Hazel Butler

Book Review: The Mystery of Mercy Close, by Marian Keyes

I am, without a doubt, what can only be described as a die hard Marian Keyes fan.

I have read all of her books multiple times. She is one of a very few authors seen to be in the ‘Chic Lit’ genre I can abide (Jane Green is the only other consistent one). As a result of this, I was more than a little astonished when The Mystery of Mercy Close received such mixed reviews upon release. It came out in hardback first, which meant I had to wait, as all my other Keyes books are in paperback and I cannot tolerate mismatched books. Consequently, by the time I read it myself I was a little apprehensive, horribly worried that one of my favourite authors was slipping.

I’m happy to say that my concerns were completely and utterly groundless. The Mystery of Mercy Close is now by far one of my favourite Keyes books to date, and believe me that takes some doing. It ranks up there with Anybody Out There, and Angels; it has supplanted Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married as my number three. The reason for this is very simple, and is of course the reason I love Keyes so very much: this book is so painfully real.

Following Helen Walsh, the youngest of the Walsh clan and the last daughter of Keyes’ enigmatic, signature family to be given a book of her own, the narrative folds Helen’s money worries, as she struggles as a Private Investigator in the midst of Ireland’s recession, with how she, her friends, and her family handle her bouts of depression, and of course, with the mystery of the eponymous Mercy Close, home of Wayne Diffney, missing member of the fictitious Irish Boy Band, Ladz. At first, you wonder how all this will possibly fit together, but it does, if not quite in the absolutely seamless style to which Keyes fans will be accustomed, certainly in a manner that far surpasses anything a lesser author could pull off, if trying to write this book.

There is the feeling that the two main aspects of the plot—Wayne Diffney’s disappearance and Helen’s depression—clash slightly, and never quite gel in one perfectly plotted book. The book, however, is the better for this fact. Anyone who has suffered depression, or anything similar, will know the devastating effect it has, not only on your life, but also on your capacity to think. Things that used to make sense no longer do. Pieces of your life don’t fit together anymore, and you find yourself wondering how you can possibly be the person everyone is saying you have been for the last lifetime. In this sense, the novel itself is depressed. It doesn’t quite understand how its separate parts are supposed to function as a united whole. That is not to say, in any way, that it isn’t a brilliantly written novel. It is. However, the pervading opinion in many reviews that this ‘isn’t her best’ appears to be based on the misapprehension that this oddity in style is not completely purposeful, and reflective of the deeper meaning of the book.

As always with Keyes, the plot revolves around characters who are drawn to perfection, the dialogue is both pithy and at times hilarious, and quirks that can only be described as Marianisms about; as with the dreaded ‘Feathery Strokers’ of Rachel’s Holiday, Helen has her own hilarious perspectives and idioms (the most wonderful of which is, without a doubt, the Shovel List). It’s a well paced read, and vanishes in no time, and while it has moments of extreme seriousness and others of total heartbreak, it is also – thanks to the enigma of Helen Walsh – hilariously funny. Genuinely, completely, laugh out loud, borderline-hysterics, funny.

If it has one fault, it is that the Mystery is not as mysterious as it seems. The whereabouts of Diffney is obvious within a few pages, however the nature of the book is such that you actually forget you thought of the answer, as soon as the notion forms; right up to the end, you’re vacillating between one of about four or five possibilities, and just as you think you’re certain you’re right, something else happens that swings you in another direction. So, while the ultimate solution is (in hindsight) very obvious, the journey to it is exceptionally enjoyable.

It’s no secret that Keyes herself suffered a horrendous bout of prolonged depression, between her last fictional release, The Brightest Star in the Sky, and Mercy Close. What is startling however, is reading interviews she has given, and then reading this novel, for you realise that she has literally poured her own experiences into it. She has not simply drawn on the feelings she had, she has recounted life events on the page. Hideous, traumatic, and very personal life events.

Keyes’ desire to share her experiences is heroic. There are parts that can’t have been easy to write, and for many it won’t be easy to read, and this, surely, is another reason for the mixed reviews Mercy Close received. The majority of this book is not ‘feel good’, unlike Keyes’ other offerings which, while always having serious elements, are enjoyable to read the majority of the time. This book, however, is not meant to make people feel good. It is meant to raise awareness, and give people a real, genuine look inside the mind of a person who, for a while, isn’t quite thinking like themselves, or anyone else for that matter. Uncomfortable, perhaps, but necessary, if only so that those who have never experienced depression come to understand that ‘everyone feels down sometimes’ is a perfectly legitimate statement, but has nothing whatsoever to do with depression.

Book Review: The Year of the Food, by Margaret Atwood

You would think that having written so many post-apocalyptic novels over the years, Margaret Atwood’s offerings would have become stale, dull, or at the very least a little repetitive.

Not so.

At once a complex and simple tale of survival at the end of the world, her latest novel is The Year of the Flood, the sequel to the stunning Oryx and Crake.

Ren is an upmarket sex worker, trapped in her place of work.

Toby is a tired member of The Gardeners, a odd, underground, eco-warrior movement which predicted the man-made plague that has all but eradicated human life on the planet.

With peculiar animals created from gene-splicing and human meddling running amok, a growing concern over food, and the ever present question in each woman’s mind of whether they are, in fact, the only human alive on the planet, both tell their own tale of how they came to be where they were when the ‘waterless flood’ hit.

This is not a novel for easy reading, when you can’t really be bothered to pay too much attention to what is going on, and you don’t mind so much if there isn’t much of a plot, as long as it’s a fun read. This is the sort of novel you pick up and literally can’t put down until you know what happens. Atwood, as always, delivers perfect prose and gritty, yet sympathetic characters, who show us all too clearly how easy it would be to end up in a similar situation. From the Ren’s childhood memories of her best friend Amanda, to her more recent musings of life as a dancer in the fully-condoned sex trade, we see a vulnerable and somewhat tragic character, whose only real ambition in life has been to have a place where she belonged. Toby, on the other hand, has a hardness about her, a stubbornness, which allows her to survive as she has, and yet she also possesses – as we see from her earlier life – a similar vulnerability to Ren, and an unfulfilled craving for love.

These are two wonderfully drawn women, in a bizarre world that is falling apart, where morals and standards were turned upside down long before the plague wiped out most of the human population, and the survivors scrabbling for avoid death. As always with Atwood, it is difficult to read this and come away from it having simply read a good novel. Rather, you come away pondering, and continue to do so for some time to come, finding events from the book popping back into your head at strange times, and leaving you considering things you otherwise might never have thought to mull over.

Undoubtedly another splendid achievement for Atwood, leaving us in eager anticipation of MaddAddam’s release in August of this year, The Year of the Flood is a quirky and unique take on the possible fate of man, and the dangers of interfering with nature.

Book Review: Daughter of Smoke and Bone, by Laini Taylor

Like so many books published of late, Daughter of Smoke and Bone had what promised to be a wonderful premise. Pseudo-angels vs. pseudo-demons, with portals into the human world from the mysterious realm of Brimstone, the ‘Wishmonger’. A funky female protagonist, Karou, and all set in the beautiful city of Prague. Throw in a little forbidden romance and the stage is set. Karou is instantly a character with whom you wish to spend more time, if only to find out how such a peculiar human being came into existence. Karou herself has questions, not only about her life, but also about her inexplicable job as a globe-trotting trader in teeth.

Billed as Northern Lights meets Pan’s Labyrinth, this novel should be utterly spectacular.

Alas, while it started well, with complex and unique characters, and a relatively lively pace, it was soon plagued by the pit falls that have become many a book since the runaway popularity of the Twilight Saga. Clichés overtook the elements that were at first so absorbing, and it took the form of a story you have now read so many times, which you can put the book down as soon as it begins to unfold, for you already know exactly how it will play out, and exactly how it will end.

While the romantic aspect is present from the start, it is initially interspersed with an intriguing set of circumstances the reader is drawn into, and a puzzle you cannot help but need to solve. The writing is solid, not spectacular literature, but certainly far better than a lot of Young Adult material, with some beautiful descriptions and a smattering of amusing dialogue. Then there comes a point where the plot takes, what can only be described as, the Twilight Twist. The entire novel becomes about the romance, and as a consequence drops the aspects of the plot which were actually unique and interesting. Major events are somehow left unresolved as a brand new and totally unoriginal subplot pops up out of nowhere, overtaking the whole novel. You are left with the impression that the printers made an error, and stuck the first part of a promising novel to the second half of something very dull.

You feel cheated.

Another let down of the novel is its setting, for while there are some stunning descriptions of Prague, you get no sense at all of Czech culture; it’s an American novel on holiday. In addition there are several scenes – some of them quite lengthily – which have no real function, other than playing out what is obviously something the author thought was a fun idea. While there is no disputing that some of these scenes are, indeed, quite fun, others are simply girlish fantasies, the rest just plain dull.

The saving grace of Daughter of Smoke and Bone is, as with Twilight, as with Fifty Shades of Grey, that it is – at least for some people – wonderful escapology. For the actual Young Adult audience, there’s no doubt it’s a magnificent read, a fact attested by the popularity of the novel. For the older audience who still like to indulge their inner teen once in a while, the same can probably be said. For the rest of us though, who like a little more substance to the books we read, even when reading for an escape, it falls short. Worse still, one can only infer from the direction the novel takes that the best has already occurred, and the sequel will bring nothing but further disappointment.

Book Review: Sea Of Glass

Barry Longyear’s Sea of Glass is one of those rare gems that you tear through, then habitually re-read, until the spine is more creases than cover and you know it inside out. Despite this, you are still unable to quantify precisely why you love it so much.

Published in 1987, and set in a dystopian future that is now the present day, the subjects of overpopulation and the consumption of natural resources are now old and familiar. Despite the age of the book and its themes, the narrative is as fresh today as it was in its infancy. Told from the perspective of Thomas Windom, first as a seven year old, then as an extremely troubled teen, the novel offers a peculiar perspective on the inner workings of a body and mind subjected to far too much, for too young.

On his seventh birthday, Thomas opens the window in his stuffy attic room and, for the first time in his life, sees Sky – a concept he had previously struggled to grasp, yet knew existed. Spotted by a neighbour, and reported to the dreaded ‘men in black’, Thomas is taken to an orphanage for illegal children while his parents are executed. As a ‘redbird’ at the orphanage, Thomas is immediately flung into a world of violence, oddly mixed with the sexual tensions surrounding any group of pre-teens and adolescents living in very close quarters. In his struggles against the ‘blackshit’, Thomas comes to learn more about the world and understand that, due to massive overpopulation, the planet’s inhabitants have essentially split into two, one half dedicated to preventing the destruction of mankind, by strictly limiting population growth, the other allowing nature to take its course. Running in the background is the ominous presence of MAC III, a supercomputer which, by a series of complicated projections and predictions regarding future events, influences the course of developments in an attempt to postpone the inevitable War between the two factions, which MAC III is certain will occur, when the opposing side run out of resources.

Longyear, however, has taken what could have been a simple, albeit engaging plot, and given it endless depth through considerations of psychology, morality, religion, determinism, and fate. Add to this truncated prose that mirror very well the workings of a fractured mind and he has created a narrative that is as timeless as the question at the heart of the novel itself: why?

Book Review: Sharp Objects, by Gillian Flynn

Due to the recent success of Flynn’s Gone Girl, many people are now coming to her earlier offerings – Sharp Objects, and Dark Places – having already read her runaway bestseller. As a result, this book is underrated by many, as they inevitably compare it to Gone Girl and find it lacking. To some extent, this is understandable, as there is no doubt that Flynn’s writing ability has naturally progressed since she wrote her first novel, and while Sharp Objects has an outstanding emotional plot of its own, the mystery is not on par with the brilliance of Gone Girl.

It is much like reading Her Fearful Symmetry after having fallen in love with The Time Traveller’s Wife; the style is there, but the plot is lacking that ineffable quality that made Niffenegger’s debut so utterly delectable.

Unlike Her Fearful Symmetry, which genuinely is a literary travesty when compared to its predecessor, Sharp Objects holds its own and should be afforded the credit it deserves. It does not have a plot line as riveting and unpredictable as Gone Girl, yet it is not the plot for which the book should be praised, but the characters who populate a small town in Missouri named Wind Gap. The are all utterly, and without exception, the one thing that fiction writers tend to shy away from as much as possible:

Ugly.

Yet they are not ugly in a physical sense, but in a psychological sense, and ugly to such an alarming degree that there is not a single redeeming feature, in any anyone from this town. It is a town of hostile, judgemental, hypocritical, shallow mind people.

It is to this town that Camille Parker, the novel’s narrator, must return, and in Camille herself, we find the ugliest character of all. Her damage however is not entirely her own doing, but a result of circumstance, as we begin to discover as she returns to her family home. With an adored sister who died when Camille was 13, an incomprehensibly abominable mother, a step-father who never acknowledges her, and a disturbing half-sister she does not know, it is no wonder Camille is reticent about her return. Her editor however insists upon it, and so she finds herself reporting on what he believes to be the beginnings of a serial killing spree, and the killer is targeting children.

This book is not an easy read. The prose is well written, although not quite yet developed to Flynn’s later flawless standard, and the pace is good, but the subject matter quite simply makes you squirm. That is, however, the intention. This book was not written to be enjoyed. It is about some deeply serious psychology, and the ways in which mental illness affects not only the people who suffer from a condition, but those around them. Camille, we discover early on, is a cutter (hence the title). Yet Flynn is not simply portraying this aspect of her character as it has so often been seen in the past – an almost childish cry for attention, or a result of extreme depression – she has truly explored the root causes of Camille’s condition and fully demonstrated just how destructive it is to every aspect of her life. Further, Camille not only cuts, but cuts words. She has literally covered almost every inch of herself with words gouged into her own flesh, by her own hand. This happens in people who suffer from psychotic decomposition, and have a level of intelligence that focuses their attention and energy on words and writing as a means of coping.

Flynn has certainly taken this condition, as well as aspects of the crimes Camille is investigating, to the absolute extremes. At times this makes the plot somewhat less than plausible, however she has done so for a reason. The violence is not gratuitous; the abhorrent behaviour of most of the characters is not there for ‘shock value’, or even for the sake of entertainment. Even Camille is purposefully described in the ugliest way possible, but again this is not done as a deliberate attempt to make the reader dislike her.

This is a book about damage. The damage mental illness does to a person, the damage the mentally ill can do to those around them if their conditions go untreated and they go without help, and the damage that normal, everyday people do to each other in the course of living their normal, everyday lives. This is the sort of book that shows you a few unpleasant home truths, as you see yourself reflected in the occasional action and realise how it looks to other people. This is the sort of story that lets you inside the head of a person who, due their outer ‘ugliness’ you would likely never befriend, would perhaps even defriend, but once you catch a glimpse of the reasons for Camille’s ugliness, you no longer see them as ugly, but simply different. You empathise. You want other characters to empathise too and like her, help her.

Camille’s childhood shaped her whole life: her personality, her flaws, her damage, can all be traced back to events she had no control over, and actions that were not her own. She is a product of damaged people, and as such cannot be blamed for her damage. To some extent, you even grow to forgive her for actions that would otherwise be incomprehensible. She is not without fault, but she is suddenly understandable.

She is also tragic, and by the end you are rooting for her in a way you wouldn’t have thought possible. You end up outraged on her behalf at what people have done, and continue to do to her, and ultimately at the fact that the one character you thought all along was one of the good ones, turns away from her when they see the ugliness she tries so hard to hide. You come away indignant that they couldn’t see past her physical flaws, empathise with her experiences, understand her as you have come to understand her, and find a way to help her. To love her.

The plot may not be scintillating, in places it is downright predictable, the prose might not be perfect, the characters may be inordinately unpleasant, and the topic may be brutal, but the story is brave. It is a subject that many skirt and most will baulk at; Flynn however has explored it to its outer reaches and reveals not only the ugly truth of it, but also the depth to which most people remain ignorant of that truth.

Book Review: Her Fearful Symmetry, by Audrey Niffenegger

Few novels have proven to be as disappointing as this one.

The Time Traveller’s Wife was a wonderful read; not perfect, but still very enjoyable, beautifully written, and with a very unique premise. Her Fearful Symmetry held the expectation of more. The title alone is evocative. William Blake wrote The Tyger about light, and dark, and how one cannot be without the other: good cannot exist without evil. The ‘fearful symmetry’ is a reference to this, while the central characters of the novel – Julia and Valentina – are ‘mirror twins’. Add to this the setting in the shadow of High Gate Cemetery and the possibilities were astonishing. The woman who wrote The Time Traveller’s Wife must surely do wonders with this concept.

Or not.

Billed as ‘a delicious and deadly ghost story about love, loss and identity’, Her Fearful Symmetry fails on every single count bar one – it involves a ghost. The central ‘romance’ in the novel is between Robert and Elspeth, who dies in the first line of the book, and it is her ghost who provides the majority of the rather ill-conceived plot. Robert grieves, as anyone would, however his grief is hindered by the revelation that Elspeth’s ghost is still present. He then forms a tentative relationship with one of the twins – Valentina, or ‘Mouse’ as her sister Julia calls her – although this is more due to her resemblance to Elspeth than anything else.

There is little true love in this book. The most resounding ‘love story’ in fact revolves around two minor characters living in the house next to the cemetery. Martin and Marijke are hopelessly in love, however Martin has some serious mental health issues, which have proven impossible for Marijke to live with any longer. She leaves him, not because she no longer loves him, but because she loves him enough to understand her absence is the only thing which might convince him to help himself, and get better. She issues an ultimatum: she will take him back, if he is able to leave the house, and follow her to Amsterdam. This element of the plot is genuinely interesting, and when Julia becomes friends with Martin, takes on an entirely different aspect which could have been truly spectacular. It is actually Julia’s attempts to help Martin, and her love for Valentina, which are the most touching elements of the story, while Julia’s pain over events ultimately prove to be the truest emotions in the whole novel.

The notion of identity is never explored in any depth. There is a poorly constructed plot line concerning Julia and Valentina, in which Julia is supposedly the dominant and bossy twin, and Valentina follows her lead, does as she’s told, and fiercely resents Julia for it. The old adage of ‘show don’t tell’ applies here, for while we are told a few times that Valentina feels smothered by her sister and desperate to get away from her, we never truly feel that is the case. While we can sympathise with the ‘Mouse’, she has ample opportunity to assert her independence and never takes advantage. Her attempts to display her own identity, and fight Julia, are limited and badly written, the result of which being that later plot developments, which hinge on Valentina’s supposed desire for independence, simply do not work; the reader never feels Valentina’s desperation, and so her extreme actions are unbelievable, since they lack motivation.

The other aspect to the plot concerning identity is the fully predictable, badly plotted, and confusingly explained history between Elspeth and her own twin sister, Edwina, mother of Julia and Valentina. The intention here is clear: Elspeth and Edwina, themselves twins, had their own issues when it came to finding their identities. This is then ‘mirrored’ in the ‘mirror twins’, who are supposed to be struggling with identity issues of their own . Again, had it been handled correctly and well written, it could have been an excellent subplot. As it stands, the explanation of it is so convoluted – despite what happened being obvious from the first chapter – that it borders on ridiculous. There is no logic behind the actions of any of the characters involved. They behave irrationally, believing the unbelievable, accepting the unacceptable, and spending lifetimes doing things without motivation. It is a poorly designed plot mechanism intended to draw the reader through the first three quarters of a very uneventful novel with the promise of a ‘big secret’ which, as it turn out, is neither big nor in any way a secret, either to the characters involved or the reader.

Elspeth’s ghost is another wasted element, doing nothing of interest until the very end of the book. In fact, everything of interest happens at the very end of the book, yet the ending is not only rushed, but redundant.

This novel has often been described as ‘Gothic’, yet there is nothing Gothic about it until one scene at the very end which is truly macabre; had the rest of the narrative had this feel to it, the novel would have been spectacular. There are a few random references thrown in as an attempt to create a ‘Gothic’ feel: the twins discuss Steampunk in two lines of dialogue, overheard by another character who doesn’t understand what they’re talking about; Valentina tries and fails to make a black velvet ‘Goth’ dress for herself; and one of the twins remark that Robert would be a ‘Goth’ if he were a teenager.

This does not a Gothic novel make.

There are only three truly Gothic aspects of this novel and all are totally wasted. The ghostly elements could have been turned into so much more. There is a beautiful scene early on, of children playing in the graveyard, and it is obvious even at that point that these children are ghosts. Yet they are not mentioned again until the very end. While Niffeneger clearly did her research on Highgate Cemetery, it is delivered in sections that feel more like lectures than quality fiction. The setting should have created an atmosphere, a feel of the dark, ghostly and ethereal elements the author clearly wanted to portray, yet it does not. It is clinical. Further to this, the Gothic genre is not just about cemeteries and ghosts; it’s about horror, and human nature, the gender roles that underpin society, and the evils that men (and women) do. Only one aspect of the whole novel achieves this, and it is dropped into the plot near the end, executed swiftly, and then rushed so much you could literally miss it.

The ‘twist’ at the end is poorly executed, unfounded, and ultimately unbelievable. Ironically it is not the fantastic elements of the plot that make it unconvincing, but the fact that the previous actions and responses of the characters do not substantiate such a turn of events; you simply cannot believe any of those involved in the final sequence would act the way they do. This undermines the entire novel, leaving you feeling cheated – the wonderful potential implied by the title and premise have been wasted. Had the dynamic between Julia and Valentina been fully realised, the plot unfolded from the very beginning instead of crammed into the end, and the dark aspects of the plot fully drawn, it could have worked. The truly interesting plot elements are rushed through in the last couple of (very short) chapters, while the majority of the book is filled with endless descriptions, almost none of which are relevant to the plot.

The one redeeming feature of the entire novel is that it is written by Niffenegger. That really is the extent of the praise that can be offered. Niffenegger has a way with descriptive prose which is truly unique and a pleasure to read. That is not nearly enough, however, to compensate for the absurdity of the plot developments and flaws in characterisation. Overall, the book reads like a first draft; raw, undeveloped, full of mistakes and plot holes. Had this book been honed, and truly explored to the extent of its potential, with the first half of it cut down to the barest minimum and the last quarter expanded extensively, it might have been good.

Never has a published book more thoroughly demonstrated the benefit of drafting and redrafting a novel, no matter how painful the process might be; never has a book been more in need of a good editor.