Lexicon by Max Barry

Published by Penguin Press on June 18, 2013

Research suggests that babies babble the phonemes of hundreds of languages and that parental encouragement of recognized sounds shapes the language the babies learn to speak.  If that is so, perhaps there is meaning in those root sounds that we don’t fully understand.  Maybe the brain has a fundamental language (akin to machine language) from which all other languages derive.  That concept, at any rate, provides a foundation for understanding the story that Max Barry tells in Lexicon.

Building on various “confusion of tongue” myths that explain the divergence of language (including the Tower of Babel), Lexicon becomes a contemplation of words:  how they shape our lives, how we use them as tools to manipulate others, how we weaponize them.  Barry’s novel imagines tangible words that literally have the power to kill, but it’s easy to see that as a metaphor for our use of words to control and even to destroy others, psychologically if not physically.

The story begins with Wi Parkel’s kidnapping from an airport.  People who have taken the names of dead poets are trying to kill him.  Wil has no idea why he’s been targeted.  Has he been mistaken for someone else, or has he forgotten his former identity?  He knows only that this has something to do with an incident that wiped out all three thousand residents of Broken Hill, Australia.

Soon the story takes us to Emily Ruff, sixteen and homeless.  Emily is recruited to take a series of tests because she’s unusually persuasive.  If she passes, she’ll attend a school where the teachers have taken the names of (mostly dead) poets.  The school’s approach to persuasion is holistic, with special attention to the power of words.

The narrative jumps around in time, challenging the reader to reorder the novel’s events in linear time to make sense of the story.  How Wil’s story will intersect with Emily’s isn’t immediately clear, although Barry plants clues in the first third of the novel that make it possible for the reader to guess the truth before it’s revealed.   The novel’s clever construction engages the reader’s attention by adding the elements of an intellectual mystery to two very different stories:  while Wil’s story has all the elements of a thriller (including chases and gun battles and a conspiracy that could lead to world domination), Emily’s is a science fiction coming-of-age tale.  The eventual joinder of the two stories transcends genres.

To the extent that it is a lengthy parable about the power of language, Lexicon strikes me as something that China Mieville might write.  They are stylistically different authors -- Barry uses more humor than Mieville -- but the depth of abstract thought that characterizes Mieville’s writing is present here.  Like Mieville, Barry takes familiar themes (“power corrupts”) and illustrates them in imaginative ways.  Barry riffs on the manipulative potential of the internet and on the insidious nature of online data collection while telling some of the story -- or providing enlightened commentary on the story’s themes -- in the form of IRC chats and online forum posts (including, a bit ironically, posts on Barry’s own online political forum).  He explores the conflict between our dual instincts for privacy and intimacy.  He suggests that we are enslaved by primal desires in the same way that words hold us in bondage.

Lexicon isn’t as purposefully goofy as some of Barry’s other novels, but like his other works, moments of humor lighten a serious theme.  It’s possible to put all of the deep thinking aside and enjoy Lexicon as an ingeniously plotted amalgam of genre stories:  romance and science fiction and action/adventure and mystery/thriller.  It’s better to appreciate Lexicon on each of its different levels:  for its humor, its excitement, and its ability to stimulate thought about the magical power of words (even words we don’t recognize or consciously understand ) to influence our lives.

RECOMMENDED

A Criminal Defense by Steven Gore

Published by Harper on July 30, 2013

Having read two of Steven Gore's Graham Gage novels (one was entertaining, the other just okay), I decided to try his latest Harlan Donnally novel. It convinced me that Gore should stick with Graham Gage.

The discovery of Mark Hamlin's naked body hanging from a rope in San Francisco's Fort Point leads retired homicide detective Donnally to play a reluctant role in the investigation of his murder. A judge (who behaves more like a prosecutor or police officer than a judge) appoints Donnally as "special master" to root through Hamlin's files looking for evidence that would lead to Hamlin's killer -- a suggestion, oddly enough, that Hamlin presciently made in a letter he wrote before his death. Why Hamlin didn't take greater care to avoid being murdered in never explained.

As he searches through Hamlin's files, Donnally follows leads that reveal preposterous criminal schemes in which Hamlin was engaged. He also discovers that Hamlin frequently traveled to Southeast Asia, leading Donnally to suspect (with no basis whatsoever) that Hamlin was a child predator.  In addition to Hamlin's clients, Donnally uncovers additional suspects, including the sister who inherits Hamlin's property and the lawyers who worked with or against Hamlin. Of course, the reader knows that most of these will be red herrings. They are also dull herrings. The truth is equally dull and not even momentarily credible.

Few of Gore's characters struck me as realistic, and I couldn't motivate myself to care about any of them. The criminals are one-dimensional caricatures of real people. Hamlin is a cartoonish stereotype of a dishonest lawyer, allegedly guilty of so many kinds of wrongdoing (including, laughably, opium addiction) that I wanted him to come back to life to defend himself. Donnally, on the other hand, is arrogant, self-righteous, and ill-informed. He hates everyone and everything. We get page after mind-numbing page of Donnally's condemnation of private defense attorneys (who are either incompetent or corrupt) and public defenders (who sell out their clients) and prosecutors (who make too many deals with the public defenders) and trials (which are just theater) and forensic psychologists (who say anything they are paid to say) and the city government (because it doesn't want to turn San Francisco into a police state) and drug cops (because they plant evidence and lie about their illegal searches) and judges (because they throw out the evidence that the drug cops acquire illegally) and hippies (because they're hippies) and his father (a filmmaker who didn't make "honest" movies). Donnally at least has the virtue of being an equal opportunity hater, but if anyone in the novel deserves to be hated, it's Donnally -- and that's not a good opinion for a reader to have of a thriller hero.

While none of the supporting characters are interesting, they aren't as obnoxious as Donnally (although some of them, including a character who is supposedly gay, seem to have a problem with gay men and lesbians). In fact, the only interesting aspect of A Criminal Defense is a scheme involving federal defendants accused of drug crimes who inform on other defendants. Gore has some insight into the way informants (whether or not they are truthful) drive the criminal justice system in federal court, and he understands the willingness of federal prosecutors and DEA agents to overlook their obvious lies. Unfortunately, the scheme isn't remotely plausible, and it comes too late in the novel to redeem a snooze-inducing plot.

NOT RECOMMENDED

Kill City Blues by Richard Kadrey

Published by Harper Voyager on July 30, 2013

Kill City Blues is the fifth novel in the Richard Kadrey's Sandman Slim series.  Half-angel James Stark (sometimes known as Sandman Slim) is no longer Lucifer, although he still occupies Lucifer's penthouse at Chateau Marmont. Something not quite human wants to buy the Qomrama Om Ya (a weapon that kills gods) from Stark, but Stark doesn't have it. Since the Qomrama can be used to release the Angra Orn Ya (or to keep the Angra imprisoned), Stark decides finding it will be his best chance to protect humanity from an Angra invasion. The last Stark knew, the Qomrama was in the possession of a rogue angel named Aelita. His search for its current location takes him to Hell (of course), to a whole bunch of bars (naturally), and to a shopping mall called Kill City. Oddly enough, the story turns out to be a search for God (with a capital G), or at least for one of His parts, now that He's been broken into five separate entities.

The story is relatively mindless -- Sandman Slim finds a variety of ways to kill a variety of supernatural entities before they kill him -- but the prose is intelligent, as are the jokes, the snide comments about LA, and the snappy dialog. Kill City Blues works well as a tongue-in-cheek quest/adventure story. Dark humor is mixed with enough light humor to keep the tone from becoming oppressive, while periodic action scenes keep the story moving at a good pace.

Even if you've read all the Sandman Slim novels, it's difficult to keep track of all the gods, demons, angels, werewolves, zombies, vampires, ghosts, sylphs, Dark Eternals, Hellions, and other supernatural characters, not to mention Stark's friends (including a sin eating priest, a girlfriend who needs drugs to control her urge to drink the life out of people, and a guy with a malfunctioning mechanical body). Reading a Sandman Slim novel is like reading a guidebook to all the Netherworlds and spirit realms of the Earth's collected mythologies. Fortunately, Stark is the only one who really matters. He is fully endowed with personality (mostly snarky) and has enough mental anguish and moral qualms to keep a team of therapists busy for decades. The other characters exist only to contribute sideshow amusement.

Readers who don't have a sense of humor about religious beliefs (those who think it is blasphemous to portray God in non-Biblical terms) should probably avoid Kill City Blues. My favorite sentence is uttered to God (or a fraction of God) by Father Traven: "I devoted my life to you and now I see you're nothing but a ridiculous, foulmouthed little man." Talk about a crisis of faith!

I wouldn't call the novel's ending anti-climactic because it never actually reaches a climax. Kill City Blues has the feel of a book that was written to set up the next book in the series. That doesn't mean Kill City Blues is uneventful or that it tells a bad story, but the fizzling out, "to be continued" nature of the final pages is frustrating. I suppose the remedy is to wait for the next Sandman Slim novel. Fortunately, that's something I don't mind doing.

RECOMMENDED

Graveland by Alan Glynn

Published by Picador on May 28, 2013

The CEO of a Wall Street investment bank is shot dead while jogging. That same bloody weekend, a hedge fund manager is killed. Despite the absence of supporting evidence, talking heads speculate that domestic terrorists are targeting Wall Street. The murders intrigue freelance reporter Ellen Dorsey who, after hours of research, surmises who the next victim is likely to be. Should she go to the police with her suspicion, or should she report the story?

Three parallel plot threads unfold as Dorsey continues her investigation. First, Connie Carillo's trial (she's accused of stabbing her investment banker husband to death) is a hot item on all the news networks. Second, Frank Bishop, downsized out of his career as an architect and recently divorced, loses his mediocre replacement job at a mall just as his daughter Lizzie goes missing. Third, James Vaughan's health problems convince him to step down as CEO of a private equity firm and Craig Howley is poised to become his successor, a position that gives him access to surprising secrets. A related development involves the experimental drug Vaughan is taking. Rather than weaving in naturally with the rest of the story, that thread initially feels like an outtake from a bad science fiction movie that was added to the novel as an afterthought. Although that storyline fizzles out, the relationship between Howley and Vaughn turns out to be the most intriguing aspect of the novel.

Slightly past its midpoint, it seems as if the novel should be nearly over. Most of the stories have come together, the reader has learned the identities of the shooters, and events appear to reach a surprising climax. Yet the story continues, and when the final plot thread connected with the rest of the story, I was even more surprised.

Alan Glynn writes fast-moving prose, often employing short sentences and brief paragraphs, but with a sense of literary style. I'm impressed by Glynn's ability to convey the world of finance both through the doublespeak jargon of money managers and from the angry perspective of the working stiffs who lose their jobs and pensions because of financial shenanigans. Graveland reflects justifiable anger at the greed that motivates financial managers who, playing with money, contribute nothing of value to the economy while diverting wealth (none of which they create) from the middle class to their own bulging pockets.

Glynn's characters are complex yet easy to understand. While the plot is overly ambitious, the characters hold the story together. The ending is an anticlimactic disappointment that dampens my enthusiasm for the novel as a whole, but most of Graveland is so absorbing that I'm willing to forgive its unrealized ambitions.

RECOMMENDED

TransAtlantic by Colum McCann

Published by Random House on June 4, 2013

Connections across the Atlantic and across time furnish TransAtlantic's theme. The first part of the novel reaches into history to tell three true stories. In 1919, Jack Alcock and Teddy Brown retrofit an airplane once used to make war and use it to make history: the first nonstop transatlantic flight, from Newfoundland to Ireland. In 1845, Frederick Douglass travels from Boston to Dublin to seek Irish support in the fight against slavery. In 1998, Senator George Mitchell flies across the Atlantic to negotiate peace in Northern Ireland. Colum McCann is a loving biographer of these transatlantic voyagers, focusing more intently on their positive qualities than on the faults they may have had. Still, as much as I admired McCann's attempt to personalize the historic, the stories in part one failed to touch my emotional core.

McCann tells three smaller yet richer stories in the novel's second part. These are ordinary people, not the subjects of history texts. Lily Duggan, a maid who meets and admires Frederick Douglass in part one, flees the hardship and pain of Ireland and travels to the promise of America, where she marries an ice dealer and lives a common life of love and loss and modest success. Lily's daughter Emily (a journalist who wrote an article about Frederick Douglass' legacy) crosses the Atlantic so that she can interview Teddy Brown for the second time (having met him in part one) for a story about the tenth anniversary of his flight. Years later, Emily's daughter Lottie (who chats with Senator Mitchell in part one) is living in Belfast, as are her daughter and grandson. As is true of many people in that time and place (and in many other times and places), Lottie's story ends tragically.

Among the novel's many connections is a letter that Lottie gives Teddy Brown for transatlantic delivery. The letter brings together Frederick Douglass and every female in Lily's family, having been passed from daughter to daughter. It makes its final appearance in part three, more than ninety years after it crossed the ocean. Lottie's daughter Hannah wonders "what might have happened if the letter had made it to its proper destination in Cork, what random turn of events might have grown out of it, what chance, what accidents, what curiosities." TransAtlantic reminds us that life is often shaped by coincidence and chance, that "our lives are thrown into long migratory orbits" by random occurrences and by the things that might have happened but did not.

At some point McCann describes life as "an accumulation of small shelves of incident." TransAtlantic illustrates life as a collection of connected but ever-changing moments, each giving birth to something new as the old vanishes into memory. The world changes, and yet there are constants: war and violence, men and women striving to achieve. McCann's characters carry the weight of history as they battle "ancient hatreds." As one character explicitly states, our stories outlast us. Old stories are eventually retold with new names. Frederick Douglass brings the point home when he considers how people share the same responses to different forms of oppression and thinks about how people on roads in Dublin and Boston are traveling the same road, how they "meld into each other."

After a slow start, parts two and three bring TransAtlantic to life. McCann's prose, while vivid, did not strike me as forcefully here as it did in Let the Great World Spin, but his reliance on clipped, fragmentary sentences eventually grew on me. Both novels make a point about interconnected lives; both make clear that the world keeps turning, no matter how honorably or disgracefully its inhabitants behave. Each is compelling in its own way. If TransAtlantic did not blow me away as did Let the Great World Spin, it eventually worked its literary magic as the story danced from character to character. I'm a bit disappointed that in format and message it is so much like Let the Great World Spin, but TransAtlantic is a worthy novel in its own right.

RECOMMENDED