Mr. Reliable he isn't

Linda Sappenfield — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 21:38:00 GMT

After I've invested time reading a book for group discussion, the conversation had better include more than just plot. That's why the La Frontera Barnes & Noble literary bunch (Round Rock New Neighbors) merits regular attendance.

Our latest meet centered on Jim Thompson's now-classic crime novels. Amid all the noir-ish activity, suspense, and gore, one topic highlighted the session for me--the unreliable narrator. This point of view can infuse more impact than any deed the character perpetrates.

The realization that this narrator can't be trusted--because he/she is biased, error-prone, ignorant, fronting an agenda (or some devilish mixture of these) sets up just the sort of challenge that lovers of character-driven fiction relish.

Take Thompson's The Killer Inside Me (which, by the way, you should read before you see the film, if only to determine whether it's really the movie for you. Obviously, the story is still haunting me). In Killer, your vantage point consists solely of the reporting and perceptions of Lou Ford, a small-town sheriff with big-time psychopathological issues. On the one hand, Lou holds back no detail, however incriminating. On the other hand, the mere fact that he appears to savor this blow-by-blow (literally) commentary calls his veracity into question. He's authentic, but is he truthful? He's certainly unforgettable.

All this is not to suggest that reliable narrators are less than engrossing. I just finished Karin Muller's Japanland: A Year in Search of Wa. Muller is a sympathetic, trustworthy reporter, and not just because Japanland is non-fiction. The author's self-confessed cultural missteps unwrap social complexities to thwart the sincerest of intentions. As Muller soldiered on, collecting documentary footage and delving into hidden realms of Japanese culture, I was both empowered by her emotional stamina and entertained by her wry observations.

Japanland invites comparison to Elizabeth Gilbert's bestselling Eat, Pray, Love, but I preferred Japanland. If you're intrigued, come to one of the library's adult book club sessions on August 3 and share your thoughts. You'll also want to check out the library's copy of the Japanland DVD. You're too late for this role, Julia Roberts!

Where have all the phone booths gone?

Linda Sappenfield — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 16:14:00 GMT

Belonging to four different book clubs isn't a sane lifestyle choice for everyone, but I find it empowering. Along with obvious socialization benefits comes the potential for quadruple rewards in the "wouldn't have picked it on my own" department. Completing all the assigned books and some personal selections enhances my sense of balance. When, in addition to the reading, I achieve a certain degree of house/garden maintenance (beyond minimal but short of Martha Stewart), I feel practically superhuman.

Of course, that means I'm susceptible to Literary Kryptonite. You are, too, and you probably know what that is: an element, passage, or scene that doesn't work for you at all, brings your mood waaaay down, ruins your day, prompts you to wish you'd spent that time in a more beneficial activity, say, eating M&Ms while watching Project Runway reruns.

For some, the debilitating effects of LK attack in the form of lengthy descriptive passages detailing what characters wear, what passers-by are doing, etc. The substance that enervates other readers may be inconclusive conclusions, endings that leave them to ponder what may or may not have happened to the characters, since the author isn't saying. I actually happen to enjoy that sort of thing.

But here's what knocked the wind out of my psyche this week: two skillfully composed passages in different books (perhaps too expertly conveyed) in which a killer has mortally wounded his prey and then remains beside the victim, entirely aware of that person's agony and wishing for his own convenience that the individual would go and ahead cease his/her efforts to survive. When I realized that I was encountering, in the space of three days, a second instance in which a dying character's quivering hand desperately stretched toward the only possible rescuer--the cold-blood killer--I felt victimized myself.

I won't ruin the first book for you by revealing the name; the second was a Jim Thompson title--The Killer Inside Me--so, no worries about spoiler alerts. Both feature masterful prose and riveting plots. Nevertheless, along with M&Ms, I immediately sought an unassigned novel to restore my equilibrium. Though Yukio Mishima never managed to achieve his own personal balance, his lovely The Sound of Waves proved the perfect antidote for the dreaded LK. The person who recommended it to me is decidedly a superhero.

Reader's Exchange : Readers Exchange, Jim Thompson

Mr. Reliable he isn't

Where have all the phone booths gone?