Bed by David Whitehouse

Published by Scribner on August 2, 2011

In a strange way, Bed asks whether love is a force of salvation or destruction. It may just be a question of perspective.

At the novel's center is the massive Malcolm, "the fattest man in the world." He doesn't -- he can't -- get out of bed; he and the bed have conjoined. After spending twenty years in bed, Mal has become a media sensation. Told from the point of view of Mal's unnamed brother, Bed jumps around in time, alternating scenes of Mal and his brother in their childhood and adolescence with events that occurred after Mal stopped rising from the bed in which he now dwells.

Why won't Mal get out of bed? In his early adulthood, after Mal leaves home to live with his girlfriend Lou, he proclaims his contempt for conventional lifestyles. He fears the mundane. It's ironic, given where he ends up, that Mal poses the rhetorical question "What will there be to remember of a mediocre existence?" Mal comes to believe that (as he says on his twenty-fifth birthday) he will be "just someone who was there, and that's it." He is gripped by a malaise so powerful he cannot see the purpose of life as a participatory experience. His conclusion -- "If you can't do what you're meant to do, why do anything at all?" -- explains his decision to stay in bed after his birthday party ends, but his reason for arriving at that conclusion remains unclear.

Depression may account Mal's initial reluctance to leave his bed (eventually, his size and the intermingling of his cellular structure with the bed itself makes it impossible for him to get up). Perhaps a mental illness more serious than depression is to blame. Long before he became morbidly obese, Malcolm was an odd child. He liked to stand in the rain with his face to the sky and his mouth open to the point of drowning. He preferred nudity to clothing, even at the supermarket. It's easy to understand why classmates wrote "Mal Ede is a weirdo" on the condensation-covered classroom windows on rainy days. Mal didn't care; he refused "to involve himself in the transient social systems of school." His weirdness was only beginning.

Mal wonders if his purpose "is to give purpose to others." His brother thinks Mal has always existed to give meaning to his mother's life. Delighted with her role as Mal's servant, Mal's enabling mother feeds him enough to sate a platoon. The novel raises an intriguing question: should Mal's mother be faulted for making him happy when her actions are probably contributing to an early death? A broader question that also applies to Lou is whether love means doing everything you can to make someone happy. Taking care of her father makes Lou happy even if it means sacrificing her own chance at a relationship. Lou's father sacrificed his own happiness to benefit a woman who ultimately left him; he learned that "a life lived in a way perceived to be correct could still come to nothing." Is David Whitehouse saying that love will find a way to destroy you in the end?

Bed is written tenderly, with affection for those (like Mal's mother) who deserve it and for those (like Mal) who probably don't. The story is in some respects touching, yet I often found it more depressing than enlightening. The final chapters initially seem life-affirming (perhaps some of us, at least, can discover a purpose in life that isn't self-destructive) and while I think it tries to be, the message that finally shines through is this: if you want to be loved, you need to be an invalid. There are moments of excellence here, snatches of wistful love stories that are beautifully rendered, but the novel's portrayal of heartbreak coupled with meaningless existence makes it difficult to read. It made me, like Mal, reluctant to get out of bed.

RECOMMENDED

The Charlestown Connection by Tom MacDonald

Published by Oceanview Publishing on August 1, 2011

Dermot Sparhawk is stocking shelves in a Boston food pantry when Jeepster Hennesey staggers through the door. As Hennesey dies in Sparhawk's arms, a knife buried in his back, he gives Sparhawk a key and says the word "Oswego." Written on a piece of tape wrapped around the key is the name "McSweeney." Before long, ruffians affiliated with the IRA are trying to persuade Sparhawk to reveal Hennesey's last words. As Sparhawk investigates, he learns that the mystery somehow relates to Hennesey's membership in a prison "literary society" called the Oulipo Boys. Further investigation connects the mystery to the worlds of art forgery and high stakes poker and brings Sparhawk into contact with a woman living in the projects who (according to Sparhawk's source) is an undercover FBI agent investigating Somali terrorists.

The Charlestown Connection is Tom MacDonald's first novel. He paints a vibrant picture of Boston's Charlestown neighborhood and enriches the narrative with glimpses of Charlestown's troubled history. The book is filled with unusual characters who are sometimes more colorful than interesting. Sparhawk's alcoholism makes him instantly familiar, but I got no sense of urgency from his battle with the bottle -- his newfound sobriety seemed too easy. Friends who help Sparhawk with the mystery include Glooscap, who speaks slowly and without contractions because "contractions are for the lazy, uttered only by sluggards"; an isolated, wheelchair-bound veteran named Buck Louis; Angus Og, a sometimes delusional veteran who claims to have advised Henry Kissinger about Vietnam and John Updike about baseball (could he be telling the truth?); and the too cutely named Harraseeket Kid, a character who adds nothing to the story. I am impressed that MacDonald didn't succumb to the temptation to turn the characters into superheroes. Louis, for instance, is an adept researcher but he can't break through firewalls with ease like the hackers who show up to provide a convenient assist in typical thrillers.

On occasion, The Charlestown Connection suffers from the first novel blues: unnatural dialog, awkward phrasing, uneven pace. A lecture on female genital mutilation in Somalia is well-intentioned but out of place. More troubling is Sparhawk's relationship with the FBI agent. Maybe Sparhawk has an animal magnetism that inspires professional women to jump into bed with him despite his alcoholism, his minimum wage job, and his residence across the street from the projects, but MacDonald didn't lay the kind of foundation that might have convinced me of Sparhawk's irresistibility. A museum curator's unexplained desire to become Sparhawk's buddy also struck me as artificial. My most serious reservation is the amount of time the characters spend talking with each other, repeating information the reader has already gleaned. The redundant descriptions of fact not only slow the novel's pace, they make the characters seem dense, as if they need to be told why something is important when they were commenting upon its importance in an earlier chapter.

MacDonald clearly did his research. Apart from being interesting in their own right, his discussions of the Oulipo movement and art forgery add credibility to the plot. The story is clever but unexceptional. As a first effort, this novel isn't bad, but it didn't make me eager to encounter these characters again.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS

Machine Man by Max Barry

Published by Vintage on August 9, 2011

If a body is just a collection of replaceable parts, if love is just a sensation induced by a swirl of brain chemicals, then what is man?

Charles Neumann loves machines; he's a mechanical engineer who, as a child, dreamed of being a train. As a teen, after nearly being run over by a guy driving a Viper -- a guy who then abused him for not getting out of the way -- Neumann wondered when it was that beautifully engineered machines like the Viper became superior to humans, who often wind up being useless jerks. Now an adult, Neumann has a big brain, no social skills, and an isolated life. When he loses a leg in a lab accident, the injury only encourages his inclination to remain apart from others. Given a choice of prosthetic replacements and seeing nothing he likes, Neumann tries out the state-of-the-art model, breaks it, then decides to build one of his own: a leg that not only walks by itself, but decides for itself how to get where it needs to go. Finally happy with the design of his mechanical leg, he becomes dissatisfied with the biological one. You can guess what he does next.

Man's dependence on technology and what that dependence does to us is Machine Man's driving theme. Machine Man also takes a satirical look at corporate willingness to sacrifice human concerns for the sake of profit. Neumann's employer (Better Future) has been reluctant to develop medical technology because medical advances might render the technology obsolete. If, after investing in the development of an artificial heart, medical researchers cured heart disease, Better Future would view that public health benefit as a disaster. Artificial replacements for healthy limbs and organs, however, offer unlimited growth potential. Just as consumers throw away perfectly good cell phones because the new model is superior, consumers will want the latest arm or spleen because it's trendy and sexy to own one. Max Berry stretches that premise to absurd lengths while making an important point: as long as markets drive technology, corporations will spend more money designing sophisticated game controllers (because the market is huge) than they will spend to increase the functionality of prosthetic limbs (because the market is limited). Desire trumps utility in a market economy -- an economic truth that lends itself to Barry's humanistic brand of comedy.

There are some very funny moments in Machine Man: the scientists' certainty that "physical attractiveness was inversely correlated with intelligence, because look at us"; a conversation about the importance of passing the salt before performing an unrelated task. Barry has fun with workers compensation payments for amputations (it's economically beneficial to lose fingers one at a time rather than losing a whole hand) and with middle managers who try to protect a corporation from legal liability by using politically correct jargon while shafting its employees. Barry repeatedly and thoroughly skewers the corporate mentality. By the midpoint of this novel I was laughing out loud. Frequently.

In the end, however, the story is about Neumann. Barry weaves an offbeat love story into the plot -- it has to be offbeat because Neumann is such a poor candidate for love -- but love requires sacrifice. How much will a man who values elegantly designed machinery more than biologically limited people be willing to sacrifice for love? That's the question that gives the novel heart as well as humor.

This isn't the funniest novel I've ever read (Catch-22 and A Confederacy of Dunces share that honor) nor is it the most profound (not even in the top hundred) but it tells a wickedly smart, emotionally appealing story that kept me laughing until the last page. There's an over-the-top aspect to this novel that will put off some readers, but if you believe in the possibility of telling a serious story that isn't meant to be taken seriously, you'll probably enjoy Machine Man.

RECOMMENDED

Death and the Penguin by Andrey Kurkov

First published in Russian in 1996; first published in English in 2001; publsihed by Melville House on June 7, 2011

Viktor lives in Kiev with a depressed penguin named Misha. Viktor is also depressed despite recently acquiring a job writing obituaries for VIPs in anticipation of their deaths. He fills the obituaries with philosophical musings about life and loss. Since his subjects are still living, Misha's obituaries (like his short stories and unfinished novels) remain unpublished. A greater cause of Viktor's unhappiness, however, is his isolation -- he feels much like his penguin, who stands in the corner for long stretches, staring at the wall. Viktor feels "remote from events and even from life itself." Eventually a government official whose obituary Viktor has written falls from a window and Viktor learns of a connection between his writing, the man's death, and the rioting the death precipitates. Viktor later learns that his editor has a hidden purpose for publishing the obits -- a purpose that causes Viktor to ponder the role of death in a planned economy.

Viktor finds his solitude eased by the presence of Sonya, the four-year-old daughter of a militia officer who drops her off with Viktor before disappearing. Yet Viktor's feeling of seclusion is supplanted by an uneasy sense that the new situation created by his temporary visitor is precarious, that in the absence of any real attachments his respite from loneliness is vulnerable to fate. The addition of a nanny allows Viktor to imagine he is part of a family, but he knows the family -- like much of the life that surrounds him -- is only an illusion.

Death and the Penguin is set in Ukraine, a country troubled by hardship and violence. A sense of menace pervades the novel; people live with the expectation that death --or worse -- is lurking nearby. Yet most of Kurkov's characters are generous and kind-hearted. They have adjusted to their circumstances: "The once terrible was now commonplace, meaning that people accepted it as the norm and went on living, instead of getting needlessly agitated. For them, as for Viktor, the main thing, after all, was still to live, come what might." Perseverance in the face of darkness is a theme that runs through Death and the Penguin. Still, while Viktor has always believed that "a hard life is better than an easy death," he understands why others disagree.

There is a surrealistic quality to some of the novel's events: letters and packages mysteriously appear in Viktor's apartment despite his locked door; Misha is much in demand at increasingly common funerals for members of criminal organizations. Viktor decides it is better not to think about things he doesn't understand. In his world, too much knowledge can be dangerous. The novel takes an even stranger turn toward darkness when Misha requires an extreme remedy for a medical condition. At that point Viktor mourns for the loss of the simple, comprehensible life of his childhood.

There are probably many ways to understand Death and the Penguin, but I see it as an allegorical story about the loss of innocence -- a loss that afflicts individuals as they experience life and societies as they confront oppression. But Death and the Penguin can also be read more simply, as a dark comedy, an engaging story about a man, a girl, and a penguin doing their best to deal with the daily mysteries of life. The reader gets the sense that Misha, staring quizzically at his human roommates, is just as puzzled about complex human behavior as are the adult human characters. I think it would be difficult to read this novel and not derive something worthwhile from it, even if it's only a smile.

RECOMMENDED

Angela Sloan by James Whorton

Published by Free Press on August 2, 2011

After a seven-year-old girl's parents were murdered during the 1964 Simba rebellion against the government of the Congo, CIA Agent Ray Sloan plucked her from the orange tree in which she was hiding and kept her sheltered until the rebellion was quashed. Sloan gave her the name Angela (for reasons that are explained about midway through the novel) and raised her as his daughter. The events described in the novel (written in the form of a letter to the CIA, authored by Angela) begin after Sloan's 1972 retirement, when a former CIA agent called Horsefly recruits Ray to join a private firm. Ray works with another operative known as Gristle (although not identified by name, Gristle is obviously G. Gordon Liddy). Shortly after the Watergate break-in is discovered, Gristle thinks it would be best to shoot everyone involved (including Horsefly and Ray) to contain the damage and protect the White House. Ray decides it's time to go to ground and implements a plan that calls for Angela to go her separate way until it is safe for Ray and Angela to reunite.

Ray's tradecraft is good but the man is a wreck. His life is a cover story, and not one assigned by the CIA. He drinks too much, he's paranoid, he has Angela (now fourteen) chauffeur him around after a driving lesson that consists of telling her to avoid reverse gear and left turns. Leaving Angela to fend for herself is clearly poor parenting but as the story progresses, it becomes increasingly difficult not to feel sympathy for Ray. In any event, Angela isn't by herself for long. Driving away from their home in D.C., Angela finds an unexpected passenger in her back seat, an inscrutable Chinese Maoist named Betty. Angela later encounters Ray's old friends and colleagues, the Gantrys, as well as a group of hippies and a female CIA operative who may or may not be on Ray's side.

By having Ray and Angela live their lives as cover stories, Whorton creates a clever means to explore the nature of self-deception. Angela sees people as would a CIA field agent: as assets to be manipulated while taking care not to be manipulated by them. Angela's road trip with Betty becomes a journey of discovery. She learns things about Ray that explain why he drinks himself into a stupor every night, one of many issues they've never discussed. As Angela assembles pieces of the puzzle that has been their life, she learns about herself and comes to realize how little she knows about Ray, how much of their respective pasts they've chosen to ignore. Analyzing her bizarre interaction with Betty, she begins to understand the value of honest friendships.

The novel is constructed as a series of bite-size chapters, contributing to its steady pace. Whorton doesn't bog down the story with unnecessary subplots although he does introduce a couple of unnecessary characters. While the story builds interest as it moves along, my interest waned in the final chapters. That's unfortunate because most of the novel is quite funny; Angela's conversations with Betty are hysterical. Still, some bits -- particularly Angela's interaction with a small group of hippies as the story is winding down -- are bland, the attempted comedy too obvious to generate mirth. The story lags at that point (adding hippies and the inevitable acid trip was a poor choice) and the last few chapters are disappointing. The weak ending doesn't ruin the novel but it certainly doesn't help the story reach its full potential.  On balance, I enjoyed the humor in Angela Sloan, but not enough to give the novel an enthusiastic recommendation.

RECOMMENDED WITH RESERVATIONS