The Talented Mr. Ripley

Tom glanced behind him and saw the man coming out of the Green Cage, heading his way. Tom walked faster. There was no doubt the man was after him. Tom had noticed him five minutes ago, eyeing him carefully from a table, as if he weren't *quite* sure, but almost. He had looked sure enough for Tom to down his drink in a hurry, pay and get out.

At the corner Tom leaned forward and trotted across Fifth Avenue. There was Raoul's. Should he take a chance and go in for another drink? Tempt fate and all that? Or should he beat it over to Park Avenue and try losing him in a few dark doorways? He went into Raoul's.

Automatically, as he strolled to an empty space at the bar, he looked around to see if there was anyone he knew. There was the big man with red hair, whose name he always forgot, sitting at a table with a blonde girl. The red-haired man waved a hand, and Tom's hand went up limply in response. He slid one leg over a stool and faced the door challengingly, yet with a flagrant casualness.

"Gin and tonic, please......"

This is the opening of Patricia Highsmith's "Talented Mr. Ripley." It's in the news because of a somewhat breathless and overly long piece in the New Yorker. That piece concerns Dan Mallory, a new novelist--who seems to want to be an heir to Highsmith, but who is, himself, a conman.

Mallory can't write like Highsmith. (That said, his book is fine, and it's not the trainwreck that the New Yorker says it is.)

What makes Highsmith special? We are launched right away on our journey. Tom must escape the Green Cage (an odd name for a bar, evoking thoughts of hell, or a prison)--because someone may or may not be after him. It's Highsmith's cunning that keeps us from knowing what Ripley has done to deserve a chase, who the chasing man might be, and even which city we're in. (We'll figure these things out. Leaving the reader to make inferences: that is part of what separates a skilled writer from an unskilled writer.)

Highsmith dips in and out of Ripley's perspective. Ripley, a sociopath, wouldn't take time to learn many names, and wouldn't afford to a woman the same status a man would get: "There was the big man with red hair, whose name he always forgot, sitting with a blonde girl..." There is also a hastiness to Ripley's thinking: "Tempt fate and all that." A more careful thinker might fill in some specific verbs for "all that," but Ripley isn't too cautious. Also, a part of him seems *drawn* to self-sabotage: He *wants* to "tempt fate," at least on one level. (A Divided Self: a way of hooking the reader.)

It's also impressive how much Highsmith can pack into the adverb "automatically." What kind of person scans bars, as a reflex, immediately upon entering? You could argue there's nothing so odd about that, but given what we know already about Ripley, I'd say the act of scanning is part of Ripley's unusual anxiety: Someone could be out to get him, someone could be a useful pawn. (I'm thinking of Tony Soprano, in the final scene--the diner scene--from "The Sopranos.")

Highsmith wrote a great deal--more than you might think--and I'm looking forward to "Edith's Diary," "Deep Water," and "Strangers on a Train," in the future. I admire any writer who can cram a few submerged meanings into an apparently simple sentence. That's Highsmith--reliably, over many years, with many crazy characters.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic. She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...." I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...

Liars and Saints

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