes together.

McDonald also misses in his use of pop culture references. The mention of Mentos in Diet Coke is lame and far too ephemeral; the use of ‘alt dot’ is dated and misplaced; and the DJ competition scenes are unauthentic. Most of these are contained in the insipid, present day storyline that follows reality-programming producer Marcelina Hoffman.

The future storyline has some interesting elements, but they’re lost amid the prose and a flat romantic plot. Brasyl shines the most when in the past, following Father Luis Quinn and Dr. Robert Falcon into the Amazon. They are the most fully formed characters and their relationship is a strong point in the novel. It’s in this section that you get a (very) faint echo of the great Hyperion by Dan Simmons.

I can’t recommend Brasyl by Ian McDonald. It’s muddled, indulgent prose hides what might be an interesting story. Perhaps someone can comment on whether his earlier works merit reading.

The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi covers a wide range of weighty topics without seeming to lose focus and never sounds preachy. The story follows Karim Amir, a teenager in middle-class suburban London, born to an English mother and Indian father. Karim’s coming of age story explores themes of family, love, sexuality and racism.

At under 300 pages it’s a wonder Kureishi is able to cover so much ground with so few words. It’s not that his writing isn’t incisive (it is!), it’s simply economical and efficient. A simple page or two and you can feel the suffocating boredom of Karim’s family life like dust trapped in stale sunlight. But before you have a chance to fully digest and process the scene you’re on to the next vignette.

Purposeful or not, the speed in which events occur mirror the accelerated development that takes place during those teenage years. The time when everything seems to happen at once. It dawns on you that your parents are people with their own foibles; you’re experimenting with sex; you gorge yourself on music as a proxy for self-identity; you fall in love or lust; and you begin to comprehend subtext, drafted into a new and messy adult reality.

The Buddha of Suburbia would be an above average novel if limited to just these ’standard’ story lines. Overlay the cultural and racial tension and The Buddha of Suburbia becomes unique. It is no longer a Catcher in the Rye variant (not a phony), but a layered period piece and social indictment with self-identity as the centering plot device; whether it is Karim’s struggle to find his place in the world; or generations of Indian immigrants grappling with native versus adoptive customs; or the definition of family relationships in modern society.

However, I never really ‘felt’ for Karim, though I understood and appreciated his motivations and actions. Karim seems somewhat disconnected and aloof, which may be how Kureishi is able to quickly navigate from one thematic element to the other. I wanted to feel more for Karim, but instead I felt for his situation. Objective empathy instead of visceral reaction.

This made The Buddha of Suburbia more entertaining and light, yet less penetrating. Despite this lack of emotional depth, I recommend reading Hanif Kureishi’s The Buddha of Suburbia.