Author: Robert A. Parker

Robert A. Parker, a retired writer and editor, currently writes the blog, A Literary Cavalcade, that offers reviews of 20th and 21st century fiction. His past reviews, written over six decades, have been published in six volumes, also called A Literary Cavalcade. His commentaries on cultural subjects have appeared in America, The Critic, Sign, Communication Arts, Americas, Vuelta, and other publications. He has designed, edited, and written 20 volumes that summarize the Parker family’s literary and photographic careers.

Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell

This 2005 novel is remarkable. But, half-way into it, I was puzzled by the book’s purpose. I was prepared to experience different stories at various time levels, but was not prepared to experience its various genre styles. At one point, I wondered if these different writing styles merely reflected the author showing off.

The story begins with Adam Ewing recording a sea adventure from the 19th century. Then it moves to an introspective study of a composer and his innocent student, Robert Frobisher, suggesting a similar account about a young man and Frederic Delius. Next, we move to a somewhat sinister tale of a reporter, Luisa Rey, who is tracking down a scientist fleeing a powerful energy company, which resorts to violence when the scientist claims its new atomic plant is unsafe. The fourth tale introduces Timothy Cavendish, a publisher who ends up fleeing London, only to find himself locked up as crazy in a rest home.

It is with the fifth tale, however, that Mitchell really suggests showing off. Set up as an interview with Somi-451, an android type, this is a science fiction tale set in a world the reader finds difficult to grasp as it begins underground in a controlled society, a society from which the android heroine attempts to escape to become a human. An entirely new vocabulary (and references) are introduced for the first time.

A new vocabulary continues in the sixth tale, set in a Hawaii of the distant future after a world calamity, for here the narrator uses a blend of slang and a Western cowboy accent to tell of a violent war between two tribes, plus a mysterious woman who may be ready to help the narrator’s side. This is the only tale which is told completely in one take. After one gets past the idiomatic narrative, however, it ends with an exciting attempt to escape across the Big Island to safety.

The other five tales have stopped abruptly, and now they resume, each reaching an exiting climax. As the Times review notes, the narrative sequence is 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, which underlines the deliberate structure of this work.

We return to Somni-451’s search to be human and the adventurous finish— except hers turns out to be a shaggy dog tale, as the author pulls the run from under our feet. Next to reappear is publisher Cavendish, whose fast-paced adventure rises to a climax with his escape from the home, except it then winds down gently.

By now the reader is wondering where Mitchell is going with these tales with the suggestion of a link between them. One link, a comet-shaped birthmark, suggests reincarnation. Another link occurs when, somehow, a book, a film, or letters fortuitously appear that refer back to a previous tale and enable the characters (and the author) to connect the various stories.

The most exciting return is to Luisa Rey, and the reader wonders what has happened to her after she has been run off the road and presumably killed. This return to Luisa Ray demonstrates how well Mitchell can write a clever suspense novel if he wishes. Luisa’s adventures keep moving as she escapes peril after peril, with surprising deaths hindering her along the way. Until, as in most mysteries, the corporate skullduggery is revealed and justice is served. Except, before we leave her Luisa receives a mysterious package with letters Frobisher wrote back in 1931 during his life with the composer.

These letters reveal Frobisher’s frustration both in love and in composing. His tale also reaches a definite, unexpected conclusion, as he culminates his short career with the Cloud Atlas Sextet. Except…he himself has discovered an old book in his room, propping up a bed leg. The book contains the second half of the Adam Ewing tale that began this novel.

Ewing’s tale returns us to his harrowing adventure on the high seas and a threat to his life. It also climaxes with an unexpected surprise, before offering a 19th century conclusion that says life is a struggle, often against evil, but that men must dedicate themselves to doing good and enjoying the fruits of that effort.

So what is Mitchell trying to achieve here? It appears to be a summary of human experience. Through six tales of adventure, he ranges from the 1800s to an unknown distant future. And in each adventure, his heroes and heroines confront evil, sometimes triumphing, sometimes not. Which, of course, is the human experience.

At the same time, Mitchell also decided to challenge himself. He will use different writing styles to relate different stories with different outcomes. The artist in him also suggests those links between the stories—either a comet tattoo, or the letters, manuscript, or film that advances the narrative to the succeeding tale. Except, I think that these links are decoration, an author’s maneuver to justify his six tales being brought together. It has nothing to do with the novel’s meaning.

What makes this book work is its cleverness: its fascinating adventures, its frequent surprises, its believable characters in every era, its shifting styles, its solid reality both in the past and in its world of fantasy. One review sums it up: “Cloud Atlas is a narrative about the act of narration, the ability of story telling to shape our sense of history, civilization, and selfhood.” Or another: “It knits together science fiction, political thriller and historical pastiche with musical virtuosity and linguistic exuberance.”

The one area that did not persuade me was the suggestion of a kind of simultaneousness to these stories, a suggestion that they exist outside of time and will repeat over and over. This is most obvious in a scene in which a bomb blows up an airplane, and a suggestion that the characters will return and meet again. This thought does blend with the idea of six separate time frames joined together in one book. But surely it is much less effective in raising a philosophical point than it is in being a technique to join these stories. Indeed. Mitchell seems aware of this, as publisher Frobisher rejects the mere idea of reincarnation in a manuscript about Luisa Rey

To sum up, I felt it was unnecessary to link these tales through letters, manuscripts, and film. The work does not need this. It is the range of the tales and their similarities that justify bringing them together. One similarity, for example, comes from each character striving against all odds to reach a goal, mostly succeeding, sometimes not. Still another is the narrator always trying to escape pursuers to achieve this. Finally, there is also a similarity, paradoxically, in each tale being related in a different literary style.

And yet the imagination behind this work is truly impressive. Indeed, while Mitchell had to receive pleasure in answering the challenge behind his structure, I cannot help but think that he also sought, through the narrative within each tale, to create maximum pleasure for his readers.

Is there another book like this one? Can there be? It would certainly seem that only this author could top this book. Which makes me truly interested in his future works, even as I suspect that the literary risk that he takes will not always work. Yet I cannot help but salute him for trying. (August, 2013)

Wicked, by Gregory Maguire

This 1995 work is a long and complex novel. Its narrative flows rapidly, but it also jumps over long passages of time, which produces about five separate stories. The consistent character is Elphaba, the Wicked With of the West, and the novel is about how this sympathetic, victimized character evolves, and how and why she becomes wicked.

The entire work was inspired by The Wizard of Oz, but is a rather free adaptation of the events that led up to the L. Frank Baum novel. Also, it’s for adults, not kids. Maguire interprets the events for his own purposes, one of which is to explore the existence of evil and the possible consequences in an afterlife. But in doing so, through the five stories, he creates a confusing narrative, as the surrounding characters change in each story and Elphaba herself changes.

Also confusing for a long while is the presence of Animals and animals. The former have human characteristics, but are not recognized as human by much of society, which nevertheless uses them. The lowercase animals are mere animals. Upper case Animals are close to the slaves of our past, but Maguire does not stress this.

The land of Oz consists of five separate governments, none of which trusts the other; and the Wizard as the villain apparently wishes to dominate Oz overall. (Note that his role is quite small; and he is no jovial, unthreatening Frank Morgan.) Thus, there is a strong political element to this novel, an element which for me offers an unwanted distraction from the adventures of the main characters. Although I do grant that some of the characters are deeply involved in this struggle for power.

In the first story, Elphaba is born to an evangelical-type minister, but has green skin, a temper, and a deathly fear of water. When a sister, Nessarose, is born, she is quite beautiful, but has no arms. She is her father’s favorite and Elphaba becomes jealous of her.

In the second story, Elphaba go off to Shiz University where she rooms with snobby and beautiful Galinda, watches over Nessarose, and meets other friends. There is a murder over the status of Animals, and Elphaba decides she must rebel and join their cause.

The third story, five years later, has Elphaba deeply involved in the underground. She has a futile affair, and, after failing to assassinate a target, she flees, mute, to a nunnery.

In the fourth story, seven more years have passed. Elphaba is called by her father to Munchkinland to help set “queen” Nessarose on the right path. Nessa promises to give Elphaba her magic ruby slippers when she dies. Elphaba wants these slippers because she has learned how to do magic. She is on her way to becoming a witch.

The final story, another seven years later, begins when Dorothy’s house from The Wizard of Oz falls on Nessa and kills her. Elphaba expects to get the shoes now, but Galinda, now Glinda, arrives first and gives them to Dorothy for the girl’s safety. Elphaba is furious; the slippers are rightfully hers. This turns Elphaba into the Wicked Witch of the West, as she plans to kill Dorothy to get the slippers.

Thus, Elphaba has become wicked, even though she has done much good in life, i.e., supporting the Animals and rebelling against the dictatorial Wizard. This contradiction is what enables Maguire to raise the question of evil. Are evil acts ever justified? Can/should a good person commit evil acts, and remain good?

At the end, Elphaba is evil. But how much has this grown out of her unfortunate circumstances: her green skin, her temper, her paternity, etc., and how much has been introduced by the author—both to conform in part to Baum’s The Wizard of Oz, and to enable him to explore the complexity of existence, such as whether there is a God (the Unknown God) and an afterlife. This is what might prompt one to reread this work. Knowing the conclusion, even though Maguire does not resolve those eternal issues, would one appreciate the issues better?  Would one also detect more clearly the author’s Catholic background?

I have not seen the musical, Wicked, but my impression is that Glinda has a more prominent role there than she does in the novel. Is it because the musical presents only part of the novel, the early portion when Glinda is more prominent? More likely it is a reworking, based on the realization that someone has to be in dramatic conflict with Elphaba.

To sum up, this is a story of fantasy, evil, and politics. Its content is the fantasy, its core is the evil, and its theme is the political struggle in Oz. Wally Lamb sums up this work quite well: “Maguire’s adult fable examines some of literature’s major themes: the nature of evil, the bittersweet dividends of power, and the high costs of love. Elphaba…is as scary as ever, but this time in a different way. She’s undeniably human. She’s us.”

Maguire achieves here what many authors strive for: a sympathetic villain. He creates sympathy with the good that Elphaba does in her family life and her political life. Then he confronts her with emotion and circumstance that twists her frame of reference. It is a twist I am still reluctant to accept at face value, even as I understand how it works in the novel. So A for effort; B+ for achievement. There is a certain confusion when the separate adventures, as entertaining as they are, do not flow from one story to the next. (July, 2013)

By Nightfall, by Michael Cunningham

 This is a marvelously written novel from 2010. It captures cosmopolitan New York City, the modern, commercial art world, and the complexity of human relationships. It is the story of Peter Harris and his wife Rebecca, who are in their forties and who live for their professional life as much as they do for each other.

But for me this is also a very uncomfortable book.

Uncomfortable because its narrative revolves around a different kind of triangle. A triangle among Peter, Rebecca, and Rebecca’s young and handsome brother Mizzy. A triangle in which Peter sees in the male Mizzy a younger and beautiful version of the wife he once fell in love with. Now, he and Rebecca are both settled in their marriage, and here come Mizzy, whom Peter falls for, and envisions as a way out of his humdrum life as the owner of an art gallery always searching for beauty.

Cunningham himself is gay, and perhaps it was inevitable that in today’s changing culture, he would decide to tackle head-on a love relationship between two men. But even he still belongs to the old school, since their relationship does not reach a satisfying conclusion. It is even hinted that Mizzy seduced his brother-in-law in order to prevent him from revealing that he, Mizzy, has returned to a life of drugs.

But what Cunningham does establish is that Peter has fallen for Mizzy, can’t get him out of his mind, and dreams of abandoning his marriage and his career and then running off with him. But if Peter convinces himself he is in love, this reader is less convinced. Yes, Mizzy is a younger version of his wife, but Peter argues too much with himself, first whether he is gay, then whether he is in love, and finally whether he should run away with, of all people, his brother-in-law. The gradual recognition is too scripted. As also is Rebecca’s concern and support of a brother who is basically beautiful but irresponsible.

Whereupon, it seems that Mizzy may be the more sensible one, when he, not Peter, decides the outcome of their relationship. Peter’s deep introspection thus appears not to be worth the author’s effort, or is even beside the point. Which leaves a resolution that needs to be reached by Peter and Rebecca, and with which they are barely comfortable—and the reader even less. If Peter confesses, will he be forgiven? Will Rebecca change, just as he has changed, just as beauty keeps changing?

As one critic wrote: “The novel is a slim book that takes on some big issues: the evolving relationship of long-married couples, the often-fraught bond between parents and their adult children, the duty siblings have to one another. But it also enlarges to consider the role that beauty plays in our lives and the necessarily one-sided nature of our relationship with it.”

Indeed, what makes this novel so vivid for me is its explorations of: the nature of beauty, the subjective evaluation of art, the commercial motives in the art world, the political intrigue among artists and galleries, and each artist’s need for recognition. The personal narrative drives the novel, yes, but it is a narrative that the reader easily anticipates. Indeed, one that this reader hoped would not occur, but which becomes too obvious when Mizzy is conveniently created as both beautiful and a younger version of the wife Peter fell in love with.

But, it is the depth of the art world that makes so real the penetration of these emotional lives. Peter is fascinated by beauty, is in search of it for his art gallery, yet cannot see the beauty in what is recognized today as art. This frustration is mirrored by his relationship with his wife, whose beauty has also disappeared. While she has become a person he is comfortable with, she is also a person who is as dissatisfied with her career as an editor as he is with the responsibilities of an art gallery. This mutual frustration is what makes this novel so interesting, especially as it is enriched by its exploration of artists, agents, managers, and curators in the art world.

Cunningham obviously saw how this dissatisfaction could be expanded into Peter’s emotional life, and into a new area of literary exploration, namely the origins of a gay relationship. And in his own terms, I am sure he felt that he succeeded. But not being a part of that life, I felt a certain manipulation in the way Peter confronts Mizzy. Such as when Mizzy is naked in the kitchen. Such as when Mizzy is naked in the shower. Because at that point you knew where the novel was headed, even with the reservations that Peter had in committing to a relationship that would overturn his comfortable world.

To sum up, Cunningham remains a magnificent novelist. But he reveals here perhaps the prejudice of a gay writer. That there is an element of being gay in all of us, and he wishes to show how easily it can surface in a man who has never confronted that possibility. Which means that behind the sensitive introspection of his characters, behind the rich portrait of the art world, Cunningham has an axe to grind. To show that being gay is a normal way of life for some, and that it is a legitimate subject for a work of literature. Even if this were true, however, I wish he had been more subtle in presenting his story. Especially, the brother being a younger stand-in for his wife.

Will I read more Cunningham? I certainly wish to, but I also know that my decision may be based in part on his future choice of subject matter. This may be considered as prejudice by some, but I do not see Peter’s story here as an exploration of a common human experience. For Lolita and Mann’s Tadzio, for example, the sex symbolized more an inner need than it did a means of escape. (August, 2013)

Waiting for Sunrise, by William Boyd

Boyd wanted this book from 2012 to be a thriller, and in this he succeeds. However, thrillers require misdirection and coincidence, which are extensive here. And they are not a mark of literature. The result is a highly readable work but not as serious a work of fiction as are Boyd’s other works.

The story begins in Vienna, moves to London, then briefly to the World War I battlefront in France and to Geneva, and then finally returns to London. The hero is Lysander Rief, an actor, who travels to Vienna before the war to resolve a personal, psychological—well, sexual—problem. There, he encounters several characters who, during the war, will involve him in the search for a traitor who is revealing military secrets to the Germans. He is obliged to work with these British officials because earlier they had helped him escape from Viennese authorities after he had been falsely accused of rape.

The Vienna scenes are the most effective in the book, because we are not involved yet in an espionage work, but rather with the characters. The author is merely setting the foundation of what is to come. The battlefront scene is also effective, but brief. The remainder of the book, set around London, sacrifices a valid atmosphere for the sake of the espionage thriller, as Rief’s search and the reader’s suspicions shift from one character to another.

Boyd uses two methods to tell his tale. One is a straight third-person narrative. The other is a first person narrative in a journal Rief is keeping. It works within the book, because his Vienna psychiatrist has suggested it; but it is not clear to me why the author resorts to this different viewpoint. I can see it only as symbolic of the contrasting facets of the espionage world. That is, Rief is not sure of where truth, or where reality, lies in his mind as well as in this unique world of espionage.

At the end, Boyd chooses not to explain matters clearly, perhaps also consistent with the espionage world. He suggests but does not spell out the role of Rief’s mother, nor the role of the three military men who oversee his search for the traitor. We know in general what has happened, who the traitor is, but the details are not clear. Did the traitor mail the letters to himself about military details, and then code the content—just to suggest someone else was working over him? Why were his superiors so accepting of Rief’s initial misleading identity of the traitor? And why did they accept Rief’s final revelation, when his conclusion was more theory than proof?

Boyd apparently sought to give depth to his hero, by first giving him a sexual problem, and then by describing his interesting encounters with three women. One. Hettie. falsely accuses him of rape, and another, Florence, shoots him (in the most unbelievable surprise moment), while fellow actress Blanche beaks their engagement and then reconsiders. It is Hettie who is the most complex character, but that complexity seems somewhat forced. She becomes less real as her emotions change and she keeps contradicting herself.

The title comes from the climactic scene, in which Rief waits at dawn to encounter the actual traitor. Even there, however, Boyd deliberately confuses the reader, when Rief seem to be distracted by the first man he encounters. And like in many an espionage tale, Boyd has Rief turn a significant character, Rief’s uncle, into a surprise accomplice to help save him.

   To sum up, this is a fast-paced work that does not pretend to be literature. And so, it is a disappointment in terms of the author’s past work. But as a thriller, it earns high marks. Even if it is also overly complex. That is, while we are in suspense because we do not see where the action is headed, some of this suspense is achieved through deception, and through coincidence. Too much coincidence, in fact.

In addition, because the reader does not understand the perspectives, the motives, of the various characters around Rief—are they friends or enemies of England?—the characters themselves lack depth. Yes, it builds suspense, but it is a handicap in every thriller, and here we are uncertain about nearly all the major characters. About Rief’s mother, about Hattie, about the friendly woman spy who shoots him, and about the three military officers who are overseeing his search for the traitor. Only his uncle and his psychiatrist seem to be what they purport to be.

Perhaps the main handicap in terms of being literature is that Rief is continually trying to figure out where the other characters stand, where are their loyalties, and is his safety compromised by what he is doing with them. Whereas, to be literature, Rief should be concentrating on trying to figure himself out. Does he have psychological problems with women? Does he have mixed loyalties because he is half Austrian? Is he troubled by the ethics or morality of his assignment. Does he accept that any conduct is valid because he is acting under orders and it is for the security of his country?

I will continue reading Boyd, but do wonder what level of literature he wishes to achieve. This book seems to strive for popularity rather than consideration as serious art. It does have some texture, however: British bureaucracy, pre-War Vienna, and London society.

But it is the characters who should have the greatest texture, the greatest complexity—both in terms of the plot and in their own individual psychology. Hettie’s internal contradictions are not enough; and she is too obvious, in any event. On the other hand, the British officials appear to accept Rief’s explanation only because it is the most convenient. While Blanche resolves her situation with Rief too easily, a nd Rief’s own acting career doesn’t matter to me. (August, 2013)

Scoop, by Evelyn Waugh

How witty and tongue-in-cheek can one get? This is a delightful novel written in 1938. It is a satire on the field of journalism, conveyed through the experiences of William Boot, a naive nature writer with no ambition who is hired in error as a foreign correspondent by the Daily Beast (now I know what inspired Tina Brown) and then sent to the fictional east African country of Ishmaelia.

The confusion begins when William Boot is contacted instead of fiction writer John Boot by the foreign editor, Salter, and the managing editor, both incomptents who are beholden to their authoritarian publisher, Lord Copper. The confusion lasts until the very end, when John is rewarded instead of William and Uncle Theodore is accepted to replace William.

But not only are the Beast people incompetent, so are the competing papers and fellow foreign correspondents that William meets in Ishmaelia. These correspondents are easily road-blocked and then sent on wild-goose chases by the local government of Ishmaelia, whose own actions are arbitrary and incompetent. Waugh, of course, is having fun with all of these people—with London society which fumbles it influences, with the newspaper editors out to please their boss, with the gullible foreign correspondents, and with the doctrinaire Ishmaelia government, a country run by one family, the Jacksons.

Some today will look back at the description of the men who run this country, and accuse Waugh of racism. Actually, however, he is having the same fun with these incompetent blacks as he is with London society and the journalistic profession. Such satire in those days, the thirties, was acceptable; but we look at such matters differently today.

The bitterest comment on the press is when both the bosses and the correspondents think that nothing is happening in Ishmaelia, so they had better come up with something to justify their time there. William, however, is too naive to understand this, and has to be taught by friendly companions both the hidden political life in that country and the meaning of the cables that he is receiving from his London bosses. Until the Scoop of the title—the scoop of what is really happening in Ishmaelia—has to be explained to him by others. A great example of his incompetence is when he meets the British ambassador and fails to inform him of what he has just learned about the plot against the Ishmaelia government—and fails to get his own resulting scoop in return.

This is Waugh at his finest, as he looks down on all these people, turning them into incompetent fools. It is perhaps characteristic of this author, who will later be revealed to be secure in his conservative faith, that here he writes with the smug attitude of a self-satisfied member of society. Unlike Greene.

Which may help to explain why Greene used his faith as the core of his early novels, because he had doubts about it; and these doubts provided the (internal) conflict that is at the heart of literature. Whereas, since Waugh had no doubts about his faith, he turned to society for his subject matter. And so, where Greene is deeply involved with his characters, Waugh is quite aloof.

The greatest fun with this novel is at the beginning, when the confusion sends the unprepared William to Africa, and at the end, when the Beast tries to reward him for his success. My favorite scene, in fact, is at the end, when Salter travels to rural England to William’s home in order to persuade him to continue working for the Beast and to attend Lord Copper’s banquet in his honor. His hike from the railroad station, his arrival unkempt (the family thinks he is drunk), and his meeting of this eccentric family—all this is delightful, Waugh’s devastating portrait of rural English society.

William’s success abroad is, of course, none of his doing. The result is a lot of byways in the early portion of his travels in Ishmaelia; and it slows the novel until the revolutionary activity is revealed. In the meantime, we are introduced to Katchen, a Polish girl without a country who is married (sort of) to a German who has disappeared into the interior of Ishmaelia.

Katchen is the “love” interest for William, who thinks he loves her but is not really interested in love. Neither is she, of course, except to get the Beast’s money she can finagle through William. Interest picks up when her husband returns, and they escape uproariously in a canoe William gives them. Her presence works, however, because her husband is involved in the search for minerals that interests both the Germans and the Russians and motivates the basic story, their attempts to take over the government of Ishmaelia.

And then there is the mysterious “Baldwin,” who travels incognito with William on his way to Africa, is helped by William, and then parachutes into Ishmaelia to save the day for the government—and William. He also provides an opportunity for Waugh, through exaggeration, to needle the Soviets.

Waugh spent time in Africa covering the Italian invasion of Abyssinia, and this novel is said to be inspired by that experience. Further speculation relates many of these fictional characters to real journalists, from Lord Beaverbrook (Lord Copper) to John Gunther (Jakes).

Waugh wraps up the fate of his various characters in the final two pages. It is clever and somewhat arbitrary, but it works, not least because it is in keeping with the aloof style of the rest of the novel.

To sum up, this is marvelous Waugh—to be appreciated especially by journalists, who are the victims of his satire. But he spreads the satire all around: to politicians, to high society, to publishers, to empire builders, to dictators, even to the Communists. The work is both witty and funny, witty in style, funny in subject matter. And most of all, its characters act believably even as they act deviously or stupidly. The naïve William is truly three-dimensional. The remaining characters are not, but they are alive on these pages because they are so incompetent. (June, 2013)