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| The curse of the 'long-awaited' book Barbara Kingsolver's new novel, I'm sorry to report, confirms that extended fermentation does not guarantee a vintage readI've waited nine years for a new Barbara Kingsolver novel, and the setting for her latest couldn't have appealed to me more. The Lacuna shuttles between the 1930s Mexico of artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera and the United States just as McCarthyism takes hold. One of my favourite authors writing about one of my favourite historical characters, combined with Latin America and politics – I couldn't have been more excited. But it's always risky having high expectations before a book comes out, and The Lacuna didn't quite turn out as I'd dreamed it would. The subject is fine: a poetic reflection on identity, both individual and national, based around a protagonist who is something of a misfit in his fiery Mexican mother's homeland yet not fully accepted in his distant US father's country either. Caught between worlds, Harrison Shepherd is too pale for Mexico, too literate to be a servant, too foreign for the post-war United States when any sign of deviation from the norm is cause for suspicion. Kingsolver is a masterful blender of strong, likeable characters and independent political thinking. And her multi-talented main protagonist is plausible: a competent cook who can't stop writing, and echoes Kingsolver's own diverse skills, from biologist to novelist. But while Harrison Shepherd is sympathetic enough, he remains enigmatic, divided from us by his extreme discretion, as distant from us as he is from his own life. And although the novel is an epic story that spans decades and thousands of miles, somehow it's not quite as wonderful as I'd hoped. It's enjoyable, original, and resonates with today's obsessions of celebrity, terrorism and citizenship, but it's just not as awe-inspiring as The Poisonwood Bible. Are long-anticipated follow-ups bound to disappoint? Donna Tartt's The Little Friend, published in 2002 a decade after The Secret History, is good – but not that good. Likewise, Anne Michaels's The Winter Vault received only mixed reviews when it came out in May 2009: some loved its melancholy poetry, but for most it couldn't live up to the spectacular pleasure of Fugitive Pieces 12 years earlier, which I sent to everyone I knew. And look at Henry Roth: Mercy of a Rude Stream was published in several volumes a full 60 years after his 1934 immigrant classic Call It Sleep, but the consensus is that it didn't really justify the wait.It's not inevitable, of course, that novelists will slide downhill during long pauses. Marilynne Robinson's Gilead, for example, is magnificent. Published more than 20 years on from Housekeeping, it's an intense joy. But Robinson does seem to be the exception. It's far easier to think of authors who've failed to meet the expectations that pile up during their years alone with the typewriter. New Zealand's Booker Prize-winning pride, Keri Hulme, hasn't yet come out with a full novel since The Bone People (1985), although Bait is promised for 2015 and apparently will one day have a twin called On the Shadow Side. Kingsolver doesn't appear to suffer from writer's block and she certainly hasn't been twiddling her thumbs. Her understanding of Mexico and Spanish in The Lacuna are exemplary, and she must have researched deeply into the lives of Kahlo, Rivera, and Leon "Lev" Trotsky during the time he was one of Kahlo's lovers. She doesn't distort them into flawless heroes. They're iconic figures, but portrayed warts and all: love affairs and self-obsession and revolutionary contradictions on all sides. Perhaps the simple truth of the matter is that, over time, the quality of an author's work is bound to fluctuate. Even writers as prolific as Charles Dickens and Gabriel GarcÃa Márquez produced some books that are a lot better than others. Kingsolver's early novels, The Bean Trees and Pigs in Heaven, are brilliant, but Animal Dreams, in between, was nothing special. The Poisonwood Bible (1998) was a real literary masterpiece, whereas Prodigal Summer, two years later, didn't make much of a mark. Just because The Lacuna isn't as wonderful as The Poisonwood Bible doesn't mean Kingsolver's past her prime. Truly major authors – who tend to be the ones who reach the furthest – will inevitably miss the mark sometimes. The Lacuna, like The Poisonwood Bible, is far more ambitious than an audience-pleasing tale about a tough, quirky heroine finding love, which Kingsolver could probably have woven in a year or two. It's braver to tackle important subjects and try stretching our minds. Great writers can afford to disappoint occasionally, because it's worth waiting for their best works. Barbara Kingsolver remains one of my favourite novelists, and I'm still looking forward to the next one. I just can't help hoping it won't take 10 years.Barbara KingsolverFictionguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
Paperback Trade Fiction Top 5 at a Glance1. PUSH, by Sapphire2. BED OF ROSES, by Nora Roberts3. THE SHACK, by William P. Young4. THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO, by Stieg Larsson5. OLIVE KITTERIDGE, by Elizabeth Strout feeds.nytimes.com |
Books of The Times: Still Settling the Score, Even Beyond the Grave Dominick Dunne, who died on Aug. 26, left behind one last, stinging roman à clef. And he most assuredly used it to settle scores. feeds.nytimes.com |
Snow by Keith Chandler I used to love it. Magic! A blank chequefor anarchy: world turned upside downand inside out; the shadowy made white.No school. Barriers thrown up, traffic banned,the town draped over by surrender's flag.Eye-bath for looking: how a snowball fightmakes fun of Goya - facing arms outa fusillade but with the opposite of frightof new-laid gesso. Or a Bonnard perhapsof colours never seen - chins putty pinkin the underlight; tree bark mauve-greentextured like feathers; branches new-limnedto double thickness. An untravelled sitefor birds to hop their convict hieroglyphs.Hedges are lines of bristle - just the tops.The everyday lit up, made hold-it strangeby the sun's magnesium. Manmade white -death-offering urns, angels carrara bright -now more like cream; washing left out,a fleet of sheets, like dirty underdross.Dream of quietness. Rush hour turned off,sharp shouts are baffled to diminished fifths.All sadness cancelled by this sudden meltin the mouth deliciousness, this faery crust.Eye-opener; fresh page; the negative of night...But now I've lost it. Old at heartI blindman forth. And curse the stuff.Copies of Keith Chandler's latest collection, The English Civil War Part 2, are available from publisher@peterloopoets.com. keithchandler.netOriginal writingPoetryguardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2010 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds feeds.guardian.co.uk |
Spenser crime series writer Robert B. Parker dies Robert B. Parker, the blunt and beloved crime novelist who helped revive the hard-boiled genre through his Spenser private eye series has died at age 77. cbc.ca |