All That Is by James Salter

Published by Knopf on April 2, 2013 

All That Is records the chapters of Philip Bowman’s life, from his service in the Pacific Fleet during World War II through his eventual employment as a book editor and his troubled marriage to Vivian Amussen, whose father -- a southern gentleman from Virginia -- isn’t sure that Bowman has the right breeding to merit his daughter’s hand.  Later Bowman is “in the middle of life and just beginning.”  Still later he finds his past repeating.  The novel ends before Bowman’s life does, leaving it to the reader to decide what will happen next, what his fate will be.  Along the way we meet Bowman’s friends and lovers, his boss, his relatives and in-laws.

James Salter often sums up minor characters in a few brisk sentences.  One of the novel’s few faults, in fact, is the abundance of interesting characters.  Other than Bowman’s friend Neil Eddins, whose life is recounted in bits and pieces, characters appear and then vanish, perhaps reappearing for a moment before vanishing again.  People come and go from our lives and that’s certainly true in Bowman’s case, but the disappearances are frustrating.  I felt as if I had met a number of interesting people, only to be disappointed that I had no chance to know them better.  On the other hand, I felt I knew Bowman intimately -- knew him, understood him, shared his disappointments and triumphs.

Death and betrayal and the growth and failure of love are recurring themes.  The novel is a bit meandering because that’s the flow of Bowman’s life.  All That Is endeavors to tell the story of a life, and lives are often filled with unexciting moments.  Some of the novel’s scenes are uneventful, the sort of things from our own lives that we remember for no particular reason -- a thunderstorm, a quiet lunch.  Sometimes the characters are mere observers, noting changes and trends as America transitions from war to peace to protest (Eddins refers to the rise of feminism, for instance, as “the woman thing”).  Salter’s nuanced prose prevents the novel from becoming dull even during lulls in the life that is the novel’s subject.  From time to time, something surprising happens to Bowman, and a couple of times his behavior is shocking.  Those are the moments that give the novel its life.

In many respects, Bowman is a man after my own heart.  “He liked to read with the silence and the golden color of the whiskey as his companions.  He liked food, people, talk, but reading was an inexhaustible pleasure.”   Bowman’s love of books gives him an excuse to share his opinions about Ezra Pound, Lord Byron, Thomas Hardy, and modern American poets, whose success is “the result of intense self-promotion, flattery, and mutual agreements.”  Bowman experiences and comments upon the evolution (devolution?) of publishing in modern America.

At some point Bowman tells Vivian about his love for one of Hemingway’s stories.  At times, Salter’s writing style is Hemingwayesque:  paragraphs are built from direct, punchy, heartfelt sentences.  Scenes of war are depicted in taut, piercing prose.  At other times -- when, for instance, he describes the impact of war on a shattered England, a victory with the taste of defeat -- his sentences are serpentine, capturing one vivid image after another.  He writes about passion with a staccato rhythm while romance is captured in languid language.  His descriptions of pain are acute -- most prominently, the agony of lost love (“How did it happen, that something no longer mattered, that it had been judged inessential?”).

Eddins looks “at his life as a story -- the real part was something he’d left behind.”  How much of our lives are real?  How much have we really lived?  The questions Salter poses in All That Is invite the reader to think about how much of life matters.  The good days?  The lonely nights?  The thunderstorms?  The answer, I think, lies in the title.

RECOMMENDED

Paprika by Yasutaka Tsutsui

First published in Japanese in 1993; published in translation by Vintage Contemporaries on February 12, 2013 

It's hard to know what to make of Paprika. There's a surrealistic bizarreness to the story that is both appealing and frustrating. The surrealism is a natural component of the story's subject matter: the intersection of dreams and conscious thought.

Paprika imagines a world in which mental illnesses can be detected with devices that scan "the inside of the psyche." One such device is a dream collector that allows a therapist to monitor (and actually enter) a patient's dreams. Now that the devices have been legalized, two researchers are at the cutting edge of the technology: Atsuko and Tokita. One storyline involves a Beauty and the Beast love story between Tokita, who is obese and socially stunted, and Atsuko, whose love for Tokita is rivaled by her love for one of her patients.

The best dream detective is a woman with dual identities who is known in her younger persona as Paprika. Paprika has not worked in several years -- when she was working, the devices were still illegal -- but she's asked to rejoin the Institute for Psychiatric Research to diagnose the neurosis of a businessman named Tatsuo Noda, who is suffering from panic attacks. Paprika's work with Noda, and the secret of Paprika's true identity, gives rise to the novel's second storyline. This evolves into the story of Noda's work, the difficult decisions he must make and the rivalries with which he must cope. The corporate intrigue provides some of the novel's best moments.

The dream collector has certain drawbacks. Therapists can become lost in a patient's mind. A therapist named Tsumura has apparently become infected with a patient's schizophrenia by using the dream collector, but Atsuko suspects that the device was sabotaged. This provides the novel's third plot thread, evolving into a tale of conspiracy as factions within the Institute wage war against each other. That storyline gives the novel its binding narrative but it is also the novel's least interesting aspect.

There are other plot threads and many other characters woven together in this complex and occasionally confusing book. One of the characters is an embittered, misogynistic co-worker who is envious that Atsuko might win the Nobel Prize he was denied. Other characters are patients who, like the therapists, suffer from a variety of anxieties and mood disorders. Nearly all of the characters are developed with surprising subtlety given the novel's brevity.

Jungian dream interpretation and the insight it offers into anxiety and depression is the novel's most interesting theme, and the dream sequences are the best (if also the most ambiguous) in the book. Time and place shift unpredictably and words become garbled; sometimes text is represented as **** because the narrator can't understand what is being said. Yet the novel goes beyond dream analysis. It is also about the confusion (and potential merger) of dreams and reality. Dreams and reality become hopelessly tangled, leaving characters in an understandable state of confusion. If dreams can create reality, should you react to the new reality by pretending you're in a dream? And how do you know whether you're dreaming?

The novel incorporates a number of sex scenes. They are not limited to traditional two-person, male-female coupling. The scenes aren't particularly graphic, and those that are dreamt don't always make sense, but some readers might find them disturbing. Both while she's dreaming and while she's awake, Paprika is raped or nearly raped. Her fatalistic acceptance of sexual assault might upset some readers, as might a dream in which she's begging a man to rape her (or just to have sex with her, whichever he prefers).

Because Paprika is a difficult novel to absorb, I found myself reading a few of the short chapters, then chewing on them for a day or two before returning to the novel. Perhaps I should have soldiered through it in fewer sittings, and if I were to read it again (a second reading would, I think, help me grasp its subtleties), that's probably what I would do. While I ultimately admired the novel and even enjoyed most of it, I'm not sure whether I'll ever be up to a reread because the first reading was a bit draining. Maybe in a few years, after it settles in, I'll tackle it again.

RECOMMENDED

The Inner City by Karen Heuler

Published by ChiZine Publications on February 26, 2013

A woman finds trouble when she sneaks into a business in New York City that vexes residents by stealing their parking spaces, trimming space from their apartments, and messing up their utility bills. Girls who have been manufactured with genes taken from dogs are playful and have limited attention spans, but they can be trained to do simple tasks if rewarded with treats. A tightrope walker meets an angel on her tightrope. A woman falls in love with a fish that grants her a wish. A girl sews pieces of meat together to reassemble an ungrateful cow. A man begins to walk lightly -- so lightly that he worries about floating away.

Strange stories? Yes. Yet the stories are told with wit and imagination. Some are dark, but even when things don't work out for the characters (really, if a fish wants to grant your wish, just walk away), the stories often reveal an underlying optimism.

Three stories stand out:

"The Great Spin" - When the Rapture comes, can the people who get left behind lay claim to all the stuff that belonged to the newly departed? And who will take care of their dogs? The irreverent kid who asks those questions (my kind of kid) may have been chosen for the Rapture -- or he may be a random victim of misfortune -- forcing his religious buddy to face a crisis of faith.

"Thick Water" - Explorers "go native" on an alien world, eating the thick water. A scientist left inside the dome, the only one left unchanged, wonders what to do.

"Beds" - Every day a bed disappears from a hospital ward, taken away on a truck, selected by doctors using unknown criteria. None of the patients want to be in that bed.

Some of the stories, including one about environmentalists dressed in business attire who grow out of the ground like cornstalks and eat salads made of cash, are a bit fanciful for my taste. Some are cute but insubstantial. A couple just didn't work for me. But every story is well-written, most are amusing, and the best are infused with meaning that belies their lightness.

RECOMMENDED

The Money Kill by Katia Lief

Published by Harper on March 26, 2013

The Money Kill is the fourth in a series of novels featuring ex-cop Karin Schaeffer, who is married to ex-cop Seamus "Mac" MacLeary.  Karin and Mac are private detectives in Brooklyn. They need money and, unexpectedly, two cases come along that give them a lift. The wife of a wealthy man in Greenwich, Connecticut hires Mac to find evidence of her husband's affair. Shortly after he takes the case, a large detective agency approaches Mac with an offer to send him to London for a quick bit of investigative work. The offer includes the opportunity to do a house swap in Italy, an inducement that sells Karin on the idea, particularly when their office mate Mary agrees to join them on their family vacation. Mac's "too good to be true" radar should have beeped, but people in need of cash tend to ignore their common sense, so I suppose it's credible that Mac accepts the assignment without question.

As is the convention in thrillers, intrigue in London and Sardinia arises that is related to the intrigue in Greenwich, prompting the reader to guess at what the connection will be. The connection struck me as farfetched, even by thriller standards. It also struck me as odd (given her law enforcement background) that Karin's idea of investigating a crime that threatened her family included drinking wine and reading a Lonely Planet guidebook. At times I had the impression that Katia Lief was drinking wine and consulting Lonely Planet as she wrote the novel. Her colorless descriptions of Sardinia fail to evoke a sense of being present in a foreign land.

As the novel enters its second half, unlikely events continue to mount. Without spoiling any plot developments, I'll just say that a person who clearly could not have committed a crime is charged with the crime for no reason other than to advance the plot. Making that happen requires the conspiracy to move in increasingly improbable directions, with no explanation of the benefit the conspirators gain from their participation. Someone obtains information about Mac's investigation and takes action to thwart it with no explanation of the information's discovery, beyond the vague speculation that "people in high places" must be in on the coverup. The conspiracy that eventually unfolds, involving a number of (mostly unidentified) public officials in two countries, isn't as pervasive (or as carefully detailed) as a Ludlum conspiracy, but it is sufficiently vast to stretch the boundaries of credibility. Still, I'm willing to swallow my doubt for the sake of a good story, and this story is at least passably good.

Point of view frequently shifts between Mac and Karin. While this tends to cause momentary confusion (their narrative voices are not distinctive), it also highlights the gender-based differences in the way those characters react to each other, to their situation, and to the people around them. Mac, Karin, and Mary bring an international cast of children to the novel, but they add little of interest to the story despite the central role they play in it. Given their underdeveloped personalities, they seem more like literary decorations than actual children.

Lief's writing style is competent, although a number of characters engage in banal chatter that comes across as filler. The story has the elements of a good thriller but it lacks pizzazz. The excitement factor is muted. Apart from one innovative scene involving Mac and a later scene involving Mary, I never had the sense that any character I cared about was truly at risk. Still, Lief develops a modest level of tension as the novel winds to its conclusion. The Money Kill isn't as absorbing as I would like a thriller to be, but it's a quick read and the last chapters add a couple of surprise twists that redeem the novel by bringing the story to a satisfying and unexpected conclusion.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

Doughnut by Tom Holt

Published by Orbit on March 5, 2013 

Doughnut is a playful take on the multiverse hypothesis. If you can travel between universes, does that make you a god?

Theo Bernstein is an unlikely god. Theo put a decimal point in the wrong place and the Very Very Large Hadron Collider blew up, along with some of Switzerland, so now Theo is looking for a job. That the accident left his right arm invisible only makes it more difficult for him to secure employment. Theo eventually returns to Switzerland to pick up a mysterious bottle bequeathed to him by Pieter van Goyen, a recently deceased colleague. The trip becomes more interesting when he meets a girl on a train who shows him some equations before she vanishes. Theo soon finds himself in YouSpace, sort of like Second Life combined with Westworld except that his destinations all seem to be random (and dangerous) points in the multiverse. A note left by Pieter tells Theo to have fun with it. Fun is pretty much out of the question.

Pieter's note also directs Theo to a job at a hotel that has only two (odd, mysterious) guests, where he works alongside (odd, mysterious) Matasuntha and her (odd, mysterious) boss. As Theo explores the multiverse, barely escaping multiple deaths (or not), he finds himself interacting with his a-hole brother and mentally ill sister, further enhancing his misery.

Theo is a likable if somewhat hapless protagonist, stuck with a dysfunctional family and used as a pawn by people he thought were his friends, making it easy to root for his success. As is often true of science fiction stories, whether Theo will prevail depends upon his ability to outwit everyone else.

Some aspects of Doughnut are hilarious, particularly when Tom Holt pokes fun at Microsoft. The overall story is clever, funny, and deep enough to provoke thought about the multiverse hypothesis without bogging down in discussions of science that may or may not be sound. I'm not sure the science (as Holt explains it) entirely makes sense (I'm skeptical about the invisible arm) but I am sure it doesn't matter. The point of comedy is to be funny, and Doughnut consistently made me smile.

RECOMMENDED