Books & Reviews Archive

The book’s plot is typical of Scott Turow: set in a law firm, the protagonist, a former police officer, is tasked with tracking down an attorney from the firm who has vanished, leaving behind a substantial shortfall in a major client's funds. The narrative is characterized by frequent incursions into the protagonist's life, resulting in a tedious read. Furthermore, the style is exceedingly dense and convoluted, devoid of fluid, engaging English. I abandoned the book at page 161 out of 464.

How is it that a young man from a respectable Jewish family, enjoying an esteemed social standing, seeks out the most sordid and depraved sex instead of marrying young women from good bourgeois society, “with whom to raise intelligent, loving, and sturdy children”? > Dignity, Well-being, Love, Industry, Knowledge, Trust, Decency, High Principles, Compassion! Why the hell do I chase sensational sex? How can I lose myself in something so simple, so stupid, as cunt? The book is a long, entertaining, and hysterical monologue in which the protagonist retraces the events of his life, only ostensibly in a psychoanalytic quest for the origins of his inclinations (voyeurism, fetishism, autoeroticism, oral intercourse), but in reality to assert, to himself and to others, that his was the rightest path in life. To convey the sense of a narrative that defies easy summary or comprehension unless one plunges into its whirlwind prose, overflowing with words and idioms, one might quote a passage in which the protagonist explains why he did not marry one of the good, bourgeois girls he dated. > Well, there was her ostentatious, recurring school slang, to begin with. It was simply unbearable... And then there were her friends' nicknames: there were the friends themselves! Poody and Pip and Peddle... And then my slang caused her distress. The first time I said fuck in her presence (in the presence of her friend Pebble, with her Peter Pan collar and her tight-fitting cardigans, and tanned like an Indian from so much tennis at the Chevy Chase Club), such a look of agony passed over the countenance of the Pilgrim Fathers' heiress that you would have thought I had just branded the four letters into her flesh. Why, she asked so plaintively once we were alone, why must I be so clumsy? What possible pleasure does it give me to be so ill-mannered? What on earth did I prove? Why do you have to be so pus-y? “Where this word,” the protagonist explains, “stands for a ‘disposition to be disagreeable.’” > In bed? Nothing fun, no acrobatics or daring attempts; the way we did it the first time was the way we kept on doing it, I assaulted and she surrendered . If one considers that “ostentatious, recurring school slang” is the rough translation of an untranslatable English phrase such as “cutesy-wootsy boarding school argot,” and that to mean tight-fitting he uses the neologism “cablestitch,” one gets a clear idea of the novel’s prose, which hinges entirely on adjectives and slang expressions. The syntactic structure unfolds without order (like thoughts chasing one another), and the English vocabulary is frequently qualified by the verbal turns of American Judaism. It is an exhilarating read, though the book must be taken in all in one breath. Otherwise, one risks getting lost in the disordered succession of tales and characters. Beyond the obvious vocation for sensational sex, as the author calls it, the overarching thread of the novel can be identified in rules—and the need to break them. > What else, I ask you, were all those dietary prohibitions and rules you started out with (from an early age), what else if not to give us little Jewish children the habit of being repressed? Practice, darling, practice, practice, practice. Inhibition doesn’t grow on trees, you know; it takes patience, it demands concentration, it requires attentive, self-sacrificing parents and an obedient child dedicated to hard work, so as to produce in just a few short years a truly inhibited, tight-assed human being . It is evident that this revulsion toward rules has its roots in Jewish society, toward which the author directs a caustic critique, even if, deep down, one rich in affection and nostalgia. It is no accident that the protagonist’s flight ends precisely in Israel, as if in search of tradition and steadfast roots. The theme of prohibitions is nonetheless a subject of universal significance, considering the incessant appeal to moral codes and behavioral norms made by self-styled, and often hypocritical, spiritual and religious authorities. Why read it? It is an entertaining novel, but it must be experienced through an excellent translation.

The novel is set in England and Italy. Isabel is a young American woman who, having been left an orphan, moves to England to live with her aunt and the latter's husband, an exceedingly wealthy banker. She befriends her cousin, Ralph, who is, however, an invalid; she also receives two marriage proposals—one from a very wealthy lord and another from a young, promising American entrepreneur—both of which she rejects, surprising everyone, as she intends to remain independent and free in order to discover the world and herself. At Ralph's urging, the uncle leaves Isabel a substantial fortune, which makes her rich and allows her to travel and live with considerable financial autonomy. Upon her uncle's death, she follows her aunt to Italy, first to Sanremo and then to Florence, where she once again meets Madame Merle, a brilliant and well-connected woman who arranges for the young woman to meet and spend time with Gilbert Osmond, an American living in Florence, collecting and studying works of art. Isabel is captivated by Gilbert Osmond, by his culture and refinement, and after a long journey with Madame Merle, she decides to marry him, despite the opposition of Ralph, her aunt, and her best friend, a brilliant American journalist. The marriage proves to be a failure, as Osmond turns out to be a selfish, conventional, and duplicitous man who married Isabel solely for her money. Isabel feels crushed by this man, who seeks to bend her to his will and to his view of life—one founded on hypocrisy and formalism, in stark contrast to Isabel's independent, pragmatic spirit. The latter lives in profound conflict, torn between the commitment she undertook by marrying (conventions, societal rules, etc. ) and her pursuit of happiness and autonomy. Her cousin’s grave illness, bringing him to the point of death, prompts her to return to England, even in defiance of her husband's wishes. Meanwhile, she learns that Madame Merle is the mother of her husband's daughter and that, to secure the girl a prosperous future, she orchestrated Isabel's marriage to Osmond. Isabel realizes she has been betrayed and that her true friends are those from her youth—the American journalist and the young entrepreneur—as well as her cousin. Having returned to England, she attends to her cousin until his death, and then, following a dramatic confrontation with the American entrepreneur, who tries to persuade her to leave her husband, she returns to the latter in their Roman home. Isabel, the central figure, is a disconcerting character, poised between the desire for independence and social duty to such a degree that she sacrifices her own happiness for the sake of the latter: beneath an appearance of strength and autonomy, there emerges a weak character, incapable not only of making vigorous decisions and taking decisive action, but also of truly knowing herself, of being able to admit to herself and to others that she was wrong. Isabel is a defeated figure, moving among strong personalities who seek to control her and impose their will upon her, with the sole exception of her cousin, who, even when mistaken, wishes to help and listen to her until the very end. In truth, all the characters operate within this tension between modernity and tradition: the brilliant American journalist, who champions American society and female independence, ultimately marries an English nobleman; Osmond's daughter is obedient to her father's wishes, despite longing to live with the young man she loves; Madame Merle, who seemed so independent of men, is in fact revealed to be a pathetic woman who commits a series of ignoble acts for the love of a man, Osmond, who does not want her and holds her in contempt. The book's message ultimately appears conservative: a woman cannot find her path without a man and without accepting social rules. In this sense, though very different in setting and style, the novel shares many affinities with *Madame Bovary* and *Anna Karenina*. Another theme of the book is undoubtedly the contrast between American society—full of energy and attentive to essentials—and European society, decadent and frivolous. This contrast is expressed, admirably and with great insight, in the depiction of landscapes and settings, such as the novel’s opening pages (the description of the English estate’s garden), the introduction to the Florentine episodes, and above all, the Roman backdrop. Isabel's house in Rome, with its vast, cold rooms, its relics and antique furniture, and Isabel’s walk among the ruins of Roman antiquity are magnificent pages, clearly revealing the decadence and ruin of a society destined to succumb and destroy, rather than to create. Italy is a simulacrum for Isabel and for American vitality. It remains unclear whether the author intended to grant the relationship between Ralph and Isabel a broader and deeper significance than mere cousinly affection; one is left with the impression that the two failed to express their mutual love, thus introducing another theme of profound interest: the difficulty of communicating genuine feelings and expressing what one thinks and feels with sincerity. Only in the face of death do Ralph and Isabel fully express their love for one another. The author's style is circuitous and complex, demanding intense concentration to follow the trajectory of sentences and paragraphs: it is therefore not an easy read, although one must acknowledge that the narrative structure is profoundly effective and produces, at times, striking impressions and almost pictorial imagery. The character analysis never achieves psychological depth, remaining ever on the surface; yet, in truth, they are symptomatic of a social role rather than fully realized individuals. The themes of feminism, social change, and the clash between societies seem to take precedence over the autonomous life of the characters. The revelation of Madame Merle's motherhood and her affair with Osmond is a lapse in style, bringing the novel close to modern melodrama and providing Isabel’s behavior (the decision to go to England against her husband’s will) with an external motive that weakens her resolve.

The novel is set in Mexico during the period of civil wars between 1911 and 1924, when various revolutionary governments pursued a vigorous anti-Catholic policy in open opposition to the Church of Rome. The protagonist is a priest, a «whisky priest», an alcoholic, father to a daughter he abandoned, a coward to the point of letting hostages who refused to betray him be condemned to death; in short, a «bad priest». Hunted for years by the police, he manages to cross the border, and once he is finally safe, he decides to return to Mexico to hear the confession of a dying murderer. He is subsequently captured and executed by firing squad: he dies like a saint, and the Church ultimately triumphs. Generally interpreted through a religious lens as a celebration of the superiority of faith and the Church’s capacity to continually rise again from persecution, the most compelling part of the novel lies in its depiction of the profound material and human squalor of a poor, wretched society in which—and to whose detriment—the protagonist’s ordeal unfolds. It is peasant, mestizo Mexico, composed of uneducated people endowed with great dignity and a religiosity so naive and deeply felt that they are willing to risk their lives to preserve it. The pages describing the priest’s arrival in the village where he was once parish priest and where he had a lover (if only for a single night) who bore him a daughter are deeply evocative. The villagers are afraid and urge him to leave, yet they shelter him, asking to confess and to attend Mass, even though the soldiers are only a few miles away. When the troops arrive, take a hostage, and interrogate the villagers, the priest hides and remains unbetrayed. In this circumstance, as in others, there emerges the stark contrast between the strength of the peasants’ feelings and the vacuity of the protagonist, who, the moment he resumes his sacerdotal role, instantly recovers the arrogance, smugness, and self-assurance of a man who knows he holds the conscience of the people in his hands. Far from being a novel celebrating the Church of Rome! Perhaps in spite of the author’s own intentions, what emerges with dramatic force is the desolation of a religion founded on hypocrisy and the manipulation of consciences. The novel seems almost a companion piece to Dostoevsky’s splendid dialogue between Christ and the Grand Inquisitor. The novel ought to have concluded at the end of the second part, when the priest finally finds a church and > si sedette improvvisamente sul prato intriso di pioggia e appoggiando la testa contro la parete bianca cadde addormentato, con la casa dietro le spalle. Il suo sogno fu pieno di suoni gioiosi . Instead, the author chose to provide a conclusion that exalted sacrifice, burdened with a long, tedious description of the capture, implausible conversations between the priest and a police officer, and a final celebration featuring the reappearance of another priest: utterly gratuitous chapters that severely compromise the quality of the book in terms of both content and narrative pacing. The style is characteristically Greene’s, structured across different episodes and undeniably evocative in its portrayal of atmosphere; as usual, however, the dialogue and the psychological introspection of the characters fall short of the vivid illustration of the setting.

In early nineteenth-century English society, what matters are the rules of polite society: courteous and amiable manners, marriageable young women of moderate education, and advantageous marriages that offer the prospect of stability and prosperity. Appearance, much like money, reigns supreme. Two characters stand as exceptions to these two golden rules: Elizabeth, the second of five sisters from a modest family, and Darcy, a wealthy young man of high lineage. Elizabeth is a proud and independent young woman who refuses to let her destiny be determined by others: “I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness.” Darcy is a taciturn, blunt, and disagreeable man, concerned only with acting according to his own convictions without answering to anyone. Yet, a society built upon appearances can prove a trap for a proud young woman. The rumours circulating about Darcy are disparaging, driving Elizabeth to reject his marriage proposal with disdain: wealth cannot compensate for the poor opinion she has formed of him! Yet pride can lead to prejudice when substance is overlooked. It is the unfolding of events, the account of the young man’s childhood, and the visit to the estate where he grew up—in short, a deeper acquaintance—that lead Elizabeth to perceive Darcy’s true character and allow her love for him to mature slowly. Yet it will be Elizabeth’s strength of character that enables her to overcome the resistance and pressure of Darcy’s relatives, who refuse to accept an alliance deemed far too modest. Pride and prejudice are two sides of the same problem: wrapped up in oneself, confined within one's own world, one is incapable of understanding others. > She was ashamed of herself. She could not think of Darcy without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd. “How despicably have I acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity, in useless and blameable distrust. How humiliating is this discovery!” It is an exceedingly modern book, one that invites deeper understanding and open, unprejudiced judgment. Written in elegant English, it is nonetheless weighed down by the complexity of its syntactic structure, demanding a close and not always effortless reading. The narrative pace is slow and ultimately predictable. With the exception of Elizabeth, the characters are often stereotypical, flat, and devoid of vitality. Why read it? The book’s charm resides in the figure of Elizabeth: an already modern woman in pursuit of self-affirmation.