Fool Me Once by Harlan Coben

 

It’s been over a decade since I last read a book by Harlan Coben, so I was quietly looking forward to seeing how his writing had evolved since then. In his early days, Coben enjoyed instant success with the protagonist, Myron Bolitar, as a sports agent come crime buster whose exploits unfolded across a series of seven books. I gobbled these up with relish until Coben bravely (or foolishly) drew a line under his golden egg-laying character to prove to himself that he was capable of writing a non-Bolitar novel. Well, if ‘Fool Me Once’, is anything to go by, then I am not sure he has realised this ambition. This is not an uncommon writing conundrum for those particular authors who have been locked into a series of detective novels with the same leading character. Ian Rankin had a similar problem with John Rebus when he unsuccessfully attempted to break away from the restraints of such a successful character to try pastures new. Of course, it’s not just an authorial issue, it’s also pressures of public demand and the publishers that compel writers to keep writing the same character. It’s the age old battle between accountants and artistic integrity.

Unlike the Bolitar novels where Coben’s characters were sharp, muscular and quirky, in ‘Fool Me Once’ they are formless, flat and disconnected. The leading lady, Maya, vacillates between hard-nosed action woman who worked in the armed services and a sensitive, beautiful, caring mother. I found little depth to her character and even less to those that prop up the scenes as the narrative bumps and hiccoughs along with little cohesion and flow. The plot revolves around the apparently unconnected murders of Maya’s husband and sister and her subsequent plight to find the truth, but halfway through I had lost interest and the plot. Characters pop up at convenient times to move the story along with fresh information, but with little conviction or sense. It’s all a bit clumsy, contrived and unconvincing. I like the informal, chatty style of Coben’s narration, but this time it seemed littered with American jargon and cultural references that left me feeling a somewhat bemused and alienated reader. Have my reading tastes moved on? or has Coben’s writing lost its spark? A bit of both is the likely answer. The ending continues the downhill trajectory of this listless story, and, to be frank, by then the pages were turning ever more rapidly as I sprinted to the finish. The last chapter wraps up the story in a mawkish, muddled and, dare I say, almost comic fashion. It would have been kinder to scrap it and leave it at that. ‘Fool Me Once’ feels like a book that has been written by an author that has run out of imaginative steam. So it’s a fond farewell to Harlan from this particular fan. My review, an unforgiving 5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

A Pale View by Kazuo Ishiguro

This little gem was Ishiguro’s first foray into the overcrowded world of publishing, and the editor blessed with picking up this particular manuscript must have felt like all his Christmases and birthdays had come at once (with red-coated cavalry guards trumpeting a fanfare) as this package of perfection floated onto his desk (I realise that the first draft may have required a few tweaks here and there, but let’s not spoil the illusion).


I have read all of Ishiguro’s books and on reading this one it had me thinking what it is I like so much about his writing, and therefore, of course, why you, fellow reader, might be tempted to read one too. Ishiguro loves to play games with his reader, be it mind or plot games. What often starts off as a seemingly ‘normal’, almost benign story, slowly unravels before the reader’s eyes into something much more sinister and engrossing. Ishiguro is a master literary magician using various narrative tricks to confuse and unbalance the reader at each stage of the tale. Reading one of his books is somewhat like traversing a high, narrow mountain trail, the wind buffeting you, your feet slipping on the uneven, scree-strewn path as you peer over the side to the valley far below. It’s heady stuff.

A Pale View of Hills doesn’t disappoint on that front. For a novel it’s short in length at 183 pages, but Ishiguro makes every word count. It tells the story of a Japanese woman living in England who is looking back on her life in Japan in the aftermath of the dropping of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki. Ishiguro gently takes the reader by the hand and then leads them slowly but inexorably into the very dark world, and mind, of the protagonist and her increasingly disturbing relationships with her family and friends, now and in her past. The plot of the novel is subtle and not where the writer places his emphasis; this is much more about drilling down into a protagonist’s psychology and coming up with oil.

There is an indefinable disturbance at the heart of the narrative, an unsettling and unrealised tremor that feels like it is ready to explode. The denouement is equally disquieting and perplexing and, wondering if somehow I had overlooked something important, I found myself rereading a section just to make sure. One sentence and the whole story is turned on its head. This is not a twist as such, just a cryptic character revelation, as if Ishiguro is saying with a wry smile, you decide.


The greatest compliment I can pay to Ishiguro is to say that in many decades to come future generations of readers will be browsing their online libraries and their figuratiive fingers will alight on an Ishiguro novel, and they will say to themselves, I have been meaning to read this author, maybe now is the time. Maybe now it’s yours too. My book review, an I-am-not-worthy 9.5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

A Kind of Eden by Amanda Smyth

An intriguing writer is Amanda Smyth. Intriguing in a I-can’t-quite-make-up-my-mind way. This was one of my ‘blind picks’ as I like to call them, a way of trying out new authors to keep my reading fresh, rather than sticking with the usual suspects. So I browse through the library randomly picking up books. I’ve no idea what attracts to me to a particular book, a particular author, what it is that stops my roving eye as it scans the bookshelves and urges me to lift it from its place. Something about the title? The front cover? Book in hand, I will read the blurb about the story, then about the author, then any testimonials if there are any. After that, if not sure, I will read a page or two, but that’s unusual. It surprises me how often I am happy with my choice. But not always.


Why did I choose this book? The fact that it is described as ‘a thriller that reads like literature of the highest quality’ would have appealed. I do love a nerve-tingling, keep-you-guessing thriller whose prose sparks off fireworks in your imagination. And so it was that I sat down with that thrum of excitement in the pit of my belly and opened to the first page.

This is not a thriller. There are elements of the thriller within, but in the main this is a character-driven story about human frailty and adversity. The main protagonist has moved away from his family in the UK to Trinidad for gainful employment in the police force so he can pay the bills. Left on his own, he embarks on an affair with a much younger Trinidadian and the story picks up the somewhat lethargic tempo, in keeping with the laid back lifestyle and the oppressive heat, with his wife and daughter visiting him and the complications that then ensue. Without giving too much away, the family have already suffered tragedy and there are further crises for them to bear in the Caribbean. There is a policeman and there is a crime, but this is no Morse, nor is it meant to be.

Smyth explores a number of themes in the narrative, including coping with tragedy; midlife crisis; trust; separation, geographical and emotional; family responsibilities; and love in all its many guises. It’s all handled competently enough, the characters are complex and fallible, and the narrative keeps you engaged, mostly. But there is nothing particularly original here other than the setting, which is unusual, and written about thoughtfully and truthfully. The thriller aspect adds some spice to the tale, but the ending seems contrived, an attempt to resolve the crime aspect of the story, but unsuccessfully. My main problem is with the protagonist who appears to bumble around the island without much of a moral compass and appears somewhat weak and ineffectual and, therefore, difficult to sympathise or engage with as a reader. Does this work as a piece of writing? I’m scratching my head. Will I read another of Smyth’s books? Probably not. My review, a puzzled 6/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

‘ Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again.’ I read this famous first line as a young boy aged 12 whilst lying in my sick bed bored and in desperate need of entertainment. I sighed at what to a child appeared to be a tome at just over 400 pages and began to read my first adult novel. Within a short time Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca had transported a young lad from his dull bedroom to the enticing, mysterious world of Manderley and its surroundings.

The tale of Rebecca begins in the dazzling sunshine of the French Riviera where the protagonist and narrator, a nameless young woman of indeterminate age, attracts the attention of the much older and more worldly-wise Maxim de Winter, a wealthy widower who holds some standing in society, that is according to the gossipy Mrs Van Hopper who has hired the young woman as her companion. They fall madly in love, marry and, after a luxurious honeymoon in Italy, return to Maxim’s country pile nestled on the coast of Cornwall. And so it would be easy for the reader to be fooled into believing that they can settle down now to a cosy romance story, if it wasn’t for those first few pages that has left a rather niggling, unsettled feeling in the dark recesses of the mind. Du Maurier is a master at foreshadowing, planting those little time bombs in the reader’s mind that are primed to explode at just the right moment later in the story.

Our suspicions are realised as we enter the imposing edifice of Manderley alongside the narrator and meet the cold, inscrutable black-clad Mrs Danvers, the head housekeeper, and it slowly dawns on us that our cosy, romantic illusions have been shattered and a much more sinister and enticing journey lies ahead. And thank God for that I can hear my 12-year old self cry inwardly.


Thereafter the story unfolds through the insecure eyes of the new Mrs de Winter as she slowly but surely succumbs to the shadowy darkness of the spirit of the old Mrs de Winter, the wild and beautiful Rebecca, the jealous trickery of Mrs Danvers, the unpredictable moods of Maxim, and the heavy burden of running Manderley.


There are plenty of unanswered questions too to keep the reader turning the pages. How did Rebecca die? What was the relationship between Mrs Danvers and Rebecca? For that matter, between Maxim and Rebecca? Will Maxim’s and the narrator’s relationship survive? And so on. All will be revealed, fear not, in the author’s own sweet time and in ways unimagined. Du Maurier shows real literary craftsmanship in handling the plot, characters and narrative. The story is paced perfectly with small climaxes, red herrings, twists and misconceptions to keep the easily bored engaged. The first person narrative is used to clever effect to lead the reader down gaping rabbit warrens and dead ends. There is murder, a shipwreck, blackmail, attempted murder and arson. And the twist at the end is a revelation. Forty or so years on and having finished it again for the umpteenth time, it still has the ability to cast its spell over me.

It’s no surprise that Rebecca has sold in excess of 30 million copies worldwide, but despite this, or maybe, in spite of this, the acclaim of the critics that du Maurier so desperately sought was never realised in her lifetime. They insisted in labelling her a Gothic Romance novelist, which is plain lazy. That’s like describing ‘Jaws’ as a book about three blokes going on a fishing trip. Du Maurier defied classification and it’s no surprise that Alfred Hitchcock, the well-renowned director and ‘master of suspense’, took on the challenge of transposing the narrative into a dark, ominous film using his trademark style.


I strongly urge you to read this book if you haven’t yet, and if you have, read it again. If you would like to find out more about du Maurier’s life then visit her website at www.dumaurier.org and/or read the biography by Tatiana de Rosnay, a beautifully-written tribute by a true fan. It was Rebecca’s 80th anniversary last year and the filming of a new adaptation of the book begins in May with Lily James and Armie Hammer. My review, a nostalgic and laudatory 10/10.


Thank you for reading my review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.