Review: The Woman in Black, Susan Hill

What’s a reader to do when a ghost story is the embodiment of “The Ghost Story”? If it ticks off every requirement–old, isolated house; sullen villagers; gloomy weather–does that make it “the best” ghost story? I might once have insisted that, yes, a ghost story that meets all of the criteria (whatever the list might be) is in fact the best of its genre. (The hubris of youth!) Having read Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black, I’m forced to concede that perhaps there is more to a ghost story than spooks, moors, and crisp English diction. I’m reminded of the words of a comic book writer, who advised teenagers aspiring to his role, “If you only read comic books, you might write the best comic book ever written, but you’ll never write anything different.”

The Woman in Black begins, appropriately enough, on a Christmas Eve sometime in the early decades of the twentieth century. Arthur Kipps’ second wife and his step-children sit around the fire, telling one another ghost stories. Here we have already satisfied one criterion of a ghost story: It must be set in England. Certainly, every culture in every time and place has spoken of ghosts, but “the best” ghost story can only be set in England. Bonus: By beginning  her tale on Christmas Eve, Hill tips her hat to the fine English tradition of telling ghost stories on that most-anticipated evening of the year. More spooky stories by the fire, fewer fat men and elves!

Kipps is agitated as his family’s stories grow grislier and more ridiculous. As his children’s merriment increases, his declines. Urged by his step-sons to join in the fun, Kipps storms off in a huff. Staring at the clear night sky, he is reminded of events through which he suffered as a younger man, a trauma he has worked hard to put behind him. He resolves to write it down in its entirety, a purge that becomes Hills’ larger narrative, the ghost story “proper.”

I don’t see Daniel Radcliffe anywhere.

The action commences with Kipps dispatched on legal business to a small village a day’s train ride outside of London. Kipps, stymied in his career aspirations, gladly takes on what his elder partner perceives as an imposition. In addition to seeking refuge from his humdrum duties as a solicitor, Kipps flees the London weather, characterized by many days of fog so dense it made travel within the city dangerous. Kipps sallies forth to put in order the estate of the recently deceased Mrs. Drablow of Eel Marsh House. Read those names again: That is some heavy handed foreshadowing going on there.

En route to Eel Marsh House, Kipps encounters what you might expect from the villagers, which is to that they seem to know something about Eel Marsh House, but are unwilling to talk about it, to Kipps’ growing frustration. The local lawyer, Kipps’ contact, is thrown into paroxysms of fear when, at Mrs. Drablow’s funeral, Kipps confesses to having seen the eponymous “Woman in Black.” Kipps nevertheless proceeds, as an ambitious and sensible young man is likely to do, to head to Eel Marsh House, which, sitting in the middle of a swamp, can be reached only by a narrow causeway during low tide. One requirement of a successful ghost story is for the protagonist to be headstrong in his foolishness to the point of foolhardiness. He (or she) must tempt fate with his (or her) stupidity. Needless to say, Kipps’ visit does not go as planned, and it is at this point, as his adventure derails, that I can so no more about the plot. It is obvious from the first chapter of the book that Kipps survives, albeit as a changed man.

Nope, no Harry Potter.

There is much to be said in favor of The Woman in Black. Kipps’ voice, channeled via Hill, is spot-on, which is to say very, very English. (I am subconsciously mimicking it as I write this.) Whether or not Kipps really sounds like a turn-of-the-century British professional, I don’t know, but it’s house I imagine such men would have sounded. In other words, it’s believable. So, too, is the tone, which is one of creeping eeriness, abetted by Hill’s strength in establishing setting. Hill obviously knows the English countryside and its weather, and lavishes attention on such details. Of course, atmosphere is in some ways the most essential aspect of any ghost story. The author must ease the reader into it, step by step, just as the protagonist, for instance, Kipps, cheerfully whistling his way to his doom. You can’t just toss an idiot into a decrepit old house and throw spooks at him. It takes subtlety, and Hill masters that.

In the end, though, even as The Woman in Black meets all of the expectations a reader might have of a ghost story, in doing so it somehow fails to do anything different, and that, perhaps, is the problem. There’s a predictability about the plot that is comforting if you want a good, old-fashioned ghost story, but is dissatisfying if you want anything more. The story is also rather tame, although one must keep in mind that it isn’t horror in the modern sense, meaning that it isn’t dripping with gore. Still, contemporary readers (The Woman in Black was published in 1983) might be desensitized to the novel’s quiet dread. Recommended for lovers of the supernatural, but not necessarily for horror aficionados, The Woman in Black is a fine book with which to spend any autumn day.

Review: Under the Empyrean Sky, Chuck Wendig

There was a brief period of timing following the publication of Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma during which I was keenly aware of corn. Corn is a staple of industrial agriculture. If you read the ingredients of almost any packaged food, you will find there corn, or some corn by-product. Researchers can perform testing on skeletons to determine how much corn the deceased ate during his or her lifetime. Modern Americans far exceed the consumption rates of the Maya, who ate a lot of corn. Corn cultivation, if done carelessly, can be destructive to the environment. It leeches nitrogen from the soil, rendering it unproductive. That’s why Native Americans grew beans amid their corn: Not only did the cornstalks function as natural beanpoles, but the beans also returned nitrogen to the soil. It’s like Native Americans knew something we don’t, like they were all living in harmony with nature and shit.

So, if you look at our reliance on corn, on our ever-expanding cultivation of it, you begin to wonder: Are we eating the corn, or is the corn eating us? Thus is the premise of Chuck Wendig’s young adult dystopian novel, Under the Empyrean Sky (2013).

Granted, in Wendig’s far-flung future, corn isn’t eating people per se, but that’s not for lack of trying. Deep in the Heartland, a wide expanse of what must have once been the American Midwest, corn stretches as far as the eye can see. The modified strains that grow in the Heartland are tough, durable, predatory. The husks are sharp as knives. The plants grow fast and, left untended, will consume anything in their way.

Under the Empyrean Sky, Chuck Wendig

It’s into this hostile agro-dystopia that we encounter Cael McAvoy, a teenager on the brink of adulthood, who makes his living by scavenging ruined technologies found in the corn. He and his crew, Lane, Rigo, and Gwennie, are at odds with a rival team led by the mayor’s son. Their relationship takes a turn for the worse with the Obligation, an annual event during which 17 year old Heartlanders learn to whom they’ll be married when they turn 18. Gwen, Cael’s love interest, is bound to the mayor’s son. And to top it all off, Cael’s sister, Mer, has run away, and his Pop is worn out, unwilling or unable to stand up to their Empyrean overlords, who live in luxury on islands floating in the sky above the corn.

If at this point you’re scratching your head a bit, that’s good: This is definitely a unique premise. Wendig has significant current issues–agriculture, technology, class–and spun them into a setting unlike any other. The first few chapters, in which Cael and his crew travel on foot through the corn, serve as an excellent introduction to this strange new world. That said, Wendig doesn’t quite maintain that momentum throughout the rest of the novel.

Some of that sense of “flagging,” for lack of a better way of putting it, may be due to the fact that this is a young adult novel. Much has been said lately about whether or not adults should or should not be embarrassed to read YA, but that’s not my concern here. Rather, readers familiar with Wendig’s other work, for instance, Blackbirds and its successors, know that Wendig is inclined to graphic language and violence; they are the tools with which he makes his art. He has to tone those down for YA, of course, and the loss is palpable. There is violence, mostly fistfights, and there is vulgarity, for instance, “Jeezum Crow,” apparently a corrupted, Heartland version of “Jesus Christ,” but, for seasoned Wendig readers, Under the Empyrean Sky is decidedly tame.

There are also issues with the plot, as Cael strives to determine his direction. This type of thing might be expected of YA; the protagonist has to discover himself or otherwise learn some lesson, a tendency that appeals to its primary audience, who is (presumably) going through much the same thing. Readers accustomed to Wendig’s propulsive momentum will miss that here. The plot wanders, as Cael deals with his wrecked boat, his family, his friends, his girlfriend… Cael has tough luck, but the reader wishes for a respite.

That’s not to say that Under the Empyrean Sky is bad. The premise, of course, is fascinating, and there are moments of real promise, for instance, the opening chapters, and, later, when Cael and his buddies explore a neighboring town. Readers will identify with the characters, who are almost exclusively down on their luck, although, as I understand it, some female readers may take issue with Cael’s behavior. (Cael is the kind of troubled teenager who gets on one’s nerves, and, worse, he treats Gwennie as his property.) Indeed, female characters are few and far between here–surprising, given Wendig’s emphasis on Miriam Black in his other novels–and seem to serve as punching bags for the men in their life, sometimes quite literally. The one bright spot is Mer, and she’s wise enough to disappear early on.

Under the Empyrean Sky is not a perfect book; its plot sometimes meanders, and it lacks some of the “oomph” of Wendig’s other work. Still, it is a unique setting for a story, it grapples with some big ideas, its characters are relatable, and there are some truly stirring scenes. There is YA marketed toward everyone and YA best marketed to its primary audience; Under the Empyrean Sky is among the latter. That said, tried and true Wendig fans will find much here to enjoy. A fun romp through a twisted agro-wasteland, Under the Empyrean Sky is a bit hit-or-miss, and recommended mainly to Wendig’s current fan base and readers willing to take a chance on a novel with a truly promising concept.

Review: The Elfish Gene, Mark Barrowcliffe

It takes a particular type of person to wallow in one’s misspent youth, to trot it out, warts and all, for all the world to see. Having escaped the embarrassments of adolescence, most people to some degree disavow their younger selves. This is usually accomplished through mere omission. Life goes on, we meet new people, and we conveniently forget to tell them about those horrid moments that define our adolescence. We recreate ourselves, we leave our pasts behind. Not so with Mark Barrowcliffe, author of The Elfish Gene: Dungeons, Dragons and Growing Up Strange (Soho Press, 2008). Barrowcliffe’s memoir goes into excruciating–and comic–detail regarding his fantasy life as a Coventry lad growing up in the ’70s and ’80s.

The Elfish Gene, Mark Barrowcliffe

Barrowcliffe was 11 years old when he discovered Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) one afternoon at his school’s wargaming club. (For those who don’t know, wargaming involves the recreation of historical battles using miniatures and lots and lots of rules.) D&D immediately changed his life. By his own admission, Barrowcliffe spent the next five years gaming, reading about gaming, talking about gaming, reading fantasy novels, or listening to music at least tangentially inspired by fantasy. He pursued this not as a hobby, but as an obsession, an addiction that twisted his perception of himself and his place in the world. If that seems like a harsh assessment, know that it is his own. His enthusiasm only begins to wane when, at the age of 16, and dressed in a cloak, a gang of soccer hooligans toss him into a fountain, to the amusement of other people in the area. Just as finding D&D was a transformative moment for Barrowcliffe, so too was that moment of public humiliation, an embarrassment that taught him to more circumspect in his enthusiasms.

Some reviewers have criticized Barrowcliffe for looking down on players of roleplaying games, and it’s true that he takes his shots at them. Some of this is sensitivity to Barrowcliffe’s sense of humor, which is sardonic and tends to the cruel, although, it should be noted, that he is himself the target of many of his barbs. I believe the English would refer to this as “taking the piss” out of his subjects of mockery. In other words, his jokes are pointed; they reveal an essential reality about their victims, most often himself. There is personal psychology at work here, too. It’s been said that people hate most in others that which they hate most in themselves. Given that Barrowcliffe fled D&D (quite literally after an attempt to play as an adult), it’s not unsafe to assume that he is projecting onto others his feelings about himself.

And Barrowcliffe is certainly conflicted. He borrows the title of his book from Richard Dawkins’s The Selfish Gene, which posits that altruism is an evolutionary adaptation by which individuals with similar DNA are more likely to help each other, thus preserving their DNA. In other words, selfishness is “good” for individuals. Perhaps Barrowcliffe intended his title to be merely a play on words, but it is better fitting than just that. Barrowcliffe’s wholesale absorption in his fantasy world is indicative of a level of selfishness beyond that of the average teenager. He relates with remarkable clarity, it must be said, that he was, to use his language, a “twat,” taking sides against his best friend in an argument merely in order to curry favor with another boy who despised him. He doesn’t see his friend again for 25 years.

The Elfish Gene, UK cover. The UK always has better covers.

Despite all the scorn Barrowcliffe heaps on the game, and himself, and his fellow gamers, though, it’s clear that he is nostalgic for his childhood. He considers playing the game as an adult, even tries, only to run back to “reality.” And even though most of his childhood friends sound like horrible human beings, it must be said that they were teenage males–a particular breed with a specific sense of humor. There are individuals, too, who stand out in a good way, for instance, the painfully shy Dave, whose only character is “a man in a cloak.” Oh, could he be a ranger? “No, just a man in a cloak.” Special attention is given to Billy, Barrowcliffe’s best friend for two years of his life. Barrowcliffe paints him as a figure larger than life, releasing a fountain of rakish wit when he wasn’t smoking or eating (which was often).

Barrowcliffe has a fine sense of humor, and if a reader wonders, “why would anyone publish a book about someone’s obsession with D&D,” it’s for the comedy. Barrowcliffe’s is a sense of humor that demonstrates genuine insight, whether it’s into England during the ’70s, the plight of “nerds,” or universal truths about teenage boys. There is a particularly funny chapter in which Billy and Barrowcliffe, bored, and at wit’s end, decide to create incendiary devices from balloons and lighter fluid. Just when you think the story can’t get any better–it does, with a joke about “wanking.” That the story includes a two paragraph interlude in which Barrowcliffe muses on the differences between genders when it comes to risk only indicates his insight and timing. I admit that I laughed, not something I do often when reading.

In The Elfish Gene, Barrowcliffe lovingly recreates the England of his youth, giving attention both to the setting, Coventry and Birmingham, but also to the “characters” who populated his life. Barrowcliffe is a gifted storyteller with an intuitive sense of character, dialog, and pacing. Dyed-in-the wool gamers may complain about Barrowcliffe’s superficial treatment of D&D, but, as a nongamer, I found it sufficient, and, it should be noted, the book is less about D&D than it is his need for an outlet for his adolescent fantasies. A well-told, amusing, and surprisingly affecting memoir hampered only by the author’s occasionally condescending attitude. Recommended.

Review: World of Trouble, Ben H. Winters

It is difficult to write a review of World of Trouble (Quirk, 2014) that is in no way spoilery. Fans of The Last Policeman series are keen to know what will happen to Detective Henry Palace, to his sister and friends, indeed, to the entire world, because Earth is only days away from being struck by an asteroid similar in size to the one that killed the dinosaurs. Did Henry find his sister? Is his sister really part of a plan to save the world? Will her group’s rogue plan work?

But I’m not going to tell you. I’m not even going to hint at what’s to come, because you deserve to learn it directly from Ben Winters, who, with World of Trouble, proves himself a master of suspense. Instead, I’m going to address you, one reader to another, to make plain to you just how affecting Winters’s novel is. That I’m writing in this in first person, a voice I normally eschew in reviews, is a testament the poignancy of the story.

World of Trouble, Ben H. Winters

A note for those of you who haven’t read The Last Policeman and Countdown City: World of Trouble is the final entry in a coherent trilogy. Although you may be able to follow the story without having read its predecessors, as Winters provides exposition on the events leading up to World of Trouble, I recommend that you read the novel as it’s intended, as the culmination of a series.

The plot is straightforward: Palace and the thief, Cortez, set out from Massachusetts, heading to Ohio, in search of Nico, Henry’s sister. Meanwhile, with the asteroid only a week away, civilization has reached its nadir. If The Last Policeman was really about what people do as they face death, and Countdown City an exploration of our relationships (“contracts”), then World of Trouble is a meditation on the narratives we construct, the meanings we create, as we navigate the world, en route to our final destinations. We cleave to religion, we cling to conspiracy theories, or, like Henry, we stubbornly insist on whatever “truth” is immediately in front of us. “I am a question mark pointed at a secret,” Henry says. “Cortez is a tool aimed at the stubborn places of the world.” Police work is not simply Henry’s job; it’s his raison d’être.

Countdown City, Ben H. Winters

 

Of course, Winters veils these existential musings behind the procedural framework of a detective story. Here, Henry gives meaning to what may be his last week on Earth by seeking out his sister, who went missing in Countdown City. Nico insisted that she and her friends had access to a secret means of repelling the asteroid, and Henry last saw her departing in a helicopter for parts unknown. This is a missing persons, case, then, and Henry applies all the detective skills he’s learned–mostly from textbooks–to solve it.

Palace’s and Cortez’s journey to Ohio reveals the gamut of society’s decay as humanity faces its end. Palace and Cortez create a new taxonomy to describe the towns through which they pass: “Red” towns are troubled, dissolved into violence; “blue” towns are on edge, mainly peaceful, but apt to erupt; “green” towns have somehow achieved peace. The citizenry of one green town gathers on the commons to sing hymns. In another, all the lawns are mowed. Details such as these lend to World of Trouble a reality absent from many “apocalyptic” novels. We are trained to believe the worst, that everyone would turn on each other, and we’re right: The worst would happen. But Winters gently corrects us, noting that people are capable of better, too, and that good things can occur even in the worst of circumstances.

Palace encounters a variety of responses to the world’s end. He’s fed by a hedonistic couple living in an RV in a parking lot. They spend their days listening to rock, getting drunk, and having sex. A convoy of Midwestern-types stops at a Target-style store to scavenge. Palace marvels at their organization, at the way one guard stares at the sky, bored, whereas, just a few months earlier, she would have played with her phone. An Amish family in Ohio exists in an oasis of peace and plenty. Palace’s response is to move ever forward, eyes on the prize: Find Nico. Each encounter, good and otherwise, becomes a step on this quest, a problem to be solved. It’s not the asteroid that troubles Palace, it’s the need for answers.

The Last Policeman, Ben H. Winters

As with The Last Policeman and Countdown City, World of Trouble is told from Henry’s perspective, ensuring that the reader is deeply embedded in the mystery until the very end. Winters’s prose is at its best here, revealing not only Henry’s character, but also the world in which he operates (as befits a detective). The story beckons us forward, faster now, faster, desperate to know what twist will next befall Palace as he searches for Nico. We’re urged on, too, of course, by our need to know if her conspiracy is real, if the asteroid might be stopped, if it will really hit–and, if so, what happens then.

But that’s something you can only find out by reading the book.

As I read World of Trouble, I was reminded of lyrics from a song (by Tim O’Brien) of the same title: “It’s a world of trouble, it’s a world of pain / The clouds, they see me comin’, and they know it’s time to rain.” And that’s what it’s like for Henry Palace, though he faces it with a grace, I imagine, far superior to that most of us are capable of.

We’re just over halfway through 2014 and, over the past few weeks, I’ve seen a number of lists of “best books of the year so far.” World of Trouble, out on July 15, didn’t make any of those lists. I predict its inclusion on the “best of” lists that will be composed later this year. It’s that good. Highly recommended.

Review: The Last Policeman, Ben H. Winters

Certain phenomena contribute to crime rates. Full moons. Sporting events. Or, say, a giant asteroid on a collision course with Earth, threatening to snuff out all life.

Wait, what?

Thus is the premise of Ben H. Winters’s The Last Policeman (Quirk Books, 2012).

The Last Policeman, Ben H. Winters

Henry Palace is a newly minted detective on the Concord (New Hampshire) Police Department. A beat cop for just over a year, Henry was promoted a few months ago due to the unusual circumstances; scientists calculated with 100% certainty that an asteroid with a seven kilometer radius would soon strike Earth. In the wake of this catastrophic knowledge, the global economy has collapsed, society has disintegrated, and people are “going bucket list,” using what time they have left to do all the things they’ve always wanted. Meanwhile, Detective Palace is in a McDonald’s restroom in the middle of the night, the scene of a another “hanger.” Palace isn’t sure that Peter Zell’s was a straightforward suicide. But who’s solving crimes with the apocalypse coming?

Motivation–in police jargon, “motive”–is a concern of Winters’. Of course, given the scenario he constructs, Winters is interested in how people face the threat of imminent death. Winters portrays a world tottering forward despite the promise of its certain demise. Many people, including the suicide, Zell, an actuary, continue to go to work, the end of the world notwithstanding. It’s as if routine is an opiate, making bearable the knowledge of the coming cataclysm, or perhaps an instinct, a behavior coded so deeply into our beings that we’re powerless to do otherwise. Palace, mysteriously, almost supernaturally, remains calm and focused on the events immediately before him, the little pieces that seem so inconsequential compared to the larger story. Palace is the kind of quiet, workaday person who would be unremarkable in normal circumstances, but who, in his stolid acceptance of the hopeless future, and his defiance of it, by doing his job the best that he can, achieves heroic status.

Really, when you get down to it, The Last Policeman is less a detective story–although it is that–than it is an existential mystery. When Palace begins considering the “motive” of Zell’s murderer, he inadvertently raises the question of his motive, of why he continues to care in a world gone mad. Palace’s fellow detectives retreat into their own consolations, whether it’s conspiracy theory, or gluttony, or smoking marijuana (which has been legalized). Palace plods onward, applying to the case the lessons he learned from textbooks on police work.

Ultimately, Winters’ asteroid might be read as a metaphor. Aren’t we all dying, whether or not a giant rock plows into Earth? There are fleeting moments when we’re aware of “the human endeavor,” the “connectedness” of all things, if you will, but our individual wants and needs crowd out that awareness. (There is a scene in the sequel, Countdown City, in which a college student forlornly caresses his dead iPhone, as if it’s still operational, that expertly captures our tendency toward solipsism.) On that level, the individual, personal level, we’re all facing down our own doom; when we die, we’re dead and gone, whether by asteroid, hanging, or getting hit by a bus. Like Winters’ characters, we carry on knowing that we will die. How we do so, and why, is the real mystery at the heart of Winters’ novel.

That’s not to say that Winters doesn’t deliver a satisfying “whodunnit.” Zell’s death and the circumstances surrounding it are well crafted, and Winters introduces us to a variety of characters, from Zell’s family, to his former best friend, drug dealer Toussaint, to Palace’s love interest, Naomi Eddes. The latter is particularly welcome, as she serves to humanize Palace, who is sometimes so literal and intense as to border on being alien, a notion supported by his appearance (very tall, and, I imagine, quite thin).

Indeed, if there is a weakness in The Last Policeman, it is the character of Palace, who, despite being the narrator, remains frustratingly opaque for much of the early portion of the novel. The first person narrative device, of course, limits readers’ knowledge to only that which Palace himself knows, serving an important function in terms of the mystery. Likewise, first person permits Winters to describe events as they’re being experienced by a character living through them. Still, it is not until the story is well underway that readers first begin to catch glimpses of Palace’s character–of his motives and motivations. Humorless, intense, Palace responds to his colleagues’ jokes dismissively, with “Okay,” and, “Sure.” He doesn’t have time for the niceties that permit people to function in normal society, especially when the world’s about to end and time is short. Palace’s back story informs his present, and readers will welcome the revelations as they’re shared. The character of Palace’s younger sister, “Nico,” not only serves to further humanize him, but also advances a subplot that carries into, and plays a larger role in, Countdown City.

Winters received the Edgar Award for The Last Policeman, an honor of which readers are likely to approve. Winters uses a compelling, plausible end of the world scenario to establish a fatalistic atmosphere that lends itself both to a detective story and to the larger philosophical questions in which he’s interested. The sense of doom Winters creates, his vision of collapse, renders the story poignant; readers will find themselves drawn in. The characters are well drawn and recognizable; Winters manages to humanize Palace and invest readers in his fate. The Last Policeman will appeal to lovers of mysteries and speculative fiction, but fantasists should beware: This novel remains firmly in the real world, and Detective Palace wouldn’t have it any other way. Highly recommended.

The follow up to The Last Policeman, Countdown City, was published in July 2013. The last novel in the trilogy, World of Trouble, will be published on July 15, 2014.