A Terrible Country by Keith Gessen

Published by Viking on July 10, 2018

The terrible country in the title of Keith Gessen’s novel is Russia. Terrible because of its political leaders, its oligarchs, and its economy, not because of its people, most of whom, like people everywhere in the world, are just trying to find a route to happiness, or at least survival. The novel is political in a personal way, but it also tells a moving family story that focuses on a young man’s conflict as he decides what to do about an elderly Russian grandmother who, while no longer capable of living alone, does not want to move from the apartment where she has lived for fifty years. Many of her memories are being lost to dementia, but the apartment is her anchor, where familiar streets and markets provide safety and comfort.

When his older brother Dima asks Andrei Kaplan to come to Moscow to stay with their grandmother, Andrei decides he has no reason to remain in New York, where he has lived since the age of six. He has a graduate degree in Russian literature but no real job. Dima has gone to London and needs Andrei to help their grandmother because she is experiencing the early stages of dementia. Andrei is hoping to find something sufficiently interesting and specialized that he can focus on in Russia to jumpstart his American academic career, something that might lead to a series of esoteric journal articles that would catch the attention of a hiring committee. His experiences eventually affect his professional life in ways he did not anticipate.

Andrei’s impression of Moscow in 2008 gives credence to the novel’s title. It is dingy, dilapidated, and dysfunctional, populated by people who are even ruder than New Yorkers. Goods are overpriced; residents are either wealthy swindlers who have mastered capitalism or their impoverished victims. Andrei’s life in Moscow is also terrible. His American girlfriend broke up with him, and he has no success with women in Russia until he meets a young idealist named Yulia. A thug beats him with a pistol, he can’t find a pickup hockey game that will allow him to play, he doesn’t like the people with whom he tries to make friends, he feels like he is failing his grandmother, and he hates the online teaching he’s doing to earn a meager living. On top of all that, Dima does not seem to have a clear plan to return to Russia to take over the burden of caring for their grandmother. Having created debt he cannot repay without selling the grandmother’s apartment, Dima might be in trouble if he does return.

The political aspects of the story illustrate the fundamental disagreements among intellectuals inside and outside of Russia. Liberal reformers focus on free speech and due process, both of which are jokes in a country ruled by an autocrat who has dissenters killed. Socialist reformers seek economic justice, but as it was last practiced in Russia, communism benefitted rulers, not the masses. A Terrible Country makes the point that ordinary Russians might be influenced to support nationalist appeals to view outsiders as the enemy, but for the most part regard debates about political reform as irrelevant to a country that never changes.

The story of Andrei’s grandmother is sad but universal. While Muscovites can adapt to the hardship of living in Russia, the hardship of living with dementia knows no boundaries. In other respects, the story is intellectually intriguing rather than emotionally gripping. Gessen creates Andrei in detail, giving him the kind of complexity and inner turmoil that makes a character believable, but he is drifting through life and can’t seem to seize opportunities for personal growth. It is only his dedication to his grandmother that makes him sympathetic.

Andrei’s love story with Yulia is wrapped up in the larger political story, and they are such strange bedfellows that it is difficult to believe they will stay together — which makes it difficult to care whether they do or don’t. Even if A Terrible Country doesn’t resonate on an emotional level, Gessen’s strong prose style conveys a convincing sense of Moscow in the Putin era while encouraging readers to think about how meaningless labels like “communism” and “capitalism” are when applied to a nation ruled by autocrats and thieves.

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Past Tense by Lee Child

Published by Delacorte Press on November 5, 2018

The fact that a new Reacher novel is published the day before an election is no excuse to stay home on Election Day. Get out and vote, then spend the rest of the day reading.

How often do thriller writers have fresh ideas? Not often enough. To his credit, Lee Child managed to invent something new in Past Tense. The main plot isn’t entirely original in concept, but the execution is unique. By the time the concept is revealed, the reader is hooked.

A relatively young man and woman from Canada are driving their Civic through New Hampshire when the car begins to overheat. They can’t abandon the car because they are carrying a heavy suitcase, the contents of which are a mystery. They’re on one of those tree-lined roads for which New Hampshire is famous, far from civilization, when they see a sign for a motel. Their car limps down a side road, where one of the motel owners fiddles with the car, then sets them up in room 10.

The next morning, the car won’t start at all. It will be another day before a mechanic can arrive. By that time, the couple have their doubts about the legitimacy of the motel and its owner. Their doubts are validated when they find themselves locked in room 10, their every word and action recorded on hidden microphones and cameras, as carefully selected guests begin to arrive in anticipation of . . . well, they know what will happen to the couple, but the reader doesn’t.

Meanwhile, Reacher is hitchhiking when he finds himself near the small New Hampshire town where his father was born. He decides to take a look. Being Reacher, it takes only a day before he has been in two fights and made two deadly enemies, one with ties to serious criminals in Boston. The town’s chief of police would like Reacher to leave before thugs descend on the town, spewing collateral damage in all directions. Reacher would like to oblige, but his investigation has triggered evidence that his father’s history is not what he expected it to be. Curiosity overcomes safety, so Reacher stays near the town, which is near the mysterious motel.

The motel storyline builds tension at a deliberate pace. Child weaves Reacher’s scenes into the story to add interludes of action, because Reacher is never in a scene for long before a jaw gets broken. Thus action and suspense are blended with skill so that neither the suspense nor the action become dull. The mystery surrounding Reacher’s father gives the story another dimension.

Reacher is one of the best thriller protagonists, not because he has the extraordinary fighting abilities that are standard issue for thriller heroes, but because he combines those abilities with close observation and deduction. He’s the Sherlock Holmes of thriller protagonists. If Sherlock had beaten villains to a pulp, he would have been the first Reacher. He also makes clever conversation without trying to be clever. It’s hard not to like Reacher.

But I liked Past Tense not just because Reacher is Reacher, but because Child allowed other characters to have their moments of glory. This isn’t a story of Reacher saving helpless victims, although he certainly plays that role. The victims, however, are resourceful and far form helpless. Child makes it possible for the reader to cheer for multiple characters, even for a few who are living normal, sedate, small town lives, simply because they are good, helpful people who aren’t filled with hate or anger. He even tosses in an understated love story to make readers feel good about the world, in between all the scenes of people getting maimed and killed. In the end, it’s all very satisfying, and one of Lee Child’s best Reacher novels.

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#SAD!: Doonesbury in the Time of Trump by G.B. Trudeau

Published by Andrews McMeel Publishing on September 18, 2018

Satire doesn’t change minds, but good-natured mockery can be therapeutic. That, at least, is Garry Trudeau’s theory. Even as President Trump mocks everyone he perceives as an enemy (in childish terms that are far from good-natured), he hates being mocked. Hence this collection. And since I have been a Doonesbury fan from Doonesbury’s first appearance in my local paper a very long time ago, I am well acquainted with the therapeutic benefits of Trudeau’s political humor. Never has it been needed more.

It’s easy to mock Donald Trump. Every time he opens his mouth or Twitter account, he provides a satirist with new material. Trump’s self-aggrandizement, his claims that everything to which he is connected is the biggest or the best, have become a form of unwitting self-mockery. Trudeau’s satire zeroes in on the president’s ill-informed opinions (“TrumpFacts” is an alternative reality service that provides callers with alternative facts), his rambling, vague, and self-contradictory proclamations, and his habit of blaming everyone around him for problems of his own making. I particularly liked the strip in which Trump blames Paul Ryan for failing to keep the promises that Trump made (“the best promises in history”).

Trudeau widens his net to mock Breitbart, Bill O’Reilly, disinformation in Texas textbooks, and voter suppression efforts, among other political targets. He also takes an occasional break to check in with Zonker’s quest for spiritual awareness (and marijuana business), Roland Hedley’s tweets, Joan Caucus’ takes on post-feminism, and Sam’s disbelief that a feminist movement was ever needed to advance an idea as obvious as gender equality (it’s like a movement to make people believe in gravity).

The first pages document the Trump campaign and the rest of the strips track the early stages of the Trump presidency. He also takes some digs at Rick Perry, Marco Rubio, the wall, congressional hypocrisy, and evangelical hypocrisy (Christian values aren’t what they used to be). Isn’t it fun to live in the age of Trump?

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Firefly by Henry Porter

First published in Great Britain; published by Grove Atlantic/Mysterious Press on October 2, 2018

Stories about plucky young refugees are always good for some heartwarming moments. Firefly combines a refugee story with elements of a spy novel and an action thriller. The plot is smart, the characters are complex, and the detailed atmosphere contributes a sense of realism to the story.

Firefly begins with a young Syrian refugee named Naji who is trying not to drown after his raft capsizes. Naji has stolen some information from a terrorist who wants to marry (enslave) Naji’s sister. Naji’s hope is to make his way to Germany, where he can establish himself and send for his family. But Naji is being chased by the terrorist whose information he hid the in the cloud, and the key to the cloud is hidden in the battered cellphone he uses to stay in touch with his sister.

The novel’s other primary character is Paul Samson, a former intelligence operative who is recruited by the SIS to find Naji. A psychologist named Anastasia who worked in one of the refugee camps befriended Naji, learned that he is being pursued by terrorists, and contacted officials who put Samson on the case. Samson is skilled at finding people, and he puts those skills to use as he follows Naji’s trail through Macedonia.

Samson is brave but he’s no superhero, which makes him both believable and sympathetic. Samson relies on his wits rather than muscles and guns. He stands apart from all the former Special Forces thriller heroes who can outfight twenty terrorists at a time. His personality balances darkness with decency.

Naji is cunning and resourceful, but also compassionate. He treats his harrowing journey as an opportunity for learning and growth, but he never stops being a kid who has been forced into an adult world. And he falls in love with a dog, which makes him a good kid. All novels are improved by the inclusion of a dog.

Firefly maintains a steady pace without shortchanging the details that bring stories and characters to life. Henry Porter depicts the problems faced by refugees who flee oppressive regimes with sensitivity that is free from maudlin sentiment. In short, Firefly does everything well. It is one of the most enjoyable thrillers I’ve read this year.

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Mad, Bad, Dangerous to Know by Colm Tóibín

Published by Scribner on October 30, 2018

Colm Tóibín begins Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know with an essay that melds the literary history of Dublin with the city’s sociopolitical history. Wilde and Yeats and Joyce and Beckett and Stoker and Shaw and many other writers and poets are still alive in the city’s memory, still called to mind by certain streets and structures. From that stroll, Tóibín journeys to three essays about “prodigal fathers” who, at least for a time, called Dublin home.

Sir William Wilde was the father of Oscar Wilde, but Tóibín begins the essay with a discussion of Oscar Wilde’s two-year imprisonment at Reading Gaol, during which Wilde wrote De Profundis in the form of an angry letter to his lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, whose father, the Marquess of Queensbury, played an instrumental role in causing Wilde’s sodomy conviction. We eventually learn about Oscar’s father William, a doctor, archeologist, statistician, and man of learning who straddled England and Ireland.

William’s life was at least tangentially touched by the longstanding conflict between Dubliners who advocated independence and Home Rule and those who opposed separation from England. William is almost tangential to the essay, which tells us at least as much about William’s friends and acquaintances as it does about William. Much of the essay’s interest comes from its description of a time in which “revolutionary fervor in Ireland was ill-fated, half-hearted or part of a literary rather than a serious political culture.” William’s life is a good deal less interesting than Oscar’s, although he did manage to work a scandal into his High Society life involving a scorned and vindictive lover.

John Yeats is the most interesting of the three fathers that Toibin profiles. Toibin compares John to the father of the novelist Henry James: “they sought self-realization through art and general inquiry.” (John earns a gold star from me for his belief that Henry James’ novels are unbearably tedious.) Unfortunately, self-realization doesn’t pay the bills.

To the dismay of his wife, John Yeats abandoned the study of law to pursue a career as an artist. He was never satisfied with his paintings and generally began them anew each day, a habit that impaired his ability to earn money. He could only paint portraits of people he liked, another “infirmity of will” (his son’s assessment) that made it difficult to earn a living.

As a father, John Yeats was “exasperating but also inspirational.” John seems to have been most notable for wielding the Irish gift of gab. He lived the last 15 years of his life in New York, writing splendid letters and gaining American admirers while depending on his famous son to satisfy his debts. Tóibín admires John's ability to write “sentences of startling beauty,” but it is difficult to know what to make of him. John Yeats felt a passionate longing to be something more than he ever became; he lived in imagination more than reality. In the end, his correspondence reveals him to be too self-centered to be a successful father, husband, or lover.

The discussion of James Joyce’s father differs from the first two portraits. We often see John Stanislaus Joyce as James Joyce fictionalized him in stories and novels. In actual life, John ran up unmanageable debt (a common theme among three men Tóibín examines), had a serious problem with alcohol, and was a miserable father. Toibin gleans these facts from various sources, including My Brother’s Keeper by James’ brother Stanislaus, whose anger at their father is palpable.

Yet James, unlike his brother, resisted the temptation to be angry, finding ways to reimagine his father in his fiction. James’ stories often depict his father as his friends see him, not as his children knew him. John is portrayed in Ulysses as Simon Dedalus, “a complex figure of moods, an unsettled rather than a solid presence in the book.” That seems to be an accurate description of all three men.

I’m not sure what this volume tell us, except that difficult fathers sometimes produce sons who are capable of literary brilliance. Tóibín has demonstrated his own literary genius over the years, and while this work of nonfiction doesn’t display the depth of his fiction (it’s difficult to be stuck with facts when imagination offers a richer environment), it is worth reading for its insight into a time and place that produced such vital writers.

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