We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
When I was a sophomore in high school in 1993, I wrote a big preposterous novel that culminated in a school shooting. I’d read The Basketball Diaries, seen Pearl Jam’s (apparently misunderstood) video for “Jeremy,” and read King’s short novel Rage, so it really didn’t seem anything special to me to write something like that. It was angst-ridden wish-fulfillment of the most obvious kind, sick with its own melodramatic self-righteous anger and autobiographical details. By the time I finished it, I hated the main character only slightly more than I hated myself. I vowed to grow up, and when I wrote my next novel I made it about a girl so it would have less of a chance to be about me.
Then came all the real-life school shootings, and I started to feel even worse–superstitiously complicit, or at least guilty of some kind of thought crime. Watching the CNN coverage of Columbine made me sick to my stomach, and part of the reason I felt so horrible was because of the manic glee I’d had writing some of the worst scenes in that idiotic novel.
So when I heard someone had written a well-reviewed book about a high school massacre, I recoiled. There was simply no way anyone could get it right, and, besides, that was my book. If anyone was going to write it, it should’ve been me.
Well, after reading Lionel Shriver’s book, all I can think to say is: I was so wrong. I knew nothing about this subject, and I’ve just been schooled by a master. I’m so grateful someone better than me took this subject on. Shriver gets everything right in this book, and keeping the novel in the point of view of the mother of a teenager who goes on a killing spree in his high school is a masterstroke.
The plot centers around the efforts of Eva Katchadourian, mother of Kevin Katchadourian, nicknamed KK by the press (which recalls both the initials of Kipland Kinkel as well as, yes, disturbingly, my own), who is in jail after murdering nine people, to put together what it all means and why it happened and come to terms with her culpability as the parent of a murderer.
The triumph of this novel is its ability to put you in the mind of a woman tortured and psychologically abused by her own progeny. Reading this as I did after The Psychopath Test, I found myself often making mental checkmarks as Kevin displayed classic sociopathic tendencies. But even so, this is not a book interested in labels or easy answers so much as it’s a book about the mysteries of character, even Eva’s own. Was she abused by her son, or did she abuse her son? There is no objective answer. There was certainly a war between mother and son, but at the same time it could also seem like an agonized love affair. It’s all so disturbing and uncomfortable and compellingly readable.
Not to mention Shriver’s wonderful prose style, which is literate and still easy to read. It’s great writing that doesn’t attract attention to itself, which is really tough to do.
One thing I still don’t like is the title, which is just a little too “the more you KNOW” and after-school-special-ish for me. But so it goes.
This is one of the best horror novels about being a parent that’s ever been written.
Originally written for a contest on Janet Reid’s blog. Requirements were the five words above (allegiance, risk, choice, sequel, and destroy) and that it be 100-words-or-less. I lost. Winners and finalists here. My entry below (guessing that clunky second sentence knocked me out of contention, but I still contend it’s grammatically accurate).
* * *
She smelled like peppermint, like things sticky-wet, when we went to the room. Our shared allegiance to risk a dangerous choice led us to the door. Craving a fresh sequel to destroy our stale marriages, we moved with naïve excitement toward a second act we hoped would be better than the first.
We were drunk.
In front of the bed, she crossed her arms. Her dress dropped. I wanted to hit pause, spare us the disappointment of subsequent frames, the dimming of the flare of blinding promise.
But we fell predictably together and, later, slept unspooled in the usual gloom.
Nohow On: Company / Ill Seen Ill Said / Worstward Ho by Samuel Beckett
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Read? Somehow read. Seen? Say seen. Somehow seen. Say book. Say book where no book. Say hands. Say hands where no hands. Say hands where no hands hold book. Say book in hands. Say words in book. Say stare. Say stare. Say stare on. Be stared on. Say stars. Words. Stare at words. See words? Say see words. Say ill seen words with stare. Say stare on. Say stare on until no stare on. Ill stare on. Understand? Say understand. No. Not understand. The book? The stare? The hands? Say one. Now two. All three. Or none. Say three. Three stars. Until no stars. Said three stars until no stars. Best worse no better. Somehow none. Somehow all. Somehow three. Either or none. Does it matter? Say so. Be said so. Read on. Until no read on. Until no book in hands.
Dear all you insane children,
I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot (itself sort of funny; since I only have one, you might think that would make getting off on the wrong one more or less impossible–but these are just metaphors). Anyway, I can’t say it thrilled me when your parents died and left you in my care. Living paycheck to paycheck as I am, buying five used twin beds really tapped me out. I had to borrow against my wages for your morning gruel, nasty as it is, so please stop throwing it at the wall with such disgust. Sorry you find it difficult adjusting to my drafty shack and the nocturnal fumes rising off the bog. I’m sure we’d all rather be living in your parents’ mansion, but that’s been sold, the proceeds locked in a trust until you come of age, in order to safeguard a brighter future for yourselves.
Mind you, my future will likely be just as grim as my present and my past. I’m sure it’s no shock to you that my life was a sad story before I inherited five fussy children. Time was, I was one of the best wide receivers in the university. Had a beautiful girlfriend, too–a cheerleader! Then I shocked everyone, developed a rare form of diabetes that resulted in my having to have my leg amputated. So I lost a leg, a girlfriend, and a sweet future. Took a job as a custodian at the college where I used to be a star, started drinking a lot and avoiding everyone I used to know. Developed a staph infection, and bam! Get this hideous wart on my face! Life’s just awesome. I’m lucky I’m not a hunchback.
But, horrible as my life was, at least I didn’t have to worry about someone putting gasoline in my liquor bottles, or stirring laxatives and pureed ghost peppers into my milk. That I’ve sobered up lately is a good thing; that I’m about to get fired from my job because of all the stomach problems I’ve had is a bit less stellar.
But lately, my dear children, you’ve really taken it up a notch. I don’t know who gave you those asps you put in my bed, or how you managed to find the time to build that contraption of spikes that almost impaled me when I ran out to put out the fire you set in the garden, but you must know that the emergency room bill for the snake bites means it’s going to get even leaner around here. Plus, those tomatoes were really coming in nice. Thanks for ruining those, too.
It really is a shame. I like you all–even Janet, who seems to be quite a talented artist. I really enjoyed her painting of the castle before she set off the explosives hidden behind the canvas and blew half my face and all my hair off. It was truly the last great thing I saw with both my eyes, even if it did cost me one of them (just dumb luck the flames managed to miss the wart on my nose). Regardless, I hope she keeps going with her art.
As for the twins, Hector and Helen–you’re always good with a joke, even if it is at my expense. Such biting wit! I’m sure these mental wounds will heal in time, but a sense of humor is forever.
Little Susan, I wish you’d talk more. Sometimes in your sullen glower, I see a hint of understanding. Out of all your siblings, you seem the wisest.
And Jack, the oldest and fiercest–you are arrogant, to be sure, but that kind of confidence will take you places, even if all you choose to do with it is wield dangerous weapons. Take it from a former athlete, you’re a natural. The way you swung that mace at me yesterday made me reflect on what a great baseball player you’ll make someday.
Just, please, stop trying to kill me. I hope this letter helps you understand: I want the best for you. I hope — oh damn, here Jack comes with a shotgun pointed at me. This looks grim. Might be time to put down the pen.
If you should find this note soaked in blood under my body, just know — I tried, but maybe you really will be better in an orphanage.
Your uncle,
Ernie
The Children of Hurin by J.R.R. Tolkien
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Hurin, a typical Tolkien hero who is a renowned warrior and a good friend of Elves, is captured and cursed by his nemesis Morgoth (proto-Sauron, for those familiar with Lord of the Rings), imprisoned in a chair on a mountain where he’s forced to watch tragedies befall the family he left behind when he went to war. Namely, those tragedies happen around his son Turin, who is a great warrior who means well yet cannot escape the grim curse he lives under. Everything Turin does pretty much ends badly for all involved.
It’s a reeeeeeal downbound train, this one. It starts ominously, gets bad, and then gets worse. This is not the happy-go-lucky romp through the forest of The Hobbit, although there is a dragon! (And a good one, too.)
Christopher Tolkien did a great job putting together this novel, which he fashioned from assorted fragments let by his father. After a clunky opening dumps a dizzying number of names on the reader, the story settles down and becomes quite readable and engaging. The thematic repetition of the attempt to jump across a chasm was a very nice touch. And, as always, the detail of the world is delightful. Turin is a nicely complicated character.
Overall, it feels a bit like a bridge between the more optimistic worldview of The Lord of the Rings and the more nihilistic of George R. R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire series.
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Last Days of the Dog-Men: Stories by Brad Watson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Eight great short stories about people, dogs, life, light, and darkness. Watson can write the hell out of a sentence while telling some of the most surprising stories you’re likely to find. These are rough Southern pieces, steeped in an unflinching but fair view of humanity, recommended for serious readers who aren’t looking for sentimental Disney-ish stories about people and the pets they love. A few of these qualify in my opinion as flat-out horror stories. So … be warned. Marley and Me this is not.
Standouts in the collection for me are the title story, “Agnes of Bob,” and “Kindred Spirits,” but really they’re all terrific. I’m always inspired by Watson’s prose and gift for the unexpected.
Highly recommended for adventurous readers who don’t mind some harsh realism.
The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
This fast-paced Western tells the story of the two Sisters brothers, Eli and Charlie, who’ve been hired by the Commodore to go to California and kill a man for allegedly stealing something from the Commodore. What it’s really about is the relationship between the hard and bold Charlie, who accepts their mission out of idolatry of the Commodore, and the softer-hearted, obese Eli, who questions their mission and the value of doing work for the Commodore at all.
None of which accurately describes what I adored about this novel, which was a thoroughly enjoyable and entertaining trip. For me, it’s all about Eli’s obsessions, which include his brother, his broken-backed horse Tub, the newly-discovered art of brushing his teeth, and the women who are kind to him along the way. I found it impossible to not like and care about Eli, even if he was at times just as much a cold-hearted killer as his brother.
The final act of the novel is something perhaps I’ll like more as time goes by, but on first read it felt just a bit flat for me, and I thought the ending, while good, was slower than the rest of the book, which had until that point moved at a near-perfect pace. Still, deWitt’s genius is all in the details, from the horses to the beavers to the River of Light. There’s always something on the page worth reading, and surprises everywhere.
Funny, sad, thoughtful, and so incredibly easy to read — I really recommend this one.
I just hope when the inevitable film version comes out they cast Tucker & Dale instead of Seth Rogen and Jonah Hill.