Ok, more book discussion:
I'm reading this book that I picked up at a used bookstore on the recommendation of the store clerk--who, incidentally, hated Wicked and loved Hesse, if that tells you anything...(yeah, it didn't really tell me anything). It's called The Club Dumas, by Arturo Perez-Reverte, and it purports to be a literary detective novel, along the lines of Possession, Ever After, and The Thirteenth Tale. Which is why I was intrigued. But I tell you what, I am only 40 pages in, and I am so utterly fed up with the prose that I'm thinking of chucking it. I mean, there's a lot of books out there and life is short.

I'm finding myself less and less tolerant of bad fiction. I mean, I gave up the Christian romance genre around my junior year in high school and the Left Behind series not long after that. I really never got into the pop spy novels, thrillers, and mysteries--Tom Clancy and Mary Higgins Clark and so on--and other than Bridget Jones, I haven't been into the chick lit much either. But lately I've become really critical even of authors that I usually enjoy--Tamora Pierce, for example, and Eoin Colfer. Children's authors, granted, but generally children are even less tolerant of a boring paragraph or repetitive plot than adults. Anyway, not to be all elitist (or, hmm, maybe I am...) but I just have to wonder how these people get published with such sloppy sentences and cliched characters.

Anyway, in the interest of giving Mr. Perez-Reverte a fair go, I present to you the evidence against him. Leave a comment with your Yay or Nay vote.

First, the concessions: 1) Yes, this is a novel in translation. Therefore, some of the faults to be listed before you may be laid at the door of the translator, one Sonia Soto; 2) There may well be cultural differences in style that I am not savvy enough to identify (resident Spanish lit expert, feel free to chime in any time...); 3) Writing about a popular serial novel, the author may be trying to replicate some of the sensational characteristics of the genre, although I would argue that it should be made much clearer to the reader if that's the case (and it could certainly be done more skillfully, if you ask me).

Ok, on to the bashing:
First, the most elementary rule of fiction (and believe me, a high school writing teacher, when I tell you it is the most elementary) is that you should show, not tell, details of characterization. The famous quote about this is from Mark Twain, who said, "Don't say the old lady screamed. Bring her on and let her scream." In light of that, there should be no excuse for this:

He was always on the lookout, and always liked to use short sentences in
conversation. (19)*

I'm sorry, but will this character never have any dialogue, that you can't have him using short sentences and therefore communicate to the reader more subtly that this character likes to use short sentences? This is the equivalent of introducing a friend at a party with "Daniel,this is Sheila. Sheila enjoys horse-riding and comes from New Zealand."** It's clunky. Or how about this one:

La Ponte brightened. He grinned from ear to ear. "I'll save that story for
another time." He sounded like someone who has just remembered he has a
brilliant trick up his sleeve. (27)

Thank you, Captain Obvious. What? You mean La Ponte has a brilliant trick up his sleeve? And he's just remembered it? Good thing I'm such an astute reader that I can figure this stuff out!

Ok, so we have the overstated characterization. Also, there are a number of moments where you just have to wonder exactly what planet the author lives on that he comes up with this stuff. Exhibit A:

However fragile the oversized coat made him appear, with his rodentlike incisors
and calm expression Corso was as solid as a concrete block. (9)

Does anyone see a connection between having rodentlike incisors and being as solid as a concrete block? Want to enlighten me? Because although there are some parallels between calmness and solidity, I can't seem to come up with any causal link, however tenuous, between the appearance of one's front teeth and one's tendency to be immoveable. Yet the sentence insists on it. Maybe it's me.

Exhibit B:

Her overdeveloped biceps weren't the only masculine thing about her. (21)

I really don't even need to comment on this one, do I?

Exhibit C:

Zizi upped and left, furious and vindictive. (22)

Isn't "up and left" good enough? Sometimes you have to make a choice between technical correctness and readability.

Exhibit D:

But one glance at her slate-gray eyes and he gave up. They were about as warm as
a Scandinavian fjord at three in the morning. (26)

This one has the faint flavor of Douglas Adams. That's a compliment, but only in certain contexts.

Exhibit E:

As for him, he tried to hold Liana Taillefer's gaze through his crooked glasses,
avoiding her roaring reefs--to the south her legs and to the north her bust...
(30-1)

Now, where exactly are her eyes? Are we looking at a Picassoid form here? Because, having all of the above-mentioned parts myself, I can tell you that they aren't exactly in that arrangement. (And a stiff no comment on "her roaring reefs").

Ever heard of a Tom Swifty? It's a dialogue tag with an adverb or adverbial phrase connected to it, particularly if the adverb makes a pun on the dialogue. It comes from an old, boys' mystery series, in which the hero, Tom Swift, always said things loudly, or interestedly, or sincerely, or kindly, or commandingly, or with a smile, or with a shake of his curly head. Now, Stephen King maintains that descriptive adverbs are always superfluous, because if you've done your work in characterization, the reader should already know how a character would say each line--or, failing that, you should give the clues within the dialogue itself. Personally, I would say that that's a little excessive, but the principle holds. To quote Stephen King again, you don't want your prose to become a parlor game. (Example: "I only have clubs, diamonds, and spades," Tom said heartlessly.)

So read each of these, and ask yourself whether the meaning would still be clear with the adverb or adverbial phrase left out (and note that all these--and more-- are within only ten pages of each other):

• "You can imagine all the copies went onto a big bonfire." Corso frowned evilly. (24)
• Makarova smiled contemptuously at the fate of Torchia the printer... (24)
• "Maybe they're all forgeries," Makarova suggested sensibly. (25)
• "Oh yes?" said La Ponte, intrigued. (21)
• "People do all sorts of things," Makarova pointed out sagely. (25)
• On hearing the word suicide, La Ponte nodded lugubriously. (27)
• "It's nice to feel loved," he said bitterly. (26)
• "Somebody's in for a surprise," Taillefer told me mysteriously. (26)
• La Ponte looked at him mischievously. "Give me time. I'm still young." (19)
• "All right, all right," said La Ponte equably.
• "Anyway, it doesn't matter." La Ponte was looking around distractedly. (19)
• "You're being unnecessarily cruel," said La Ponte impartially. (18)
• He drank some beer and winked conspiratorially. "That neat maneuver is known as nailing a library." "I know what it's called." Corso smiled malevolently. (18)

So, I ask you: is there any other way of winking than conspiratorially? If someone is in for a surprise, isn't that by definition mysterious? Doesn't saying, "oh, yes?" with some upward intonation mean that you're intrigued? If you're smiling at someone's dark fate, can we not infer that you are being contemptuous? And doesn't the word suicide bring out the lugubrious in everyone?

Ok, I'll have mercy on you and leave it there. But I would just like to point out that I also found misplaced modifiers, sentence fragments that were not stylistically appropriate, and dozens of instances of general awkwardness. And several times I was pulled out of the story by the writing, which, as I continually tell my sophomores, is what you don't want to happen to your reader.

However, according to the back cover, the New York Times Book Review called it "A thriller of marvelous intricacy." And I am only 40 pages in. Or, hey, maybe I should keep it around as cannon fodder. What do you think? Should I give old Arturo another 20 pages to redeem himself, or instead try to redeem a few of my own wasted dollars at the used bookstore's buy-back counter?


* Perez-Reverte, Arturo. The Club Dumas. Trans. Sonia Soto. Orlando: Harvest, 1993.
**Bridget Jones reference...

Labels: books, rants, writing

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The shorter and more manageable of today's posts