The Hot Country by Robert Olen Butler

Published by Mysterious Press on October 2, 2012

Robert Olen Butler returns Pancho Villa to life as a supporting character in his latest novel. The Hot Country follows a literary path marked by Graham Greene (among others) -- within the trappings of a thriller, the author undertakes a deeper study of human nature. The "hot" country is Mexico in 1914: hot because of its climate, because it is a hotbed of revolution, because its women are passionate. The result is entertaining but not as compelling as Greene's best novels -- or Butler's.

On the day when the United States begins its military occupation of Vera Cruz, a news photographer snaps a picture of Christopher "Kit" Cobb, a reporter for a Chicago newspaper, standing near two dead Mexican snipers. The story jumps ahead a few weeks as Cobb gazes at the photograph in his editor's office, remembering the woman in the picture, Luisa Morales. It then moves back in time to the day Cobb met Luisa, shortly before the Marines arrived in Vera Cruz. The remainder of the novel covers the time that passes between the day of the invasion and the day Cobb returns to Chicago, then moves forward another few days.

Cobb is intrigued by Luisa, even as he comes to suspect her as the sniper in nonfatal shootings of a Mexican priest, a city official who is cooperating with the Americans, and an American Marine. While he wants to pursue the story of the shootings, he's also intrigued by the tall scarred German he sees sneaking ashore from the Ypiranga, a German steamer. During most of that novel, Cobb is chasing a dangerous story that focuses on the scarred man, Friedrich von Mensinger, a representative of Germany who wants to persuade Pancho Villa to launch a counterattack against American forces.

Butler avoids the improbable shootouts and one-against-five martial arts battles that are commonplace in ordinary thrillers. There is a knife fight, there is a gunfight, there's even a sword fight, but they are realistic -- they always convey the sense that Cobb's life is at risk. Most of the time, Butler creates tension with more subtlety: using a fake passport on a train, Cobb must persuade the Federales that he is a German; searching through Mensinger's saddlebags for hidden documents, Cobb is hyperaware of the sounds that signal danger.

Still, in his attempt to meld a literary novel and a thriller, Butler doesn't fully succeed in the creation of either one. The final scene in Mexico is enjoyable but unconvincing, while the novel's final scene (a revelation about Cobb's mother) is from well beyond left field. Key characters have the feel of stereotypes: an embittered news photographer who stopped writing (and started drinking) as a protest against censorship; an American mercenary who has signed on to support Pancho Villa's cause. We spend too little time getting to know Luisa and Mensinger and Villa. Although Cobb could have stepped out of a Graham Greene novel, Butler doesn't quite capture the tortured soul that makes Greene's central characters so memorable.

This is not to say that Cobb is the empty shell that so often characterizes a thriller hero. Cobb describes himself as "a gringo with imperialist politics and moral indifference," a self-definition he will eventually test. Cobb's relationships with women -- his mother, Luisa, the washer girl who replaces Luisa -- are both complex and superficial. His attempts to communicate with them are muddled; he either fails to speak from his heart or does so at the wrong time.

Butler toughened his prose for this novel without sacrificing its customary elegance. He fills the book with atmosphere, making the reader hears the sounds of war, smell "the complex body-and-equipment stink of fighting men in the field," taste the sourness of pulque. My only stylistic gripe is that during The Hot Country's action sequences, Butler uses run-on sentences to convey Cobb's rush of adrenalin. It is a technique that should be used sparingly, if at all, and one in which Butler overindulges. In all other respects, the prose is stirring, well-suited for a literary thriller.

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Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis

First published in 1953; published by New York Review of Books Classics on October 2, 2012

Kingsley Amis' first novel is arguably his best and probably his funniest. While Lucky Jim is an amusing send-up of academia, it is also a wicked examination of sexual dynamics as they were evolving in the post-war world of the early 1950s. Amis generates laughs by dishing out example after example of the perennial inability of men to understand women. He is particularly adept at exposing the transparent shallowness of men -- but the likable man who is the novel's protagonist is never a total cad, and Amis pokes fun at men with such good humor that male readers can recognize a bit of themselves in his characters and laugh. (Female readers, I susect, will nod their heads knowingly.)

James Dixon is in his first (and possibly last) year of employment as a lecturer in the history department of a provincial college. Despite his position, Dixon is disinclined to do any work that might be considered academic. As he avoids preparing the "special subject" he is supposed to teach in his second year, his only concern is the number of pretty girls who will sign up for the class. Whether Dixon will be invited to return for his second probationary year depends upon his ability to keep Professor Ned Welch happy. Welch is the prototypical absent-minded professor, a model of the pretentious and dull academic, the kind of scholar to whom Dixon is incapable of sucking up, no matter how hard he tries.

Dixon begins the novel in a spotty relationship with Margaret Peel, a lecturer who is taking a paid leave after her unsuccessful suicide attempt (triggered by the news that, in her words, Catchpole was leaving her for his "popsy"). Despite Margaret's prim and earnest nature (quite the opposite of Dixon's), Dixon enjoys spending time with her as long as "the emotional business of the evening" can be "transacted without involving him directly." More to Dixon's liking is Christine Callaghan, the current girlfriend of Welch's son Bertrand, an untalented painter. But Bertrand is also having a go with Carol Goldsmith (behind the back of Carol's husband Cecil, another history department colleague of Dixon's). Bertrand is interested in Christine largely because Christine's uncle is Julius Gore-Urquhart, a wealthy arts patron who is searching for a private secretary, a position Bertrand covets.

Invited to spend a weekend with the Welches, Dixon makes a mess of it in an impressive variety of ways. He does the same at a dance and, finally, at a public lecture he has been invited to give on a subject ("Merrie England") dear to Welch's heart. Dixon spends the most of the novel mildly misbehaving while trying to sort out the relationships between the various characters as well as his own (mostly superficial) feelings about them. Should he stay with Margaret? Should he try to win Christine's affections? Should he punch Bertrand in the ear?

Amis was a master of understated humor enlivened by slapstick moments. He packed more wit into a single sentence that most comedy writers manage in entire chapters. Take this description of an incipient fistfight between Dixon and Bertram: "They faced each other on the floral rug, feet apart and elbows crooked in uncertain attitudes, as if about to begin some ritual of which neither had learnt the clues." Of course, the brief fight causes more damage to a china figurine than to either of the combatants. Among the many jokes Amis tells in Lucky Jim, my favorite is the formula for love: ignorance of the other person plus unsatisfied sexual desire equals love.

As obnoxious as Dixon can be -- he schemes and manipulates, he drinks too much, he hides the evidence when he burns his host's blanket, he's lazy, he hates everything -- Amis manages the astonishing trick of making the reader identify with him and root for his success. Unlike Welch and Bertram and many of the novel's other characters, Dixon is genuine. He isn't a snob, he's incapable of disguising his faults, and he's cheerily self-deprecating.

The New York Review of Books edition of Lucky Jim includes an entertaining and informative introduction penned by Keith Gessen, notable for its frequent quotations from correspondence between Amis and Philip Larkin. It's interesting to note the parallels in experiences and attitudes between the lives of Amis and Larkin and the fictional life of Jim Dixon. The introduction also provides context to the novel in its discussion of post-war England.

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Rogue by Mark Sullivan

First published in 2011; published by Minotaur Books on October 2, 2012 

According to Jack Slattery, the CIA’s director of covert operations, the secret archives of Al-Qaeda can be found on a hard drive in an office building in Istanbul.  Slattery orders Robin Monarch to lead a team into the building to steal a copy of the archives.  Monarch has time to read a few of the archived files before bullets and explosions bring the mission to an unhappy conclusion.  What he sees convinces him to leave the Agency and begin a new life.  Shortly thereafter, an assassination attempt nearly brings that life to an end.

Eighteen months later, Monarch is in Switzerland bedding a woman named Lacey and pursuing a career as a security consultant -- with a lucrative side business that is rather unsavory, but perhaps less so than the job of a CIA operative.  I found the incongruity disturbing at first, but it made sense after Mark Sullivan reveals more about Monarch’s intriguing background -- and after learning what Monarch does with the wealth he acquires.

After Monarch unwittingly saves the life of a Russian gangster (and, of course, the Russian’s beautiful girlfriend), Monarch is back on Slattery’s radar.  The Russian wants Monarch to steal a weapon, and says he will hold Lacey hostage until he completes the mission.  Slattery’s interest in Monarch intertwines with the Russian’s, while a Chechen criminal who is competing with the Russian to obtain the weapon wants to use Monarch for his own ends.  Monarch, of course, is stuck in the middle, and spends most of the novel trying to get unstuck.

Rogue is an enjoyable second-tier spy thriller.  While the plot is fun, it doesn’t stand out.  Sullivan’s writing style is a notch above that found in most spy thrillers, but it isn’t top notch.  Rogue is memorable only  (if at all) for the character of Robin Monarch.  Given his history, Monarch is a more interesting character than the typical spy fiction action hero.  His team members on the other hand, like the other supporting characters, are given little definition.

Much of Rogue is familiar:  the numbered rules for survival (“Rule Five:  Fit in”); the wealthy gangster who made his fortune in the Russian Mafia; the supremely beautiful Russian girlfriend, an obligatory accessory for wealthy Russian mobsters; the protagonist’s uncontrollable desire for the mobster’s girlfriend; the highly placed CIA official who betrays his country.  Shoot-outs and chase scenes are standard, although I did enjoy learning about Rokon motorcycles.

Like most thrillers, Rogue has its weaknesses.  A scene in which Lacey learns some partial truths about Monarch is a bit melodramatic.  Monarch’s ability to reassemble his CIA team to perform an unsanctioned mission, given his earlier abandonment of them, struck me as improbable, but not so implausible as to destroy the novel’s credibility.  Monarch’s stamina, his ability to run and shoot after enduring starvation and torture, is impossible to believe, but normal enough for an action-driven thriller.  The ending, while satisfying, is a little too tidy (why, I wondered, would a politician believe a rogue agent’s wild story, supported only by video evidence that could easily have been faked?).

As a thriller should, Rogue moves quickly, and the pace accelerates as the novel progresses.  Action sequences are vivid.  The diverse international settings (Istanbul, St. Moritz, Buenos Aires, Budapest) are described in convincing detail.  Despite its flaws, Rogue worked well enough to whet my interest in the sequel promised by the novel’s last sentence.

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American Science Fiction: Four Classic Novels 1953-1956 by Gary K. Wolfe, ed.

Published by Library of America on September 27, 2012 

Having earned kudos from science fiction fans and mainstream critics for anthologizing Philip K. Dick's novels, Library of America has published a two volume anthology of science fiction novels from the 1950s, covering (arbitrarily, I think) the period 1953 to 1958. (It isn't clear to me why novels from 1950 to 1952 and from 1959 were excluded.) The two volumes collect nine novels. Gary Wolfe includes explanatory annotations at the end of each volume, but they will be of limited value to most readers -- this isn't Shakespeare, after all.

It's probably pointless to quarrel about whether other writers should have been recognized in an anthology of this nature. Reasonable arguments can be made for the inclusion of novels by Isaac Asimov and Clifford Simak, although both writers produced their best work before 1953 and after 1958. Philip K. Dick's strongest novels also appeared after the 1950s; besides, Library of America already anthologized his work. Ray Bradbury, on the other hand, published Fahrenheit 451 in 1953. Why it is not included is a mystery, unless Wolfe thought it was too well known to merit inclusion in an anthology that hopes to bring classic (but perhaps forgotten) works to the attention of a new audience.

In any event, I can't argue against the inclusion of any of the four novels that appear in the first volume (1953-1956). Three of the four are among my favorites of the 1950s and the other one has considerable merit.  Complete reviews of all four novels appear elsewhere on this blog; the brief reviews below are linked to those reviews.

The Space Merchants by Frederik Pohl and C.M. Kornbluth follows Mitchell Courtenay, an advertising executive who is placed in charge of a project to develop and exploit Venus, a task that requires the planet's colonization. Courtenay soon loses his privileged position and finds himself working with the laborers/consumers he has always treated as targets for his marketing campaigns. The novel lampoons politics, including the 1950s obsession with "Commies," as Courtenay is recruited by the "Consies" (activists for consumer's and worker's rights) he has always despised. The authors make deft use of humor to keep the story from becoming a heavy-handed polemic while making serious points about class divisions and the exploitation of the working poor. The Space Merchants is frequently surprising and always fun.

More Than Human by Theodore Sturgeon is a deeply philosophical novel that examines the nature of humanity. The novel concerns an evolved entity called Homo Gestalt, a group of empowered individuals (one can control minds, one is telekinetic, two can teleport, and one has the mental capacity of a supercomputer). As individuals, they are all but helpless; acting together, they are the next step in human evolution. Sturgeon explores the ethical questions that arise when a unique, superior being must interact with the lesser beings who share its planet. The characters are strong, the story is moving, the prose is stirring, and the message is inspirational. More Than Human is the best novel in this volume and one of the best science fiction novels of the 1950s.

The Shrinking Man by Richard Matheson tells the emotion-laden story of Scott Carey, a man who, through a freak (if not entirely believable) accident begins to shrink at the rate of one inch per week. While the story's action primarily involves Scott's efforts to avoid being eaten by a spider after he becomes trapped in his basement, the novel's strength lies in its psychological profile of a man who is losing everything he holds dear: his job, his family, his pride and self-respect. As he comes to feel more like a helpless child than a man, and then to feel like nothing at all, Scott must deal with the trauma of a vanishing life. Yet the story is ultimately about the triumph of the human spirit, a popular theme in 1950s science fiction, before postmodernism left readers drowning in gloom.

The Long Tomorrow by Leigh Brackett is good but, I think, not of the same caliber as the other three. In this post-apocalyptic story, Len Colter rejects the religious life of his parents and community, a rural life based on suppression of scientific knowledge in which cities have been outlawed (the better to avoid another apocalypse). Len begins a journey toward enlightenment that eventually leads him to Bartorstown, a place that, prior to the war, sheltered scientists dedicated to a secret project and that now stands as a hidden repository of scientific inquiry. The Long Tomorrow delivers a cautionary message about the evils of intolerance and thought-control and the value of independent thinking. The story seems dated (although the message is not) and Len's journey is underwhelming. Brackett's prose, while capable, is less shining than Sturgeon's or Matheson's. Although The Long Tomorrow isn't one of my favorite novels, it is an interesting read and an important early example of post-apocalyptic fiction.

Keep watching the Tzer Island book blog for reviews of the novels that appear in the second volume, covering 1956-1958.

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Swimming Home by Deborah Levy

Published by Bloomsbury USA on September 14, 2012 

"Life is only worth living because we hope it will get better and we'll all get home safely." So says Kitty Finch, the central character in Swimming Home, a powerful, offbeat novel that explores the impact an intruding outsider has on the relationships of two couples who are sharing a vacation home in the Alps-Maritimes. Whether any of the vacationers will get home safely becomes the novel's burning question.

Philandering London poet Joe Jacobs (formally known as Jozef Nowogrodski), together with his wife Isabel (a war correspondent) and daughter Nina, are spending the summer of 1994 with Laura and Mitchell, the owners of a failing shop in Euston. The friends are enjoying the sun when they see a naked woman floating in the pool. The swimmer, Kitty French, isn't exactly stalking Joe Jacobs, but it's no coincidence that she's appeared at the villa. Isabel soon asks Kitty to stay on as a guest, a decision that surprises everyone else. Also vexed by Kitty's arrival is a neighbor, Dr. Madeleine Sheridan, who has an unhappy history with Kitty. Madeleine believes "human beings had to suffer real hardships before agreeing to lose their minds" and can find no excuse for Kitty's aberrant behavior.

Kitty clearly has mental health issues. She spends much of her time naked, she's off her antidepressants, and she was once institutionalized and subjected to shock treatments. Kitty seems determined to have Joe read a poem she has written ("Swimming Home"), which she describes as a conversation with Joe and no one else. Believing she has a psychic connection with Joe (she calls it a "nerve contact"), she wants to save Joe from his thoughts, while Joe wants to save himself from Kitty's poetry (and from her depression because, according to Joe, poems written by the depressed always constitute a threat). The text of Kitty's poem is not shared with the reader but its key content is revealed after Nina (perhaps the most well-adjusted of the book's characters) sneaks a peek at it.

Puzzling out the intriguing relationships between the characters is both difficult and rewarding. Why does Isabel (as Madeleine observes) all but push Kitty into Joe's arms? Why is Joe so hesitant to discuss Kitty's poem with her? Why does Madeleine need to be needed by Isabel? Why does Isabel stay with Joe? How does Joe really feel about Kitty? Can Kitty save Joe from his thoughts? Why is Nina so disturbed by what she sees under Joe's bed? Sometimes Deborah Levy answers the questions, sometimes she offers hints, sometimes she leaves the reader to speculate. Yet Levy plays fair; this is a tightly woven novel, not a collection of loose threads. With a bit of thought, every question can be answered to the reader's satisfaction.

Laura and Mitchell turn out to be minor characters but Kitty, Joe, Isabel, and Nina are developed in rich detail. Despite the novel's brevity, we come to know other minor characters well (including cantankerous Madeleine and a character we never meet, the owner of the vacation home).

Although the story's harshness is softened with moments of wit and quirky humor, readers who search for likable characters and happy endings will want to bypass Swimming Home. The characters are coping (or not) with pain in ways that make them disagreeably self-absorbed. Many readers will nonetheless find, as I did, that the intensity of the characters' interactions, the lyricism of the prose, and the profound questions that Levy explores make Swimming Home a captivating read.

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