Overview:

Like other works by Cormac McCarthy, The Road is described in rich detail, though in a largely journalistic fashion—without any real hint of emotional investment on the part of the narrator. McCarthy almost seems to go out of his way to ensure that the narrator does not become a character in the story, remaining nothing more than a reporter limited in scope to their omniscience. It is the stark and detached narrative voice that highlights the desolation of McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic landscape in The Road.  

Thoughts:

I have always felt that I want to like McCarthy’s work more than I actually do. This isn’t to say that I did not enjoy this book or have not enjoyed other books he has penned. It is only to say that the narrative voice, discussed in the Overview section above, sometimes leaves the reader feeling equally detached. Empathy for the characters can become as hard for the reader to attain as it is for those left to wander blindly in the barren world of McCarthy’s creation. In the case of The Road, though, McCarthy hasn’t built his world in such a bleak manner without purpose. If the reader is willing to put in the work, to take on the same burden of despair as the characters in the story, there is a payoff—and a surprisingly emotional one at that. This Pulitzer Prize winning novel is not a difficult read because of its language. It doesn’t present hard-edged or abstract questions. But it is a demanding read, for what it does is ask the reader to experience the emptiness of a world gone over and to find humanity where it is all but forgotten.

Overview:

Joe Hill makes the fantastic seem all too plausible with his longest novel to date. His attention to detail gives the story a developed, lifelike texture that aids in the monumental task of giving imagination life. But stories are not written in a vacuum. Not a single story has been put to paper without its fair share of influence, and Hill is no exception. He owns this, wears his influences like a badge of pride. He calls them out, by name, before the story gets underway. The page immediately following the dedication is reserved for naming the muses to whom he owes a debt of gratitude and citing their specific contributions not only to his complete body of work but to this book in particular. Notable among those recognized is his father—pop-fiction monolith, Stephen King. Hill confesses that his father is the author “ . . . from whom I stole the rest.” It is impossible for any who are familiar with King’s work to not notice his fingerprints on Hill’s story. The premise itself aligns with King’s longest single work, The Stand: creating a post-apocalyptic setting in the wake of a highly fatal contagion. One scene, and a particular line of dialogue, is lifted directly from this novel. Beyond The Stand, readers will see other parallels to King (the pyrokinetic abilities of some of the characters cannot be read without recalling King’s 1980 novel, Firestarter). There are other more subtle nods to his father’s work throughout the book. There are even some that the reader may start to see, parallels they may begin to draw, that turn out to be red-herrings created not by Hill but the associations of the readers’ own minds.

Thoughts:

On the whole, The Fireman is a well-crafted and enjoyable read. Its territory is familiar, but the novel’s well-trodden subject is not a hindrance. Instead it adds to the comfort, like slipping into a much loved and worn-to-tatters sweater. It also compounds the anticipation, as familiarity with this type of story and the behaviors of characters in such tales allows to the reader to see potential pitfalls that the characters, born to serve the authors intent, may not. There are a few places where a line of dialogue is jarring—usually because of a combination of the words themselves and the character uttering them—but there are bound to be such missteps when a book finds itself in the ballpark of 190,000 words. Given the overall competence of the writing and craftsmanship of the story, I think we can forgive such minor infractions.

Overview:

Something has happened—something significant, something world changing. Yet this something, this catalyst for Rumaan Alam’s Leave the World Behind, takes a backseat, is simply a plot device in a novel that really isn’t plot driven. This novel is not about the events that create the situation, or even the situation itself; this novel is about people. Plain and simple. It’s not about how people react to adversity and uncertainty, thought those are unavoidable components of the story. The novel is about how people work: their prejudices and preconceptions—not only with regard to others, or how the world should be, but also how they see themselves. At its core the novel is about people struggling with their inclinations—good and bad—while moving through a world that has changed, is changing, and processing their notions of self and the other. It is a story of the endless reckoning that takes place throughout lives, but it is not a journey. It is a snapshot of life in its ongoing complexity.

Thoughts:

Alam’s Leave the World Behind starts out innocuously enough. It feels, if anything, banal. A family leaves for a vacation: a chance to, as the title says, leave the world behind. The prose feels almost excessively heavy in its description at the onset. But, as the novel progresses, this depth of detail becomes the very locus of the character studies at the heart of the book. Alam’s insight into people’s inner-workings, without judgement or value assessment, provides a lens through which we cannot help but gauge ourselves.

Leave the World Behind has recently been adapted as a Netflix film starring Mahershala Ali, Julia Roberts, and Ethan Hawke. The film deviates somewhat from Alam’s story, leaning more heavily on the question of what exactly has happened, using devices better suited to film in an effort to create tensions that vary in ways from those in the book. Despite these changes, both the book and the film are worth the reader’s/viewer’s time, as the latter differs enough to stand apart from the former without being so far removed from the source material as to seem negligent.

Overview:

Kingsolver draws the reader into a part of America with which they may not be familiar, one they may have already—consciously or unconsciously—filed away under some broad, possibly unfair and unkind, stereotype. She makes this setting a character, well rounded and three dimensional, without the snide dismissal so often cast on the quieter corners of the country. She draws the reader into the heart of Appalachia: a real place, populated with real people and their all too real strife. Kingsolver does this without mercy, opting not to wade readers gently through the shallows but to drop them straight into the rip current, where they are left to struggle helplessly against its pull. Floundering amidst the crashing waves of poverty, neglect, and addiction, the reader follows Demon through each phase of his life, be it yet another setback or a momentary triumph, until the stakes feel as important to the reader as they are to the protagonist himself. Demon Copperhead  may be a work of fiction, but Kingsolver’s use of historical information—from the documented oppression and exploitation of coal workers to the  opioid crisis and its impact on rural areas like Demon’s beloved Lee County—paints a picture as honest and true as any plucked from real life.

Thoughts:

Having not previously read the Dickens story to which Kingsolver’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel aspires, I cannot speak in direct comparisons. I can, however, say that Demon Copperhead is deserving of the praise it has received and each and every one of the sixty-four weeks it has spent on the New York Times’s Bestseller List. It is an utterly human look at a life moving through utterly dehumanizing obstacles and emerging on the other side a product of these experiences—for better or worse.

Overview:

Stephen King’s approach to Holly is not unique. It is familiar. It does not waiver from that which he’s used in works such as the Bill Hodges trilogy (Mr. Mercedes, Finders Keepers, and End of Watch). In other words, his approach is the same as it has always been for works in which we find the character of Holly Gibney. As is the case with the Bill Hodges trilogy, there is a mystery to be solved for the characters in the book, but not for the reader. The reader is privy to everything, for the omniscient narrator holds nothing back. Able to see the story from the perspectives of both the protagonists and antagonists builds a different kind of tension. Rather than staying close to Holly, following along and waiting to find out the details as she does, the reader already knows the who, what, where, when, why, and how. The suspense, instead, builds from the question: Will Holly find out in time?

Thoughts:

King’s real talent has always existed in his ability to establish characters that are realistic in their complexity even in the most fantastical of situations, and with Holly, he is once again successful in this regard. For constant readers and established fans of Ms. Gibney, this book will not disappoint. The same awkward, quirky character first encountered in Mr. Mercedes lives within the pages, but she has grown and continues to grow with each new experience. Readers new to Holly Gibney, or King in general, will find endearing characters in both the titular protagonist and her supporting cast.

Overview:

Whereas most books like The Good Sister rely on misdirection and plot twists to draw the reader into the work, Hepworth defies this convention by allowing the reader to see where the story is going. Instead, she takes her time getting there, creating tension through the reader’s ability to see what is happening and their inability to do anything about it. The success of Hepworth’s approach hinges on her capacity to impart the nuance of neurodivergence and the complexity of mental illness while refraining from making caricatures of characters.

Thoughts:

In a time when twists and third act reveals have become an almost compulsory component of popular fiction, The Good Sister is a breath of fresh air. The book is not without its fair share of modern conventions, but it doesn’t waste energy purposely misleading the reader. Neither does it give the reader everything up front, though. It withholds just enough to keep the reader engaged but gives just enough to create a satisfying culmination of events and an acceptable conclusion to the anxiety and anticipation it has inspired.  

Overview:

Dennis Lehane’s 2003 novel Shutter Island goes beyond the idea of a mystery inside a mystery, choosing instead to delve into mysteries (plural) within the seemingly sedate locked-room curiosity at its core. Lehane does not stop there however. These mysteries contain misdirection cloaked in subplot and conspiracies that, in themselves, contain twists doused in uncertainty and speculation, until nothing is clear, particularly the nature of reality on either the grand or personal scale. Even at the very end, when everything has been revealed, there are questions that the reader may or may not choose to entertain. It all depends on the level of catharsis they demand of their fiction and the degree of closure they are willing to accept.

Thoughts:

Lehane’s Shutter Island is a well-crafted and enjoyable read, regardless of whether you approach it with blissful ignorance of its machinations or if you’ve “spoiled” the twists with Martin Scorsese’s faithful film adaptation. As is always the case, the book provides access to the inner-workings of characters that cannot be replicated on celluloid; it raises questions that don’t fully form on the silver screen. If you enjoy an engaging thriller, Shutter Island will not disappoint.

Overview:

This sequel to Stephen Graham Jones’ excellent My Heart is a Chainsaw, and middle book in his Indian Lake Trilogy,* continues the tradition Jones began long before he sat down to pen the first draft of Chainsaw a decade ago. With the now out of print Demon Theory, Jones not only started experimenting with form but also the meta-analysis of the “slasher” subgenre of horror, an undertaking that reaches near perfection with the first book in the Indian Lake Trilogy. Don’t Fear the Reaper picks up where Chainsaw left off, combining with its predecessor to present a sort of masterclass in slasher theory. Working from a comprehensive, but by no means complete, selection of films within the genre, Jones utilizes both character and plot, as well as epistolary interludes, to discuss and dissect tropes that have come to seem formulaic in the comfort of their convention. But he doesn’t stop there. Jones’ meta-awareness is compounded by his willingness to admit that what he is doing isn’t exactly new. Paying homage to a similar trend that began to take shape in the slasher films of the 1990s, he seeks to first establish the rules of the game and then subvert them in ways that are both novel and somehow familiar.

Thoughts:

Don’t Fear the Reaper is a fun read regardless of whether you are a die-hard genre fan, or if you are just dipping your toe in the water (I swear there is no one there, just below the surface, ready to grab you by the ankle and drag you down if you decide that one toe in Indian Lake isn’t quite enough). Jones provides enough twists and turns to make any familiar elements new, and he does so in a way that takes the genre beyond the well-worn cheap thrills of jump scares and gore, instead settling into a tale that is simultaneously cerebral and immensely entertaining.