Chris Blocker

There was so much I liked about The Safekeep, but believability is such a huge thing to me, and ultimately, that is where I found myself distancing myself from this novel. Setting up a story in a world that is the same as the one I live in, without any explanations for deviations, means I expect certain things. And I know this is my own flaw. When I was an MFA student, workshopping my own fiction, there was a scene I wrote that several of my fellow students got stuck on: This would never happen, they said. It's not believable. But that scene was semi-autobiographical, and what they were saying could never happen had actually happened exactly like that. Of course, in that setting, I wasn't allowed to correct them or tell them differently. Perhaps that is the same kind of scenario at play here; nevertheless, I find myself in disbelief.

There was much that I especially enjoyed. The atmosphere is great. It's easy to get lost in this place and to see these scenes play out before your eyes. The suspense is really good, however, those looking for SUSPENSE will be disappointed. This is a subtle, literary story that creates an air of tension. There is not going to be a huge unexpected twist that involves the clone in the attic. And lastly, the writing was sharp and the characters were really well drawn (though to be clear, I found their actions to be sometimes unbelievable).

I won't go into much detail about what I found unbelievable as I think it has the potential to spoil the story for some. And it's not so much that the characters got to the places they did, but the fact that it happened in a single sentence. Does that kind of flash development happen in real life? Yes. Does it happen under the conditions that the story presents (considering the history of those involved, mental health, personalities, present circumstances, etc.)? I really, truly doubt it. So much so that I found myself angry and frustrated with the absurdity of it. I admit, I could myself be that student now, saying “this would never happen” while the author says nothing. Thirteen years from now I imagine she may shake her head, remembering my comment, thinking how truly ignorant other people can be.

There are so many things wrong with this book. Compile all the rants I've made about other books I didn't care for over the last couple years and you'll have a list of the things that are wrong with Nevil Shute's On the Beach. I looked forward to reading this book, but it's really not that good. Yet, I enjoyed it. I almost loved it. On the Beach is like that breed of old sci-fi that has few redeeming qualities, but is worth every minute of it.

So why is this book bad?

It's unrealistic. It's the end of the world. Not the kind of end of the world where you think the end is coming but it's averted at the last minute. Or the kind where a small tribe of people survive and must repopulate. We're talking about all life on earth obliterated. Most of the earth's population is already gone at the novel's start. South Africa as well as parts of South America and Australia are holding on, waiting for the radioactive winds to reach their lands. The novel focuses primarily on Melbourne, Australia. The date is set. And everyone is just a little too okay with their fate. Sure, I buy there is some denial. And I can understand that perhaps the author is trying to make a point about the way we live our lives. All in all, it's just not believable. Give me some rioting. Some insanity. Something besides tea and crumpets and brandy and walks in the park.

The language is repetitive and bland. “Honey,” the American said presently to the girl... I don't know that I've ever heard the word “Presently” in a novel. It's not a word that really does much. Shute must've disagreed as he used it every chance he could. I would estimate it pops up on nearly every page. Further, the main characters are rarely referred to by their names. Dwight is “The American”. Moira is “The Girl.” And since, to me, Mary is more of “a girl” than Moira, this is confusing. Don't expect much variety in the language. Or anything that will blow your mind. Lyrically, this novel is a snoozer.

The characters are as flat as the language No one does anything surprising or even interesting. They're all a bunch of cardboard cutouts playing their respective parts. Dwight Towers is the dedicated Navy submarine commander. Peter Holmes is the devoted officer and husband. Mary Holmes is the flabergasted docile wife. Moira Davidson is the wild girl looking for a second chance. John Osborne is the average civilian scientist with a hobby. That's about all you need to know or will learn about these characters. Their interactions with one another play out the way you expect, like a 1940s drama. And of course the women fall all over the men and don't know what to do without them. I guess that's expected for the time period, but it quickly grows annoying.

These are all big issues for me. The sort of problems that would normally drop a book to two stars with little hesitation. Still, I really enjoyed On the Beach.

For starters, the story is wonderful. The idea of it, at least. I love that the end is coming and people are powerless to stop it. Even the Americans are powerless for once.

Though the characters don't react how I think they necessarily should, there is still quite a bit of heartrenching moments and haunting imagery. Shute may have not gotten out much to see how people act, but he certainly knew human emotion.

Lastly, there is just a certain feel to On the Beach. I realize this is entirely ethereal reasoning and subject to personal tastes, but it has that presence that makes films like A Boy and His Dog, The Blob, or Them! classics forever. At times it's painful–like the neverending car race or the continual mentioning of pogo sticks–but there's just something about the book's atmosphere that makes these things bearable and the end product enjoyable.

From a literary point of view, the book has major flaws, but it's really quite good in the end. Sure that statement is filled with faulty logic. It's like planting a garden you'll never see. Or buying a pogo stick for a deceased child. Or learning a new job skill weeks before radiation from a thousand nuclear bombs invades your lungs and your blood and leaves you flopping around on the beach like a fish out of water. It's completely illogical, but at the same time it kind of makes sense.

if a tree falls
if a tree falls
in the forest and no one is present
does it make a sound
and if a string of words
has no end punctuation
is it a sentence
these are questions void of question marks posed by a reading of Solar Bones questions of purpose why make a novel out of one sentence—if one may call it that—and why make it stream of consciousness and are either of these labels being placed on this novel accurate
no
not at all
because this book is neither stream of consciousness or one sentence but that doesn't mean it fails, it is not stream of conscious truly because no one—or so I believe, maybe just very few—think in such complete complex thoughts we are creatures whose minds bounce around from one incomplete thought to another rarely stopping to return to—what was I saying—this novel is better classified as a slightly rambling experiment in form, a term that is as muddied as it sounds, perhaps it's better to call it interior monologue lacking grammatical accuracy, which is often confused with stream of consciousness, neither is this novel one sentence because, as I hope we've established by now, if you've made it this far and actually are understanding this rambling experiment in form that I call a review, a sentence isn't a sentence without the
tangy taste of
Miracle Whip
that comes in the form of
end punctuation of some kind
but Solar Bones doesn't fail in story which is important since I guess you could say the point of a story is to tell a story or something, this gets confusing and the fact that Mike McCormack could write like this for more than two-hundred pages shows that he's either really skilled or that once you start a bad habit it's easy to stick with it, like
what if McCormack's intention wasn't to create something experimental, but what if he's just a bad typist
the fact I'm going off on tangents may lead a reader to believe that I am writing in stream of consciousness but I'm not
I'm just rambling
stream of consciousness would look more like, squirrel this is
nuts how did McCormack write for 224 pages like this but
once again I stray from the review at hand
which is difficult because all I want to talk about in this review is style and the definition of stream of consciousness and pointing out that a string of words without end punctuation is merely a string of words, all this should indicate how significant style is to this work and it begs questions like
why did McCormack elect to use this style
I can only venture a guess that it's because our narrator is a spirit, a fact that I don't think was made clear enough in the opening pages and that this lack of proper grammatical sentences is a case of I-don't-give-a-fuck by our ghost friend which speaking of language
reminds me how lilting the language is throughout this story, it's poetic haunting and crass, initially it's a little hard to get into the style and
I'll be honest here, I'm probably not doing it justice, but once you get used to the voice, it sort of flows easily but take too long of a break, a day or two spent in another book and
the rhythm is thrown completely off, you have to get back into the book relearn the rhythm that is the voice of Marcus Conway, spirit
if you actually read all of this review, I wish I could buy you a cup of coffee but digital coffee sucks and I'm poor, but I hope you enjoyed it and if you didn't because you found the style irritating then you may not like this book because it is written in a similar manner though it truly does grow on the reader after ten pages or so but
if for some reason it doesn't Solar Bones may drive you
may drive you
may drive you nuts

If you've read at least two Ishiguro novels, you probably have picked up on how similar they are in tone and theme, yet how different they are in regards to story. They're such quiet stories, yet there's something which lies beneath that keeps a reader not simply engaged, but excited. There are themes of acceptance, memory, and identity. And it all builds slowly until that moment when the hammer drops, shattering the reader's expectations.

Not surprising, The Buried Giant largely follows the same pattern. This time, Ishiguro takes a tour through the world of fantasy. He transports us back to 6th century Britain, in the years following King Arthur's larger-than-life reign. While the focus of the story rests on an old couple making the journey to visit their son, the novel doesn't forget the dragons, pixies, and sword fights of Arthurian lore. As anyone who has read Ishiguro might expect, the author does a masterful job of emulating the speech patterns and concerns of the era, without letting the story get bogged down by these details.

For me, the story lost its momentum about half way through. I was totally invested in the journey of Axl and Beatrice when that was the focus of the story. Despite the introduction of other characters, I still felt like the story was about them. Then there's a shift. The story is still about the couple, but it's no longer just their story. And with the change in focus comes a change in the content—this is no slow-moving period piece, it's a swashbuckling adventure. It's still distinctly Ishiguro, especially in the final pages, but it wasn't Ishiguro at his best. It's a very admirable effort and certainly worthy of praise, but the disconnect that happened left me unconcerned with the outcome of Axl and Beatrice. When the hammer finally hit, I wasn't in tears like I was at the end of Never Let Me Go, touched as I was by Remains of the Day, or even left wondering what the hell had just happened, wanting to reread the entire novel as I did with A Pale View of Hills. A Buried Giant just left me empty. That emptiness was the single most surprising quality of this novel.

The one thing I have most appreciated about Hemon's writing is his uncanny ability to somehow twist English words and phrases into a way which shows he doesn't quite grasp English the way a native speak would, yet has a mastery of the language that far exceeds my own. For those who are not familiar with Hemon's story, let me quickly say that Hemon had only a basic understanding of English when war stranded him in the United States at the age of 27. Within eight years, Hemon had written his first book in English, The Question of Bruno, a collection of short stories. This collection shows a fluency that my own writing lacks. Hemon's writing is breathtaking.

Being a collection of Hemon's earliest writings in English, I expected The Question of Bruno to parade some of Hemon's most absurdly enjoyable turns of phrase. There is a cadence in what I've read of Hemon that is beautiful and unusual, a device that perhaps only a native-native speaker could use so effectively. Yet, I missed that in this collection. Perhaps I'm way too lazy or I've grown too familiar with Hemon's style of writing and didn't notice, or maybe early editors were quick to point out the “flaws” of Hemon's English (“You can't do that!”) Whatever the reason, The Question of Bruno didn't resonate the same way with me. That's not to say the collection isn't stellar and certainly well-written—it is—but it lacks a certain musicality that I greatly anticipated.

Of the Hemon I've read so far, I will say each book has it stellar moments and traits, but that none have quite come together for a book that knocks me off my feet. The thing is, however, I believe Hemon has the ability to do it. Either I have yet to read that book, or he hasn't written it quite yet. It's in there though. And one day, hopefully soon, Hemon's going to whip out an award winner that will catch the attention of the people.