Pelecanos: "The Man who Came Uptown." Oh My God. I'm obsessed. Nora Ephron once described a great reading experience as "the rapture of the deep." That applies here--to the new novel by George Pelecanos.
Mr. Pelecanos has been called "America's coolest writer," and he is a particular favorite of Dennis Lehane. People know him more for TV than for novels. He has worked on "The Deuce," "Bosch," "The Wire," and (likely) others.
TV is great, but there are some things only printed literature can do. Pelecanos knows this. A smart work of prose engages you in ways TV can't; you become a co-creator of the story; you fill in blanks, make inferences, complete the canvas. Your mind melds with the characters--in a way unique to fiction. Good fiction. Pelecanos knows this.
The new GP book--"The Man who Came Uptown"--is about, among many other things, the pleasures of reading. It's a thriller about reading. Specifically, it's about prisoners who gather and form a book club. They discuss "Of Mice and Men," John MacDonald novels, Elmore Leonard novels. They sympathize--or refuse to sympathize--with various characters. They make guesses about motives, and they use an author's words to support their guesses. They imagine how they would act in similar situations. Sometimes, they confess to aspiring to the lives of characters they have read about.
This is all done so smoothly; it seems plausible; it doesn't seem hammy. My favorite detail is this: Sometimes, the prisoners want to understand "the woman's perspective," so they reach for Nora Roberts. Pelecanos understands that Roberts knows how to tell a story: You don't reach Roberts's success level without having talent. The thought of some tough dude clutching a bodice-ripper: This is so improbable, it has to be lived experience. GP must be drawing from some portion of his own life.
At the same time, there's a thriller plot in this book. A mostly-decent man has made the mistake of turning himself into Robin Hood. He will rob from evil pimps to feed his children. This can't end well. You like him--you spend time with him--but you notice how he blackmails a young guy down on his luck. "I fudged your testimony to get you out of jail. Now you need to be my driver when I go on these robbery missions." Who is good, who is bad? How can you not feel for these terribly flawed and recognizably human characters?
There's a body count. There's wonderfully skilled and memorable writing about sex. There is extramarital intrigue; there are ex-cons tending lovingly to dying dogs. Picking up Pelecanos's work, I feel like Alice stepping through the looking-glass. This guy has imagined every detail you could ask for. He is more than proficient; he deserves serious literary attention.
-"The Retribution," by Val McDermid. Acid spring-loaded in a tin of cat-food. A serial killer doing battle with a savvy old woman. Maddening workplace politics; two tortured old friends turning against one another. An arsonist's assault on a stable of horses. I wish I had read the Carol/Tony novels in order, because you lose some steam when you know what will happen to this crazy duo later on. Still: This stuff is fun.
In fact, "The Retribution" seems to have been a particular delight for the author. Having written over two-dozen books, she felt she'd briefly lost the wind in her sails. But returning to an old character--Jacko Vance, who has Trump characteristics--brought McDermid back to life. "I'd forgotten how fun this work is." Always go back to your roots for new inspiration. May Taylor Swift hear these words and give us that 2019 country album we're all longing for.
-"The Ninth Hour," by Alice McDermott. To me, McDermott seems a bit like Willa Cather. The comparison is not overblown. Both artists had lifelong love affairs with the novel; both challenged and stretched the form, over and over, in a series of books.
"The Ninth Hour" is about transgressions. A widow falls in love with a married man; his wife is a mess, having been permanently crippled (and having sort of lost her mind). For various reasons, nuns are involved. They want to help the widow--though they know the pope would disapprove. (We can imagine McDermott drawing inspiration from some real-world American nuns who have challenged unpleasant and foolish men in the Catholic Church.)
The lies and secrets multiply and multiply. There's even a sort-of-murder. All along, you feel like you're caught in a spell. And that you're reading the work of someone who sees the world more sharply than just about anyone else around.
I don't know how Ms. McDermott does it, but I'm in awe. And my sense is she will give us a few more books before she throws in the towel....
Mr. Pelecanos has been called "America's coolest writer," and he is a particular favorite of Dennis Lehane. People know him more for TV than for novels. He has worked on "The Deuce," "Bosch," "The Wire," and (likely) others.
TV is great, but there are some things only printed literature can do. Pelecanos knows this. A smart work of prose engages you in ways TV can't; you become a co-creator of the story; you fill in blanks, make inferences, complete the canvas. Your mind melds with the characters--in a way unique to fiction. Good fiction. Pelecanos knows this.
The new GP book--"The Man who Came Uptown"--is about, among many other things, the pleasures of reading. It's a thriller about reading. Specifically, it's about prisoners who gather and form a book club. They discuss "Of Mice and Men," John MacDonald novels, Elmore Leonard novels. They sympathize--or refuse to sympathize--with various characters. They make guesses about motives, and they use an author's words to support their guesses. They imagine how they would act in similar situations. Sometimes, they confess to aspiring to the lives of characters they have read about.
This is all done so smoothly; it seems plausible; it doesn't seem hammy. My favorite detail is this: Sometimes, the prisoners want to understand "the woman's perspective," so they reach for Nora Roberts. Pelecanos understands that Roberts knows how to tell a story: You don't reach Roberts's success level without having talent. The thought of some tough dude clutching a bodice-ripper: This is so improbable, it has to be lived experience. GP must be drawing from some portion of his own life.
At the same time, there's a thriller plot in this book. A mostly-decent man has made the mistake of turning himself into Robin Hood. He will rob from evil pimps to feed his children. This can't end well. You like him--you spend time with him--but you notice how he blackmails a young guy down on his luck. "I fudged your testimony to get you out of jail. Now you need to be my driver when I go on these robbery missions." Who is good, who is bad? How can you not feel for these terribly flawed and recognizably human characters?
There's a body count. There's wonderfully skilled and memorable writing about sex. There is extramarital intrigue; there are ex-cons tending lovingly to dying dogs. Picking up Pelecanos's work, I feel like Alice stepping through the looking-glass. This guy has imagined every detail you could ask for. He is more than proficient; he deserves serious literary attention.
-"The Retribution," by Val McDermid. Acid spring-loaded in a tin of cat-food. A serial killer doing battle with a savvy old woman. Maddening workplace politics; two tortured old friends turning against one another. An arsonist's assault on a stable of horses. I wish I had read the Carol/Tony novels in order, because you lose some steam when you know what will happen to this crazy duo later on. Still: This stuff is fun.
In fact, "The Retribution" seems to have been a particular delight for the author. Having written over two-dozen books, she felt she'd briefly lost the wind in her sails. But returning to an old character--Jacko Vance, who has Trump characteristics--brought McDermid back to life. "I'd forgotten how fun this work is." Always go back to your roots for new inspiration. May Taylor Swift hear these words and give us that 2019 country album we're all longing for.
-"The Ninth Hour," by Alice McDermott. To me, McDermott seems a bit like Willa Cather. The comparison is not overblown. Both artists had lifelong love affairs with the novel; both challenged and stretched the form, over and over, in a series of books.
"The Ninth Hour" is about transgressions. A widow falls in love with a married man; his wife is a mess, having been permanently crippled (and having sort of lost her mind). For various reasons, nuns are involved. They want to help the widow--though they know the pope would disapprove. (We can imagine McDermott drawing inspiration from some real-world American nuns who have challenged unpleasant and foolish men in the Catholic Church.)
The lies and secrets multiply and multiply. There's even a sort-of-murder. All along, you feel like you're caught in a spell. And that you're reading the work of someone who sees the world more sharply than just about anyone else around.
I don't know how Ms. McDermott does it, but I'm in awe. And my sense is she will give us a few more books before she throws in the towel....
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