A darkly dreamt review

Before Showtime came along and made it into the "hottest new show on television" (I'm sure someone said that), Dexter was the novel Darkly Dreaming Dexter, by Jeff Lindsay. (Side note: locate the version with the cover shown and check out the author photo. Worst. Photo. Ever.)

So what if you've seen the show? I'm still going to tell you about the book.

Dexter Morgan is a blood-spatter analyst in Miami, even though he hates blood and is also a serial killer who saves a drop of each victim's blood on a slide, even though he hates blood. (You do find out why he hates blood, but I won't spoil it for you.) Crime-solver by day, crime-maker by night. Simple enough, right? What keeps this book from being overly formulaic is who Dexter kills, how he rationalizes it and how he fits into society. Dexter only kills people who deserve it: murderers, child molesters and abusers that the police weren't able to catch. But he does it so well, no one in Miami realizes there a serial killer out there, disposing of these criminals.

But on to the how. Dexter perfected his art of killing through the careful guidance of his adoptive father, Harry. Early on, Harry discovered "what" Dexter was and taught him how to control the urge to kill and, when it rose, how to channel it into something productive, almost good. With Harry's help, Dexter also learned how to blend into society, how to pretend he had a heart and soul and feelings, how to be so inconspicuous no one would ever think him capable of the things he does. And Dexter is careful; he wants to follow the Code of Harry and get rid of the bad guys, but also needs to satisfy his own urges. He's a planner and he makes the most of his time with his victims.

In the book, Dexter works with the Miami police to catch a serial killer that ends up playing games - mind and otherwise - with Dexter. Through first-person narration, the reader is brought into Dexter's world as he delights in this new playmate that has appeared while trying to keep up appearances at work. It is this clever narration that moves the book above being just another serial killer book. Although the narration can drone on a bit at times, it really is what makes the book interesting. It allows you to see the two sides to Dexter, and even though he's a killer, you can't help but like him. He's funny, he's charming, he's a little OCD. But as the book reaches its climax and you discover more about Dexter, his new playmate and his past, you start to see him fall apart and show weakness, almost become - human.

While I found the most interesting element of the book to be the relationship between Dexter and the elusive killer, the supporting characters add their own spice. Deborah is Dexter's sister and a cop, like Harry, who wants desperately to catch the killer to prove herself a homicide detective. Lieutenant LaGuerta is consistently incompetent with a major crush on Dexter (who can't quite wrap his head around this idea of attraction). But Dexter does have a girlfriend, Rita, who is perfect for him due to being beaten by her ex-husband, which left her with no interest in any kind of intimacy. Sergeant Doakes has it out for Dexter and Deborah and, well, everyone it seems. And Harry, who has since died, appears in flashbacks and provides insight into how Dexter became the nice, polite, attractive, tidy, diligent, hard-working serial killer he is.

Despite the author photo, Jeff Lindsay writes in an engaging and compelling way, making you want to keep reading not just because you want to know whodunit, but because you actually like Dexter.

(I also watch the show, of course, but I only get the censored version on CTV. I've been told the uncut version is far superior. I can believe this; my favourite censored line so far is "mother lover".)

An author by any other name

I like to say I'm a fan of British detective/crime novels, but really I'm a fan of Reginald Hill and his Dalziel and Pascoe series. (Literally addicted, but that's for another post.)

However, since this is a finite series and I have pretty much caught up on all the books (still need to locate a few) I have decided to branch out and set my sights on Ian Rankin.

Ian Rankin has received considerable acclaim for his Inspector John Rebus series of detective novels, which contain snippets of Scottish history. So it was with great excitement that I picked up an Ian Rankin novel on a bargain table. The book: Bleeding Hearts. The verdict: almost too awful for words.

It should be noted that when I book-shop and see something by an author I like or would like to read, I tend to just grab the book and eagerly rush home to better study the content. In the case of Bleeding Hearts, I picked it up while in Parry Sound for Christmas. I was just thrilled to find an Ian Rankin book on the discount table; an author as praised and well-reviewed as he tends not to fall to the lowly depths of discount. But after reading this book, I can see why.

I think the problem stems from the fact this was Ian Rankin writing as Jack Harvey. I had no idea Rankin ever wrote anything under a pseudonym, but now that I know, I will forever avoid any Jack Harvey book. I can understand why an author would write under another name, especially if the author has created a series based on a certain character and wants to try something new. Writing under a pen name gives the freedom to explore new ideas, but one would expect a good writer to still write well, regardless of the published name. The only other example I can think of at this time is Stephen King writing as Richard Bachman; like him or hate him, Stephen King/Richard Bachman wrote pretty decent books. Even if you don't care for the subject matter, the writing was always good.

But not Jack Harvey. The book seemed to break every rule of good writing. It was full of cliches, far-fetched coincidences, crappy dialogue, extraneous and irrelevant characters, poorly-developed main characters, and an utterly ridiculous, trapped-in-a-corner-total-cop-out ending. It was like Dan Brown has morphed into a British detective novelist.

This will not stop me from reading Ian Rankin though; I'm quite looking forward to picking up Knots and Crosses, the first book in the Inspector Rebus series. As well, Rankin released Exit Music in September 2007, which is potentially the final book in the Inspector Rebus series. Hopefully this means he'll feel free to write about other subjects and settings without having to hide behind another name and without compromising in quality.

(Of course, I'm buying into the reviews here, and assuming the Rebus books are quality. I really hope I'm not disappointed again. But that is the chance one takes. Makes it kind of exciting, don't you think?)

The book that became the Oscar: a review

Cormac McCarthy doesn’t like quotation marks. He’s not always a fan of apostrophes either, which at times can grind on a person who likes her punctuation where it should be, when it should be there – punctual punctuation, if you will. But different construction can still yield a beautiful final product.

The description on the back of No Country for Old Men calls the novel “blistering” and, for once, this is not just hyperbole. The story takes place along the Texas-Mexico border and you can feel the heat: the heat of the sun, the heat of the desert, and the heat of the hunt. And this really is a hunting story, with one man – Anton Chigurh – hunting down another – Llewellyn Moss. This of course leads to a third man – Sheriff Ed Tom Bell – hunting down Chigurh. It’s a very sparse hunt too; no hard-to-believe escapes, no convoluted plans to snare the prey, no surprise characters that suddenly thwart the actions of the hunter. In a way, the writing is almost juvenile, as if McCarthy started writing a children’s book but ended up with a very grown-up story.

This is writing in its simplest form. McCarthy keeps the story moving and doesn’t waste time with superfluous description or back story. The only real back story we get is from Sheriff Bell’s narrations, but this is more Bell pontificating on the state of society and the world and how this is changing the small corner of Texas he has sworn to protect. Through this, though, we see a man who is proud to be sheriff but who is getting tired, wearing out and wondering why he sometimes even bothers; he reminisces and offers a eulogy for the way life was. Bell is tired, but McCarthy doesn’t set it up for the good sheriff to take one last brave ride and collar the outlaw. Bell does perform his duty as sheriff, of course, but this isn’t a story that gets wrapped up all pretty-like, with a big bow. The book instead plays out to what the reader soon realizes is really the only possible conclusion.

I’ve read that Sheriff Bell acts as the moral compass in a story of right and wrong, good and evil. But I don’t see him, or anyone, acting as a moral compass. Rather, Bell is just another man who gets involved in something that can’t be defined as simply right or wrong because that would imply knowledge of right and wrong. Instead, it’s about survival and as the events unfold, Bell realizes the world and life he knew can no longer survive.

McCarthy brings extraordinary people and events into the lives of some very ordinary people, but it never feels overdone. There is nothing preachy, nor is there a heavy moral slant. McCarthy simply tells a story – albeit a pretty grim, depressing one – and tells it very well. I want to use words like “gritty” and “raw” to describe the book, but that just feels too cliché. And perhaps that is what strikes me most about No Country for Old Men – it is not clichéd at all. It feels honest, from the characters to the setting to the way the events unfold. And that is what makes this such a fantastic read.

And it begins

I love books. Love, love, love them. They just make me so happy. And it’s not just the reading that I love. It’s the entire process behind creating a book that enthralls me. I love the way they look, the way they are presented to the world, the way the world responds. I love the bad ones as much – if not more – than the god ones, because the bad ones evoke so much more emotion in me. But good or bad, as long as a book makes me think and react and talk about it, then it has done its job.

So I’m going to talk about books here, and other things from the world of book publishing. Reviews, ideas, opinions, thoughts, whatever comes to mind. Maybe it will be useful, maybe it won’t, but at least it will be fun.

Yay books!