Occasionally I have the opportunity read a novel so complex and multilayered that I want to thank the person who recommended it to me. Stephen Dobyns' The Church of Dead Girls is one of those books. I was hooked from page one, and at the thrilling conclusion, I was genuinely sorry the experience of reading it had come to an end.
First off, I strongly identified with many of the characters. I live in a town like Aurelius, and I have met all these people. On a personal note, I felt the strongest kinship to Franklin, the small town newspaper editor. By way of background, I was Editor in Chief of a small monthly newsmagazine for half a decade that covered stories much like the ones Franklin wrote and published in his newspaper. When he described the joy it brought him to showcase the extraordinary endeavors of rather ordinary people, it was spot on and so similar to my own experiences that it moved me tremendously.
It occurred to me after some reflection on this subject that I’m probably not alone in my reaction. There was something – or rather someone – in The Church of Dead Girls for everyone. No profession seemed to be unrepresented.
The narration in TCODG was masterfully done, and Dobyns’ choice to use the closeted high school biology teacher as the point of view character was a good one. He was just close enough to the action to react to it without being so close that he intruded on the story he was telling.
This wasn’t a terrifying tale, though any book that begins with the discovery of three dead teenage girls in an attic deserves the label “chilling.” I felt the murders were secondary to what I considered the real plot of how hysteria invades and pervades small town life, and how in desperate situations everyone is suspect and civil liberties go out the window. The mob mentality Dobyns describes in this novel – particularly the controversy that surrounds the Inquiries Into The Right discussion group – very much reminded me of one of my champion causes, the West Memphis Three, a real life situation that seems to parallel in many ways the situation in TCODG. Here’s a link if anybody wants more info: www.wm3.org
The prose itself was tight and well crafted. Dobyns did a fantastic job of marrying all of the different side stories and back stories in the novel and of bringing them all to one rich conclusion.
As far as the reveal of “whodunit” when we learn who the killer is, I have to say by the end of the novel, I was so wrapped up in the various subplots and so invested in many of the characters that I didn’t really care. In many cases, that would have been detrimental to my enjoyment of a work, but not in this one. Once we learned who the killer was and he described his motivations, however, I have to admit a chill ran down my spine.
I will read this book again. I will recommend it to my friends. I will go so far as to say that of all the readings I’ve been assigned for the horror genre readings course, this was and is my favorite.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Friday, February 4, 2011
Psycho
The story of Psycho is one I’ve long been familiar with due to Hitchcock’s excellent, groundbreaking film, but it wasn’t until recently that I was privileged enough to read the seminal Robert Bloch novel of the same name on which it was based.
This is a great book, hands down. The story itself is intriguing, the characterization near flawless, the prose itself is tight, the pace is relentless and we are left wanting for nothing at the end of the tale. In fact, the genius of this novel is in its sparsity, and in the decided minimum of gory spectacle that we now associate with the horror genre.
Consider the famous “shower scene” that spawned a thousand copy cats in literature and film alike and made me personally afraid to draw the curtain all the way. In Bloch’s book, the scene is only four paragraphs long, and short paragraphs at that. This doesn’t interfere with my enjoyment of the scene but rather it intensifies it. Here’s why: It’s not what we “see” or read here that makes this particular passage so terrifying. It’s what we don’t. It’s the fact that Bloch gives us only certain relevant facts and leaves the rest to our imagination. We don’t need more to be revolted.
Beyond the novel’s highly effective leanness, the characterization of Norman Bates is impeccable, and one of the first glimpses into the mind of a “psychopath” in the literary canon. Bloch does a masterful job both in depicting Norman and making us sympathize with him. As someone working in a closely related genre, I paid especial attention to all the ways in which Bloch provided us with just enough background that we found Norman’s horrific acts understandable, i.e. the description of the overly domineering mother and his meekness up until and right after each murder.
Unlike the legions of “serial killers” and “psychopaths” that populate much of contemporary horror fiction, Norman Bates isn’t a traditional sociopath. His emotions aren’t at all divorced from the act of killing, and he views each murder with a sense of expediency. After all, Mary does the unthinkable, she titillates Norman and she questions his behavior. He isn’t emotionally capable of dealing with either. His subsequent murder of Milton Arbogast he also views as necessary and in fact downright unavoidable.
If I have any beef with this novel, it’s that Bloch does such a terrific job with the character of Norman Bates and his dysfunctional relationship with his mother that the supporting characters and situations seem one dimensional and insipid by comparison. Mary’s relationship with Sam seems to exist only as a plot device and at the conclusion of Psycho, one is left wondering if Sam has exchanged Mary’s memory for her sister Lila’s obviously more animated attentions. Mary’s initial theft which necessitates her flight from Texas also seems like merely a means of getting her to the Bates Motel and not like the act of a particularly rational or intelligent person.
In short, I very much enjoyed this novel, and found it to be a textbook example of how to write about sympathetic psychopaths, which is a technique I attempt to employ in my own work.
This is a great book, hands down. The story itself is intriguing, the characterization near flawless, the prose itself is tight, the pace is relentless and we are left wanting for nothing at the end of the tale. In fact, the genius of this novel is in its sparsity, and in the decided minimum of gory spectacle that we now associate with the horror genre.
Consider the famous “shower scene” that spawned a thousand copy cats in literature and film alike and made me personally afraid to draw the curtain all the way. In Bloch’s book, the scene is only four paragraphs long, and short paragraphs at that. This doesn’t interfere with my enjoyment of the scene but rather it intensifies it. Here’s why: It’s not what we “see” or read here that makes this particular passage so terrifying. It’s what we don’t. It’s the fact that Bloch gives us only certain relevant facts and leaves the rest to our imagination. We don’t need more to be revolted.
Beyond the novel’s highly effective leanness, the characterization of Norman Bates is impeccable, and one of the first glimpses into the mind of a “psychopath” in the literary canon. Bloch does a masterful job both in depicting Norman and making us sympathize with him. As someone working in a closely related genre, I paid especial attention to all the ways in which Bloch provided us with just enough background that we found Norman’s horrific acts understandable, i.e. the description of the overly domineering mother and his meekness up until and right after each murder.
Unlike the legions of “serial killers” and “psychopaths” that populate much of contemporary horror fiction, Norman Bates isn’t a traditional sociopath. His emotions aren’t at all divorced from the act of killing, and he views each murder with a sense of expediency. After all, Mary does the unthinkable, she titillates Norman and she questions his behavior. He isn’t emotionally capable of dealing with either. His subsequent murder of Milton Arbogast he also views as necessary and in fact downright unavoidable.
If I have any beef with this novel, it’s that Bloch does such a terrific job with the character of Norman Bates and his dysfunctional relationship with his mother that the supporting characters and situations seem one dimensional and insipid by comparison. Mary’s relationship with Sam seems to exist only as a plot device and at the conclusion of Psycho, one is left wondering if Sam has exchanged Mary’s memory for her sister Lila’s obviously more animated attentions. Mary’s initial theft which necessitates her flight from Texas also seems like merely a means of getting her to the Bates Motel and not like the act of a particularly rational or intelligent person.
In short, I very much enjoyed this novel, and found it to be a textbook example of how to write about sympathetic psychopaths, which is a technique I attempt to employ in my own work.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)