Mystic River, by Dennis Lehane

A few thoughts on Dennis Lehane’s Mystic River

So this book has been in my bookshelf for nine years, unread! (there are a few that are even older, I’ll get to them eventually). The HT Brunch challenge got me to pick it up, finally, so that’s one (more) good thing it achieved.

Mystic River and Shutter Island are probably the best known of Lehane’s books, thanks to the movies. Reading MR, one can see why it got turned into one. There’s a very atmospheric quality to the writing, describing a typical, downmarket, Boston neighbourhood and the people there. The story starts with three boys, one of whom gets abducted by pedophiles, and then escapes them after four days. This is just the bare bones, though - the reactions of all the three, their families, and their neighbours, are what give the narrative its texture.

The “real” plot then starts twenty years later, with these three kids grown into adults. A murder takes place, the event and the investigation eventually enfolding all the three protagonists. Events trigger off events, as in the best crime stories. This is not a police procedural - and that’s kind of its strength. I’ve written elsewhere that police procedurals are typically bound by their genre - the policeman must catch the bad guy eventually, most of the characters must survive to another day, the reliance on the police system must be eventually justified, and so on (see my notes on Cut Like Wound for another example). Here, we have no genre safety net, and anything could happen to even the good guys. Lehane plays this off really well, and the murderers’ motives are perfect for the location and setting.

Spoiler alert: If you’ve seen the third season of Broadchurch, you might find the solution here easier to guess. There are multiple thematic similarities, though no exact matches.

I have only one complaint to make here, and that is the long, long descriptions Lehane puts in. Not War-and-Peace-level long, but still - I bet fully 20% of the book could have been pared out and created a tighter product. You hear about people effortlessly writing thousands of words a day, and then you read something like this and see how they did it. Now, James Ellroy, on the other hand, though his books are just as long and even more atmospheric, doesn’t really have any fluff to his writing.

But never mind that. Once the book gets going, it gets going well, and you are willing to read the 400 pages just for the ride.

But I’m not sure at this point whether I’d read another book by Lehane. 

Timequake, by Kurt Vonnegut

A few thoughts on Kurt Vonnegut’s Timequake:

So let me say this up front. I’ve never really been able to connect with Vonnegut’s work. Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions were on the Modern Library’s top 100 list, so I read them as part of that binge. While S-5 was okay, with a bunch of quotable thoughts, BoC felt like rambling, too meta for my taste, and overall too lightweight to really enjoy.

I picked up Timequake against my own better judgement, deciding to give Uncle Kurt another chance, and I’m glad I did. Probably my own writing and reviewing experience helped me “get it” to some extent.

So here’s the concept: Time has reset itself to ten years ago. Everyone finds himself doing what they were doing ten years ago, and are forced to do exactly the same thing again, with nothing changed at all. What this means is no free will - everyone is, and everyone knows they are, ordained into a routine they don’t need to think about.

Given this idea, how would you write a book around it? The beginner would take it step by step, detailed what triggered it, selecting a bunch of characters to live through it, examining the after effects through these same characters, and so on.

The advanced would pick up a small piece of the concept, zoom into it, and tell the events of that short part in detail with all the ramifications.

But what does Vonnegut do? He turns it into something almost real. Timequake is partially an autobiography with Vonnegut talking about himself, but also about Kilgore Trout, his alter ego, and how he, Trout, survived the timequake. Vonnegut “hears” the story from Trout over multiple sessions, while also talking about a book written by Trout, Timequake One, that is somehow fictional but also real and describing the events in the linear manner. It all gets mixed up and feels somewhat like Vonnegut just rambling about random things, from his two wives to his children and his work, and then little stories he’s heard here and there (like the Robert Fulghum stories) - and then, interspersed, what happened when the timequake hit.

The approach almost reminded me of Borges’ reviews and examinations of imaginary books. Implicit in Borges’ approach is that the books themselves aren’t as interesting as our reaction to them, and their place in the larger scheme of things. Implicit in Timequake is the assumption that all the wierdness did happen, there’s no real reason to explain it further, and we might as well just get on with it. Wonderfully done.

It helps that Vonnegut is extremely quotable. The one I’m taking away from this book is Trout’s exhortations to the world at large, to get them out of the catatonia of the timequake: “You’ve been sick, but now you’re well again, and there’s work to do.”

Don't Disturb the Dead, by Shamya Dasgupta

A few thoughts on Don’t Disturb the Dead, by Shamya Dasgupta

Every 80s and 90s kid in India knows about the Ramsey brothers and their stream of horror movies - Tahkhana, Veerana, Purani Haveli, and so on. Like most others, my cousins and I used to reference these very movie names when talking of scary stuff, even if we never saw the movies. Indeed, my first Ramsey movie was Purana Mandir, as late as 2010. But there was always the Zee Horror Show, and bits and pieces of their movies seen at video parlours, playing on cable TV in the late nights, referenced in all sorts of other media.

So Shamya Dasgupta’s book was an instant buy for me. It’s the kind of pop history that is documented all too little in India and is even acknowledged grudgingly by the self-declared cultural custodians. Dasgupta painstakingly documents the history of the brothers (original surname: Ramsinghani, before their father moved from Karachi to Mumbai). He talks of their struggles to get their movies made, on low budgets and with opposition from the established film industry. From multiple interviews with members of their family and their regular stars, a picture emerges of sound businessmen who nevertheless mastered their own art form and produced something memorable.

One surprise for me was the attention to detail that the Ramseys paid in their projects - the masks were ordered from a custom craftsman in England, the statues on the sets cost lakhs, and the scripts were written around specific locations that they were comfortable with. In fact, in the industry, they were considered the “premium” horror film makers, with others making even cheaper movies with only good posters. The reason for their decline, Dasgupta ventures, is just that unwillingness to let go of their formula and to start learning again. He points out newer projects by the extended family, stating that they aren’t as good. But then - many of the Ramsey’s first projects weren’t good either. What they did was to keep going at the problem, honing their skills as they went. That’s how they got good.

You know what? Forget the self-help books section. Read this one instead for inspiration.

The only thing I didn’t enjoy as much was the extended profiles of the younger Ramsey generations - none of them are as iconic as the original brothers, and we’re simply not as interested in them. But I suppose those are needed for completeness’ sake.

And one thing that would have been nice is a synopsis of their movies - there is a detailed list with cast and crew listed, but no synopsis.

But still - if you’re one of those people who stared at the posters of Tahkhana and Purani Haveli with fascination and who laid bets with themselves on watching the movies, this is the book for you. It does complete justice to desi horror cinema’s First Family.

No Middle Name, by Lee Child

A few thoughts on No Middle Name, by Lee Child

I’m very likely to read the next Jack Reacher book after No Middle Name, just as I’ve read everything of Lee Child’s work over the years. Let it be said, however, that if Child decides to give up on the series right now, No Middle Name would be the perfect coda.

No Middle Name is a collection of the short stories and novellas featuring Reacher, that have shown up in multiple publications over the years. I’m pretty sure this is not an exhaustive collection - there’s at least one more story (from Face-Off, an anthology featuring team-ups of thriller characters), that isn’t in this book. Notwithstanding that, the present volume gives you a really good overview of Reacher over the years. There are stories from his youth (High Heat and Second Son), from his Army days and from his wandering years thereafter. Most fans would have read some of these stories before, but it’s good fun to read them all together. Think of it as a montage of moments.

The best work here in my opinion is still High Heat, which has all the typical elements of a Reacher novel - violence, sex, leaps of deduction, and “unofficial” truth behind the official story. But other short works, such as (the subway+ CIA one) showcase the character of Reacher as well. An equivalent example I could think of is The Living Daylights, the James Bond short story that encapsulated Bond like nothing else, even if the movie by the same name used nothing but that name.

No Middle Name is an excellent read for the not-quite-beginner - someone who’s read a novel or two featuring Reacher, but is not dedicated enough to read all 20+ books. It’s also great for the loyal follower such as myself ( :) ).

We Have Always Lived in the Castle, by Shirley Jackson

A few thoughts on We Have Always Lived in the Castle, by Shirley Jackson

This one has been on my reading list for a long, long time. I wasn’t sure what to expect. The Haunting of Hill House was properly creepy, when I read it years ago, and Life Among the Savages revealed a very human side of Jackson (a lot has been written about this duality in her writing; it makes me like her even more).

We Have Always Lived in the Castle, actually accomplishes a very strange feat: it takes the atmospheric creepiness of Hill House and combines it with some of the familial-affection vibes of Savages. Mary Catherine, nicknamed Merrikat in the family, is a teenager living with her elder sister Constance and her physically handicapped uncle Julian. They live in a large mansion in a New England town, and are well known as the original “rich folks” of the area. Because of their standoffishness, the townsfolk hate them. 6 years ago, everyone else in their large family was murdered - arsenic in their sugar. Constance was arrested but eventually released for lack of evidence.

Merrikat is a very unreliable narrator. She believes in what is called Sympathetic Magic - where objects belonging to certain people or associated with certain events acquire mystical powers. So she might nail her father’s notebook to a tree, or bury his silver coins, to protect the mansion and the attenuated family from evil spirits. She also is completely happy in her present time - with her sister and with her uncle around, she needs no one else. They all have a very fixed weekly routine of cleaning, cooking, and of Merrikat going to the village for supplies.

Things change when Constance’s cousin, Charles, shows up one day. (By the way, it’s the strength of Jackson’s writing that she doesn’t hurry up this event at all - she manages to coax us into Merrikat’s little world so thoroughly that we don’t feel the need for anything else, either, and we feel this intrusion as badly as she, Merrikat, does). I will not talk any more about which way things go after this arrival, but it’s a masterclass in subtle character studies.

Considering this is Shirley Jackson we’re talking about, we’d expect spirits and malevolent influences to pop up sooner rather than later. The story goes off in a different direction, though, and gets bad enough even without those props.

Absolutely impressive stuff, and I’d highly recommend it for all readers who don’t mind a slow burn read. 

Cops and Robbers, by Donald E Westlake

A few thoughts on Cops and Robbers, by Donald Westlake: 

Well, reading this one after finishing The Savage Detectives is like eating cotton candy after a rich meal - it’s light, frothy, you kind of like it and kind of get irritated at it’s nothingness after what went before.

On the other hand, you can never have too much of Westlake’s trademark writing style - whether he’s being his typical ebullient self as in these books, or grim and sarcastic as in the Parker books.

Cops and Robbers is about two cops, Joe and Tom, who decide to actually rob a financial exchange and sell the stolen bearer bonds to a mafia don. It takes them almost the first third to convince themselves to do it (multiple incidents where cops are shouted at/ignored/taken for granted). Finally they decide to take advantage of the fact that no one would assume policemen could be robbers, and actually do the robbery.

There are a couple of interesting twists to the story - no, scratch that, there’s just one sudden twist, and all the rest kind of falls into place with a happy ending to it all.

I was kind of disappointed by the happy ending, actually, because these kinds of stories glory in ending in a weird way.

Probably one of Westlake’s low-effort entries. It was fun while it lasted, but I wouldn’t read it again.

Then again, I’d be happy to read the rest of his books :).

The Savage Detectives, by Roberto Bolano

A few thoughts on Roberto Bolano’s The Savage Detectives :

It’s hard enough to capture an entire life in a novel. Try capturing an entire generation. I can think of Midnight’s Children as one work that does that. And there’s The Savage Detectives, the novel that turned Bolano famous when it appeared in translation. Maybe the life of the artistic generation in the 70s in Mexico was richer than what this book captures - but what is here feels self-sufficient and deep enough. And that’s what matters.

The book is structured strangely - A young poet, Juan Garcia Madero, is drawn in the group that calls itself the visceral realists, and becomes involved in their adventures. At some point, the two leading lights of the movement - Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima - take off on a journey across Mexico, and our narrator is drawn to join them. They plan to use this trip to also hunt for Cesarea Tinajero, a poetess who they consider the founder of the visceral realist movement (I couldn’t quite place why she’s attributed with this while reading). The journey starts on New Years’ Day, 1976.

Now the story shifts to a series of interviews, starting from 1976, all the way to 1995, with people who meet either Arturo or Ulises in various places, all over Europe and South America. These are almost 25 different people, with different voices and styles, and Bolano captures these voices really well. Along with the stories of the lead pair this section also serves to chart the life courses of different people of the same generation - some become millionaires, some settle into drab routines, hardly anyone continues poetry. This section is the largest of the book.

And finally, the last section begins right where the first ended, and continues with how the search for Cesarea Tinajero went.

One thing that I didn’t quite understand (and maybe I’m too dim to see it) is why Cesarea is attributed all these founding qualities, and why  Arturo and Ulises are so keen to find her. I interpreted this quest as a made-up reason for live and strive, for the poets who are drifters and don’t quite any anything to look forward to. Indeed, the second section (chronologically the last), has them going from place to place, not quite sure where they’re going. It seems like the quest for the lost poetess was the highlight of their lives, or that’s what they have made of it. The structure of the book seems to back it up - everything is encapsulated by that search.

IN case you’re planning to read this one, make sure you take out large chunks of time at a stretch. I found myself lost after reading 10-page segments over a week, but when I got to read 50+ pages at a time, I was able to lose myself in the spirit of the writing.

Is it good? Too late to answer that, I suppose - the world has given its answer already. But for what it’s worth, I liked it, it left an unusual taste in my mouth, and I would probably consider reading the logical next step, 2666. In my mind, The Savage Detectives has replaced Under The Volcano as the definitive Mexican novel.