King Rat: There will be no GIFs (well maybe just one)

For those of us who have not been prisoners of war, James Clavell does a pretty damn good job filling us in on what we've been missing. He drops us right in the middle of life at Changi, a Japanese prison camp in Singapore, where Clavell himself was a POW during World War II. Changi was home to 50,000 British, Australian, New Zealand, American, and Canadian prisoners.

"The men too were criminals. Their crime was vast. They had lost a war. And they had lived." (p. 7)

Even in this setting, life goes on . . . complete with varying religious preferences, class and rank distinctions, social politics, and the gap between the haves and the have-nots. And at the top of the haves is an American man identified only as "The King," thought to be based on a prisoner named Theodore Lewin, who reportedly saved Clavell while they were both interred in Changi.

In a world where men can survive only in units of two or three, the King is an exception. He has managed to thrive on his own in the prison camp, finding ways to trade even though it's forbidden by the Japanese guards (sometimes even trading with the guards themselves). He is well connected and well supplied with food, cigarettes, clean clothes, and toiletries. He relies on no one. And that doesn't make him overly popular.

"The whole of Changi hated the King. They hated him for his muscular body, the clear glow in his blue eyes. In this twilight world of the half alive there were no fat or well-built or round or smooth or fair-built or thick-built men. There were only faces dominated by eyes and set on bodies that were skin over sinews over bones. No difference between them but age and face and height. And in all this world, only the King ate like a man, smoked like a man, slept like a man, dreamed like a man and looked like a man." (p. 12)

Australian POWs at Changi

So when we pop into the narrative, the King has been carrying on for quite some time without any true friends in the camp, and he's content with that. He even kind of likes it.

Enter Peter Marlowe (allegedly based on Clavell himself), an English officer who speaks fluent Malay and has a rich laugh. It's those qualities that catch the King's notice and lead to a friendship between the two men. Marlowe participates in some of the King's schemes, but he adapts to the cynicism and cruelty of camp life reluctantly. And he PINES beautifully.

"He looked out at the camp, seeing the sun beat the dust and the wind pick up the dust and swirl it. The swirl reminded him of her.

He looked away towards the east, into a nervous sky. But she was part of the sky.

The wind gathered slightly and bent the heads of the coconut palms. But she was part of the wind and the palms and the clouds beyond. . . .

Once more Peter Marlowe looked up into the sky, seeking distance. Only then could he feel that he was not within a box—a box filled with men, and men's smells and men's dirt and men's noises. Without women, Peter Marlowe thought helplessly, men are only a cruel joke. And he bled in the starch of the sun." (pp. 63-64)

And that womanless existence adds another interesting dynamic to prison life. The openly gay men in the camp take on feminine roles—for example, acting as nurses in the hospital. But what's more incredible than that is that the other men in the camp, in their desperation for female companionship, willingly view the more effeminate men as women and behave toward them as they would toward women. They participate in a sort of active delusion. The most fascinating example of this is a man named Sean, who's special task in the camp is to play the female roles in all the camp plays. He embraces this assignment so entirely that he dresses as a woman at all times and even lives separately from the rest of the men, in a room with a lock on the door. With just a little nudge, his male identity disappears entirely.

Of course, in all this, there's a linear plot and several subplots (the King never seems to run out of money-making schemes), but all that is secondary to the interpersonal dynamics, the way the men cope with a seemingly endless captivity, and the ways their pasts—who they were before they were only prisoners—color their lives in a remote tropical jungle.

All better now?

Source: Clavell, James. (2009). King Rat. New York: Bantam Dell.

Woman in White Week 4: Blah blah blah...PESCA!

**DISCLAIMER: This post is part of a read-along, and I intend to ruin the entire plot in the most roundabout way possible.**

By some terrible/wonderful coincidence, the end of our read-along exactly coincided with the monster deadline that’s been plaguing me all month. I present to you my excuse for this post happening in *GASP* MAY. I guess this means I won’t get any cake at our end-of-read-along pizza party.

I found this last section to be pretty unspectacular, because it seemed to reiterate a lot of the things we already knew and/or had figured out with our powers of deduction and plot prediction.

My reading went thusly:

Oh, hello, world’s longest letter from Mrs. Catherick, in which she creepily flirts with Walter. Boring boring boring. She appears to like presents. Yep, she traded her own daughter for a gold watch and chain. Boring boring. Percival’s parents weren’t married to each other. Yes, yes, Catherick, we knew that. Get on with it. Boring. Anne never actually knew the Secret that basically claimed her life. Poor Anne. Boring boring. Mrs. Catherick protests too much about the question of Anne’s parentage. (Surprise! Mr. Fairlie was her father! Anne and Laura were half-sisters! WE WERE RIGHT ALL ALONG.) Mrs. Catherick issues the best invitation to tea that I have ever heard.

“My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.” (p. 673)

Walter divulges that he’s been telling the story using feigned names THIS WHOLE TIME. I feel betrayed, Walter . . . or, whatever your name is.

Fosco has the opportunity to expose Laura’s hiding place to the owner of the asylum but changes his mind at the last moment because his devotion to Marian will not allow him to cause her such suffering. Marian is not flattered.

“No words can say how degraded I feel in my own estimation when I think of it—but the one weak point in that man’s iron character is the horrible admiration he feels for me.” (p. 683)

Then Walter sums up our feelings about Fosco’s villainy, and also what makes him such a wonderfully complex character.

“The best men are not consistent in good—why should the worst men be consistent in evil?” (p. 683)

Then Walter waxes sentimental.

“There (I said in my own heart)—there, if ever I have the power to will it, all that is mortal of her shall remain, and share the grave-bed with the loved friend of her childhood, with the dear remembrance of her life. That rest shall be sacred—that companionship always undisturbed!” (p. 693)

Then Walter and Laura, predictably, are wed.

And THEN, my dear friends, this lackluster section was lackluster no longer.

PESCAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!

I have never been so happy in my LIFE for a character’s return. And even though we’ve heard no mention of Pesca since the earliest pages of the book, it turns out he's been a true and faithful friend to Walter all along, but it just didn’t happen to be relevant to the Big Mystery so we didn’t get to hear anything about it. I take back every nice thing I ever said about Walter.

Anyway, they go to the opera to see if Pesca recognizes Fosco, because all Italians know each other, apparently. (Did anyone else read that sentence about Fosco occupying a place 12 or 14 seats from the end of the bench and picture Fosco literally occupying 12 or 14 seats?) Pesca declares, in Pesca fashion, “I have never set my two eyes on that big fat man before, in all my life” (p. 713). But when the Fat Man sees Pesca (who, might I remind you, is so tiny that he had to get a boost so he could see over the heads of ladies who were SITTING DOWN), his enviably unflappable nerves are decidedly flapped.

And HOW does our delightful little Pesca strike terror into the heart of the great and powerful Fosco? Well, because Pesca is at the top of a secret Brotherhood, and Fosco is scheduled to be assassinated any day now for betraying the oath of that Brotherhood. HOLY TINY ITALIAN ASSASSIN. My heart, it swells.

And then we have the big confrontation between Fosco and Walter, to which, thank goodness, Walter remembered to bring his brain. Fosco agrees, under threat of exposure to the Brotherhood, to write his confession of the Great Switcheroo. There aren’t too many grand revelations in his confession, but he does show once and for all how creepily fond he is of Marian. Like, dirty-old-man levels of fondness. Also, he reveals that he actually WAS trying to help Marian get better when she was sick and the doctor attending to her actually WAS an idiot. And he wants us to know, also, that Anne died most inconveniently of natural causes . . . but if she hadn’t, he would have killed her probably the next day. Admirable. And off he toddles to Paris to be tossed in the river by someone in the Brotherhood who isn’t Pesca.

I was somewhat bothered by the fact that Marian vowed never to leave Laura and Walter. I suspect Wilkie is making some sort of statement here about how Marian doesn’t need a husband to be happy, but I don’t like the idea of her being the eternal third wheel. She deserves better than that.

But other than Marian, who will be providing Walter and Laura free babysitting for the rest of her days, everyone lives happily ever after in Limmeridge House because Mr. Fairlie's nerves finally killed him.

And now, we dance the dance of the victorious read-alongers!

Woman in White Week 3: The Great Chicanery

**DISCLAIMER: This post is part of a read-along, and I intend to ruin the entire plot in the most roundabout way possible.**

What I didn't talk about last week even though I was DYING to was Marian getting sick and the Fat Man INVADING her diary with his fat hands and his ho-ho-hum, you clever woman, you. And all her plans! Foiled by the curse of a delicate female constitution!

Then, FINALLY, we get to hear Mr. Fairlie's opinion on the whole matter. Why can't anyone ever leave him alone so he can polish his coins and photograph his art collection? Even the clumsy English language is set against him. And then here comes Laura's maid and her potentially squeaky shoes. IS THERE NO END TO THE IRRITATIONS HE MUST ENDURE?

And I basically underlined everything he said, because---yes, I'm really about to say this---I liked his section more than Marian's. Can we just reread his narrative out loud via group conference call? No? Fine, but I'm making you reread these two parts, because I admire his use of parenthetical statements.

"Miss Halcombe had come to say good-by, and had given her two letters, one for me, and one for a gentleman in London. (I am not the gentleman in London---hang the gentleman in London!) She had carefully put the two letters into her bosom (what have I to do with her bosom?)" (p. 419)

"(Am I responsible for any of these vulgar fluctuations, which begin with unhappiness and end with tea?)" (p. 419)

Basically, what we learn from this section is that the Countess went to the inn and DRUGGED Fanny and groped under her dress to steal Marian's letter to the attorney. You know things are serious when people are being drugged and felt up. Team Percival just stepped up their game, yo.

The other thing we learn is that Mr. Fairlie is not impressed by Fosco (he is immune to the Fat Man's charms), but he does admire his seeming lack of nerves. Personally, I think Fosco HAS nerves, but all the fat is insulating them from shock. Oh, and the OTHER thing we learned from Mr. Fairlie is that Louis, his valet, is a god among men. Seriously, Louis, I salute you.

Then Mrs. Michelson describes what I like to call "The Great Chicanery," in which Fosco and Percival HIDE OUR DEAR SWEET FEVERISH MARIAN from Laura so they can convince Laura to go to London in search of her.

And I can't quite figure out Mrs. Rubelle's motives in all this, but she gives me the heebies and the jeebies.

Much like this overzealous Ewok.

BUT YOU GUYS, our woman in white is dead! This is what we get for demanding a ghost. Poor Anne, come face-to-face with her nemesis at last . . . and it was too much for her poor heart to bear. That makes me sad. Let's not think about that anymore. BUT because everyone thinks she's Laura, she gets her one wish, which is to be buried next to her beloved Mrs. Fairlie.

Was anyone else kind of impressed by Walter's newfound bad-assitude? He survived disease and Indians in Central America and a shipwreck in the Gulf of Mexico. But he can still weep into his mommy's bosom when he hears the news of Laura's death. That's my kind of man.

When Walter runs into Marian and Laura in the graveyard, Marian's first instinct is to protect him. She doesn't want him to see Laura's face. Maybe because she wants to spare him the pain of their situation, even though she could certainly use his help. I was so struck by the way she cried out to God to give Walter strength and to spare him. That was a powerful Marian moment.

But Walter will not be spared. He makes it his mission to support Marian and Laura and to expose Fosco and Percival's trickery.

"And those two men shall answer for their crime to ME, though the justice that sits in tribunals is powerless to pursue them. I have given my life to that purpose; and, alone as I stand, if God spares me, I will accomplish it." (p. 549)

SWOON.

Can we talk about Marian again? (As if I have to ask.) When people refer to wives as being helpmates to their husbands, I believe they are talking about what Marian is to Walter. WHY AREN'T THEY IN LOVE?

"'Don't doubt my courage, Walter,' she pleaded, 'it's my weakness that cries, not me. The house-work shall conquer it, if I can't.' . . . 'I am not quite broken down yet,' she said; 'I am worth trusting with my share of the work.' Before I could answer, she added in a whisper, 'And worth trusting with my share in the risk and the danger, too. Remember that, if the time comes!'" (p. 534)

This woman is a warrior princess. Speaking of which . . . *begin tangent* Marian and Laura as Xena and Gabrielle. Discuss.

*End tangent*

Meanwhile, not only is Laura clueless as to how she arrived in the asylum, she can't be included in current investigations because her mental state is too delicate to bear any strain. Walter even says that he has essentially stopped thinking of her romantically and compares his tenderness toward her to that of a father or brother. But maybe we're not giving Laura enough credit for her ability to assess the situation.

"You will end in liking Marian better than you like me---you will, because I am so helpless!" (p. 592)

Just let it happen, Laura. It's for the best.

This is about the time when I get really sick of hearing myself type. Speed discussion! There is detectiving, and Walter learns about Anne's childhood from Mrs. Clements, and he meets her wretched mother (SUCH a wretched mother), and, most important of all, he uncovers Percival's Secret with a capital S.

Turns out, Percival's father never officially married his mother, so he has no legal claim to the title of Baronet OR to Blackwater Park. And all he had to do to execute this magnificent scam was add a marriage listing to the church register . . . because it's the olden days, and important legal matters are recorded in a Trapper Keeper.

But before we can pat Percy on the back for his clever forgery, he accidentally burns himself to death trying to destroy the evidence. Really . . . he shouldn't be allowed to leave the house without Fosco. No good ever comes of it. But what's done is done, and Percival is out of the picture. Unfortunately, so is the only evidence of the Secret.

We have just a tiny distance to go before all is known. Onward, brave travelers!

Woman in White Week 2: Curiouser and Curiouser

**DISCLAIMER: This post is part of a read-along, and I intend to ruin the entire plot in the most roundabout way possible.**

If the last section’s defining characteristic was foreshadowing, this one’s is FOREBODING. *ominous music and thunder and a touch of cowbell*

It’s pretty clear to me that every character has done the exact WRONG thing since this story started, and it’s a little hard not to wonder how none of them saw trouble coming, because Trouble is wearing a giant sign that says I AM TROUBLE, AND, LO, I AM APPROACHING.

Take Mr. Gilmore, for instance. Did he not think it a bit curious that Percival kept steering everyone toward a wedding date that just HAPPENED to be 3 months before Laura would come of age and be able to make her own decisions without troubling her poor uncle’s fragile nerves?

Ineffectual as he may be, I'm fond of old Gilmore. He’s probably the closest thing to a father that Marian and Laura have. He does TRY to fight for Laura, even though she can’t be bothered to fight for herself, and he almost treats Marian as an equal.

All that legal stuff was pretty fishy though. And Percival was so careful to act as though he didn’t care one way or another about getting all Laura’s money in the event of her "unlikely" death. WHO'S the clever girl NOW?

Oh yes . . . this was also my favorite Mr. Fairlie moment of the whole book (so far):

"'Man?' he repeated. 'You provoking old Gilmore, what can you possibly mean by calling him a man? He’s nothing of the sort. He might have been a man half an hour ago, before I wanted my etchings; and he may be a man half an hour hence, when I don’t want them any longer. At present, he is simply a portfolio stand. Why object, Gilmore, to a portfolio stand?'" (p. 193)

"You provoking old Gilmore."

Hartright slinks away in defeat to Central America, never to be heard of again in this section.

Laura marries Percival, of course.

Marian says this:

“No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace—they drag us away from our parents’ love and our sisters’ friendship—they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel.”

UNLESS, the man is named Walter Hartright . . . in which case, fasten all you like, apparently.

Then Laura begs Marian never to get married. Not that Marian seems all that eager to hitch herself to a man's wagon (see excerpt above), but you don't ASK someone to stay single for you so they can always live with you and YOUR husband. Inappropriate, Laura.

Let’s talk about Count Fosco. I know he’s evil and manipulative and basically the Shere Kahn to Percival's Kaa, but I think we can all agree that he is MAGNIFICENT.

"Percival! Percival! you deserve to fail, and you have failed." 

He even made some headway with steadfast and true Marian, who generally dislikes “corpulent humanity.” And any man who loves animals as much as that man does can't be ALL bad. He got my vote when he winced at Percival beating one of the spaniels.

I understand how a rotund gentleman with mice crawling all over his fancy waistcoat could be viewed as creep-tastic, especially since he’s some sort of super villain, but I care not. And he DOES have the makings of a super villain with his knowledge of chemistry and everything in general. He sees things the way they are, and he SAYS so . . . and, sure, maybe he's directing this profound social commentary to one of his mice, but it's still true.

“‘You marry the poor man whom you love, Mouse; and one half your friends pity, and the other half blame you. And, now, on the contrary, you sell yourself for gold to a man you don’t care for; and all your friends rejoice over you; and a minister of public worship sanctions the base horror of the vilest of all human bargains; and smiles and smirks afterwards at your table.’” (pp. 286–287)

Zing! Point, Fosco.

The most ominous thing about him, right away, was the extreme change he produced in his wife. She went from a mouthy firebrand to a silent cigarette-rolling factory. And that reminds me of a SUPERB moment for Marian.

“‘I wait to be instructed,” replied the Countess, in tones of freezing reproof, intended for Laura and me, ‘before I venture on giving my opinion in the presence of well-informed men.’

‘Do you, indeed?’ I said. ‘I remember the time, Countess, when you advocated the Rights of Women—and freedom of female opinion was one of them.’” (pp. 282–282)

BURN! Point, Marian.

If anyone is a match for The Fat Man, it's Marian. And vice versa.

Then there’s the shady matter of the signature. When Laura refuses to sign the mysterious contract without first reading it, Percival’s true character shows even more. Behold Percy's temper. Also behold Percy acting like a whiny little baby man. He irritates Laura into acting with the most backbone she's shown thus far, and he makes Marian consider punching him in the face.

I have to wonder what this story would be like if we took out Marian and Fosco. Percival wouldn’t have anyone to undo the damage his temper causes or to change his poopy diapers. Laura wouldn’t have anyone to remind her that being a woman is not the same as being a pudding cup. Without Marian, would Laura be just another wife battered into submission, or would she rise up and fight back on her own account?

This section also marks the triumphant return of the titular woman in white, who is comically adept at outsmarting Percival and outrunning poor fat Fosco. And she knows Percival's filthy secret, which is clearly how she ended up safely tucked away in an asylum. But what do we think the secret is? Is he Anne’s illegitimate father? Is he ACTUALLY a woman? Is he in love with Fosco? (Just kidding. We already know the answer to that last one.)

The cliffhanger of the section is the conversation between Percival and Fosco. Although she had her suspicions, it’s certainly a revelation to Marian (who, might I add, donned all black to crawl onto the ROOF so she could eavesdrop . . . this woman is a ninja) to learn the extent of their money troubles and how much they depend on Laura to solve them. There is also more than a cursory reference made toward the possibility of Laura's death, which is what I’ve been waiting for ever since Gilmore's narrative.

Woman in White Week 1: There was ALMOST a ghost

**DISCLAIMER: This post is part of a read-along, and I intend to ruin the entire plot in the most roundabout way possible.**

I have so many disorderly thoughts about this book. Let’s just start with the first sentence, which, YES, I did write down because I thought it was overdramatic and I couldn’t help but love it immediately.

“This is the story of what a Woman’s patience can endure, and of what a Man’s resolution can achieve.” (p. 1)

Already, I have so many questions. Who is this patient Woman? Who is this Man, and what is he so resolute about? And WHY are these pronouns capitalized?

This book so far? Delightful. But I'm having a tiny Norwegian Wood flashback, because Pesca . . . I ADORE him. And he disappeared after the first few pages.

Things I love that came out of Pesca's freakishly small mouth:

“My-soul-bless-my-soul! when I heard the golden Papa say those words, if I had been big enough to reach up to him, I should have put my arms round his neck, and pressed him to my bosom in a long and grateful hug! As it was, I only bounced upon my chair.” (pp. 12–13)

“Have you not been longing for what you call a smack of the country breeze? Well! there in your hand is the paper that offers you perpetual choking mouthfuls of country breeze.” (p. 16)

“Deuce-what-the-deuce! for the first time in my life I have not eyes enough in my head to look, and wonder at you!” (p. 16)

COME BACK, PESCA. And, my good dear, bring Storm Trooper with you if you please.

But let’s talk about what we all REALLY want to talk about (besides Mr. Fairlie . . . OMG MR. FAIRLIE): Marian Halcombe. She had me at the first glimpse of her swarthy complexion. Hartright basically describes her as a “butter face” (you know, everything is attractive but ’er face?). I love this about her. I imagine that many a cheeky young man has approached her from behind, surveying her corset-free lady-curves and preparing a killer pickup line, only to be shocked and appalled when confronted by her almost-mustache.

But, moving past that (if we possibly can), this first description provides a lot of insight into her character.

“To see such a face as this set on shoulders that a sculptor would have longed to model—to be charmed by the modest graces of action through which the symmetrical limbs betrayed their beauty when they moved, and then to be almost repelled by the masculine form and masculine look of the features in which the perfectly shaped figure ended—was to feel a sensation oddly akin to the helpless discomfort familiar to us all in sleep, when we recognize yet reconcile the anomalies and contradictions of a dream.” (pp. 34–35)

If I may be so bold, I believe THIS is the key to Marian: She is a walking contradiction.

She makes the most ridiculously demeaning statements about women in general: Women fight with each other when there are no men around to flirt with. Women talk too much. Women are fools. Women can’t draw, because they are too flighty. And that’s just in her first few pages of dialogue!

The thing is, once you get to know Marian even a little, you realize that she is a far cry from the silly, subservient, Victorian hat rack stereotype she speaks of so frequently. She destroys, with her actions, every stereotype she perpetuates with her words. The stark contrast of the feminine and the masculine in her physical character seems to be an exact reflection of her inner character. I don’t know quite what to make of this yet, but I’m starting to suspect that our chauvinistic friend Wilkie was secretly a feminist.

Take THAT, Dickens!

I grow tired of my rambling, so I’ll just summarize the rest in these handy bullet points:

• Hartright very accurately compares himself to a “harmless domestic animal.”
• How BORING would Hartright and Laura be as a couple? Yawn. If he marries, Laura AND Marian, THEN we can talk.
• This whole first section is the foreshadowingest.
• I must confess, when it was revealed that Laura and Anne Catherick (the titillating woman in white) are almost identical, I said out loud, “THEY SWITCHED PLACES!” I no longer think that’s likely . . . but I’m holding out hope.
• MR. FAIRLIE IS MY FAVORITE SELFISH BIGOT WHO ALSO HATES CHILDREN HE IS AMAZING. Everything he says is my favorite thing in this book.
• I got really excited when that little boy thought he saw a ghost. *perks up* A GHOST? No . . . no, it was just that crazy white lady again.
• Marian and Hartright’s goodbye is SO MUCH better than Laura and Hartright’s goodbye. I want them to be in love.

“She caught me with both hands—she pressed them with the strong, steady grasp of a man—her dark eyes glittered—her brown complexion flushed deep—the force and energy of her face glowed and grew beautiful with the pure inner light of her generosity and her pity.” (p. 149)

And, lest I forget, I had lofty goals for producing a dancing-cats-in-Victorian-garb GIF . . . but you're getting this instead:

Good luck sleeping tonight.

The Woman in White Super-Happy-Fun-Time Read-Along begins...NOW

It's time for another Reading Rambo read-along!

We're reading The Woman in White, which I've been meaning to read for a while and is also one of the books in my Smooth Criminals reading challenge for this year. So far April is advertising itself as the month for conveniently overlapping goals, which automatically makes me suspicious. *looks askance at April*

I know almost nothing about this book, and this will be my first foray into Wilkie Collins's oeuvre. The author blurb in my Bantam Classic copy tells me that Wilkie and Charles Dickens were basically the Anne and Diana of 19th century London.

"Collins brought out the boyish, adventurous side of Dickens's character; the two novelists traveled to Italy, Switzerland, and France together, and their travels produced such lighthearted collaborations as 'The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices.' They also shared a passion for the theater, and Collins's melodramas . . . were presented by Dickens's private company, with Dickens and Collins in leading roles."

Just pretend these kindred spirits have beards.

BUT Charlie and Wilkie didn't stop at skipping across Europe and giggling over black currant wine; they were also bosom friends of douchebaggery and . . . well . . . of actual bosoms. We all know Dickens was an ass hat, and Wilkie had two mistresses that he didn't even bother to keep secret. He even fathered three kids with one of them (that lucky lady).

The good news is, he was afflicted with a horribly painful eye disease and died. So it seems as though it all came out fair and square at the last.

Now, let's make with the read-alonging!

We Need to Talk About Kevin...then we'll have an ice cream and a cuddle

Ohmygoodness this book. Official title: We Need to Talk About Kevin. Unofficial title: The Destroyer of Worlds.

Most of you have heard of this little doozy and are familiar with the premise, especially with the recent release of the movie adaptation, starring Tilda Swinton (SWINTON!). But I will regale you with a synopsis anyway, if only to refresh my own memory at the risk of reawakening those feelings of horror that have subsided somewhat since I put The Destroyer back on the shelf.

The story is told entirely through letters, written by Eva Katchadourian to her estranged husband, Franklin. In these letters, she dissects her role as a wife and mother, starting with the euphoria of the early years of their marriage and traveling through the life-shattering events set in motion by the birth of their son, Kevin.

Right away, we know Kevin is serving time for brutally murdering seven students, a teacher, and a cafeteria worker at his high school. So, with the Big Event out of the way, every incident from Kevin’s childhood (from birth to age 17) that Eva rehashes in her letters to Franklin is endowed with the chilling clarity of hindsight, if only that provided by her limited perspective. So, yes, you start out knowing a big portion of the story . . . but don't for a minute think you know everything. I promise you, you don't.

This book is a slow burner with SO MUCH depth and nuance, and an ominous buildup like you wouldn’t believe. It’s a passenger train steadily gaining speed over miles and miles of track, barreling inevitably toward the cliff’s edge—a fate made all the more tragic by the fact that we can all see it coming. There will be victims, and there's nothing we can do about it. I can’t even tell you. I just DID tell you . . . but it’s not enough. I must SHOW you.

“Maybe it goes without saying that the pea plants died, as did the sprouting avocado that replaced them, while at the same time I noticed idly that I was missing a bottle of bleach. There were mysteries: Subsequent to a particular day in January, the moment I led Kevin by the hand into the classroom, a little girl with Shirley Temple curls began to cry, and her wailing worsened until at some point in February she never came back. Another boy, aggressive and rambunctious in September, one of those biffy sorts always boxing your leg and pushing other kids in the sandbox, suddenly became silent and inward, developing at once a severe case of asthma and an inexplicable terror of the coat closet, within five feet of which he would begin to wheeze. What did that have to do with Kevin? I couldn’t say; perhaps nothing.” (p. 178)

“Remember when you wanted to buy Kevin a dog? I begged you not to. I was glad you never forced me to explain, since I never explained it to myself. I just know that whenever I envisioned our bouncing black lab, or trusting Irish setter, I was filled with horror.” (p. 181)

Are we getting the picture?

Aside from the obvious paranoid fixations this story evokes in readers, it taps into a very particular and enduring fear of mine: that kids will come between me and my husband—that having children, when we do, will destroy our marriage. I don't know what to do toward allaying that fear, but I think never reading this book again as long as I live might be a good start.

As for that OTHER concern—you know, spawning a sociopathic killing machine—I found a cure for that, and I will share it with you for free (because I care). As I read the portion of this book covering Kevin’s birth and early years, I happened to be spending a great deal of time in the company of an infant.

As incongruous as these two situations may seem, I can’t think of a better way to experience this book. He was the antidote. Just when I was deciding once and for all against having any children ever, I would look down at the sleeping bundle of perfection in my arms and be reminded that Kevin is the exception, not the rule.

And when my sweet baby friend wasn’t sleeping, he was a sympathetic ear for my traumatized ramblings.

“But Kevin . . . I . . . it’s just . . . WHAT IS GOING ON?”

“Kevin’s ruining everything! And he’s doing it ON PURPOSE.”

“You’ll NEVER guess what Kevin just did!”

Yeah, I’m tired of talking about Kevin, too.

SOURCE: Shriver, Lionel. (2003). We Need to Talk About Kevin. New York: Harper Perennial.

Double Indemnity: A lesson in jumping to conclusions

Double Indemnity, what are you about?

Insurance agent Walter Huff is telling us a story, and we’re not quite sure what it’s about but we’re pretty sure it’s not good because he mentions a “House of Death” in the first paragraph. So here we have Walter, tried-and-true insurance man. Straight as an arrow . . . or so he would have us BELIEVE.

But wait . . . who’s this? A voluptuous lady with a husband she’s not overly fond of (but who is perfectly decent to her, I might point out). And what is this? You say she’s dropping hints about accident insurance? Run, Walter, run!

But Walter doesn’t run. Why, Walter, WHY?

“A reputable agent don’t get mixed up in stuff like that, but she was walking around the room, and I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. Under those blue pajamas was a shape to set a man nuts.” (p. 10)

Oh. Well, then. I suppose you’ll have to do something crazy, won’t you, Walter? For what chance does a man have against a set of winding lady curves?

Murder plots: the basis of every healthy relationship

So Walter and this tall drink of water waste no time scheming to knock off her husband. Their plan is to make it look like a train accident so they can collect a double indemnity (train accidents are the most uncommon of all the many kinds of accidents and, thus, yield the biggest insurance payout). As an insurance agent, Walter has a specific body of knowledge that proves extremely useful in this endeavor.

“I know all their tricks. I lie awake nights thinking up tricks, so I’ll be ready for them when they come at me. And then one night I think up a trick, and get to thinking I could crook the wheel myself if I could only put a plant out there to put down my bet. That’s all. When I met Phyllis I met my plant.” (pp. 29–30)

Around this point, I started working up some healthy indignation about Mr. Cain making The Woman look like a silly, bored housewife who needed The Big Strong Working Man to come along and handle her business. But I was wrong, dear readers, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. This is 125 pages of twists and turns, and those conclusions I jumped to were wrong, ALL WRONG.

Well played, sir.

SOURCE: Cain, James M. (1978). Double Indemnity. Toronto, Canada: Vintage.

In which I compare Lou Ford to Patrick Bateman, even though they're nothing alike

This noir classic is narrated in the easy Southern drawl of Lou Ford, deputy sheriff of a small Texas town. The people in town know him as gentle-mannered and a little dumb, but he is hiding a dark secret, something he calls "the sickness." He has kept it at bay for 15 years, but it's about to make a comeback . . . because this would be a pretty boring story if it didn't.

In my head, I've been comparing this book to American Psycho, which is a problem because they're not much alike . . . aside from the killing, of course. The Killer Inside Me came first, by a lot, and must have been quite shocking for its time, but it looks so tame next to Easton Ellis's bloodbath of a book. And Patrick Bateman is an unapologetic sociopath, but Lou Ford falls more on the side of psychopath, because he does have a conscience . . . even if he chooses to ignore it most of the time.

I think what keeps bringing me back to Bateman is the hint of humor, twisted though it may be. In this book, the inappropriate giggles are caused by the way Lou Ford suppresses "the sickness" while keeping up his doddering deputy sheriff routine. He wants to hurt people, but he knows he can't HURT them hurt them, so he inflicts pain by the most benign means imaginable: He bores them to tears. Seriously. He tortures them with corny cliches. You know the kind I mean: "Every cloud has its silver lining." "Haste makes waste." "Look before you leap." He's a MONSTER.

Oh! I thought of another Bateman/Ford similarity: They both hate women. And can we talk about the women in Lou's life? Behind Door No.1, we have Joyce, a prostitute who likes to be beaten and doesn't care about anything but getting out of town with Lou. Behind Door No. 2, we have Amy, the town sweetheart who ALSO likes to be beaten and doesn't care about anything but getting Lou to marry her. I know . . . so many layers to explore. I'm sure some people would argue that these women are strong but just can't flex their muscles within the restrictions of their time and place. I think these women are idiots. Would you care for a more concrete example? Happy to oblige.

The setting: Amy is mad at Lou because he kept her waiting at his house. Amy is nagging him, as we pesky women are known to do.

"All she had to say would take her the rest of her life to finish; and I wasn't even halfway in the mood for it. I reached out and grabbed her by the crotch. . . . I lay down beside her with my clothes on. I had to do it, because there was just one way of shutting Amy up." (p. 59)

What Lou is saying doesn't offend me, because Lou doesn't like women. That's the character. What bothers me is that his tactic totally works on her. On numerous occasions, when Amy gets indignant about something (often rightfully so), Lou just waves something shiny in front of her face until she loses her train of thought.

But do you know what I LOVE about this book? (A) The Southern-isms: "You know I've just been busy as a chigger at a picnic" (p. 30). (B) The noir-isms: "Baby didn't know it, but baby was dead" (p. 14). Good enough for me.

SOURCE: Thompson, Jim. (1991). The Killer Inside Me. New York: Vintage Books.

Smooth Criminals 2012 Reading Challenge

I was fully intending to stop at one challenge for 2012. (I already have plenty of job-related reading deadlines, thank you very much.) BUT this one hosted by Ben at Dead End Follies looks so fun, and it encompasses a lot of genres I've been wanting to dabble in. So, eight books, 12 months . . .

Hardboiled classic: Red Harvest, Dashiell Hammett

Noir classic: Double Indemnity, James M. Cain

Prison book: King Rat, James Clavell

Book written by a writer who did time: If He Hollers, Let Him Go, Chester Himes

Book with psychopath protagonist: The Killer Inside Me, Jim Thompson

Gothic novel: Uncle Silas, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

Classic where the plot revolves around a crime: The Woman in White, Wilkie Collins (reviewed in four parts: uno, dos, tres, cuatro)

The “why the hell am I doing this to myself?" book: We Need to Talk About Kevin, Lionel Shriver