The Island of the Day Before is Eco’s thorough exploration of an age of exploration and of the baroque. He navigates among a Europe on the verge of enlightenment, and the book spins lengthy ramblings on geography, religion, and science as the characters try, and often falter, to make sense of their world.

Young Italian aristocrat Roberto is a baroque paragon who absorbs shifting and contradictory worldviews as easily as he meets unusual characters on his travels. Roberto finds himself shipwrecked upon a ship, a turn within a turn. The ship is beeched on a coral reef within a bay or atoll. From its deck, he can see islands on either side of the ship, and later guesses they are the same island. There, he spends his days reminiscing about the travels that brought him to this end, and having a few odd adventures with a bizarre mystery shipmate.

Roberto’s flashbacks, told by the narrator who refers to Roberto’s journaling on the ship, comprise the meat of the novel, and certainly the most entertaining, even absurdly humorous episodes. Eco portrays Roberto as a noble’s son who, upon facing discipline from his hard farther, concocts tales of an evil twin, Ferrante, his ultimate foil, an evil mirror image whom Roberto repeatedly and imaginatively plots into wild romances to explain his own miseries and misfortunes.

Roberto battles the Spanish (where he watches his father die futilely, if somewhat valiantly), lounges with occult philosophers in Paris, learns sword dueling from an old atheist skeptic, and dabbles in espionage at the behest of the French cardinal. And, in each such episode, he encounters worldview after worldview, readily lapping up each one right after the contradictory other.

Roberto does show flourish – he absorbs those disparate philosophies and weaves in his own variations and swirls, a creative act that lands him at the mercy of the cardinal and puts him aboard a doomed ship destined for the titular island. Their mission? Discover what the British are up to in using a strange sympathetic magic to master measuring longitude at sea.

That mystery – the measurement of longitude – becomes Roberto’s obsession so he can return to his unrequited Parisian love. Once he discovers a mad old Jesuit who hides from him on the wrecked ship, the two set out with contraption after contraption to reach the shores of the island where the Jesuit has erected a device he claims proves the spot the antimeridian. Oddly enough, neither of them can swim.

Father Caspar is a mad genius, and wildly colorful character, who confounds Roberto into believing that God borrowed water from “the day before” by carrying it from beyond the antimeridian to carry out Noah’s flood. Here again, Roberto laps up apocalyptic notions from Caspar, and again rolls those into his amalgamated worldview even after Caspar perishes in a bit of black humor while trying to invent a diving bell contraption.

For all the color and absurdity (from a modern reader’s perspective, especially) of the cast of characters, Roberto is Eco’s accomplishment. Eco writes a novel in celebration of the baroque era, transforming his written narrative in substance and style as a baroque homage. It’s no small effort; today the word baroque is derogatory. But, importantly, Roberto is not merely the modern readers “eyes” to experience it all. In the end, he’s Eco’s triumph to reveal his genuine love for the art, and the soul of Roberto.

Despite challenging chapters, and ever expanding meanderings of philosophical fancy and minutiae, the book delivers in the end. It’s a flawed, but absolutely fascinating book.

The Island of the Day Before by Umberto Eco: B+

I’m not surprised Stephen liked it! Queen & Country is amazing.

The Imperfectionists: A Novel

The book assembles several short narratives from a different characters’ perspectives. Here are short, usually tragic stories of, say, the ambitious obituary writer, the hapless news editor, the copy desk old maid, and even the obsessive-compulsive newspaper reader among others. All work at or read a once-great international English-language newspaper headquartered in Rome.

Between the short fiction for each of these journalistic  has-beens, Rachman insperses vignettes of the paper’s history that serve as its obituary. It is the kind of inbred jouarnlistic enterprise whom all the participants refer to simply as “the paper.” (Say no more; I know the kind.)

Rachman’s title is clever. They characters are all imperfection personified, and they’re more than slightly obsessive. Yes, the thing unfolds in a kind of broad stroke imperfect tense — things that have happened with indefinite endings. Characters with action, but without “tense,” so to speak. Rachman’s too good at noting the idiosyncracies of copy editing — and copy editors — to avoid such playful spirit in the book.

It works. But, there’s something off kilter about these frustrating messes of people, as though the twisted, tragic endings for each chapter and character came out of a modern day O. Henry school. Oh, the trajedies aren’t surprise endings. Some are predictable. Rather, Rachman paints an expatriate life that the imperfectionist fools manage to let slip through their fingers.

The book does have an incredible sense of both time and place. Rachman, who worked as an international journalist and still lives in Rome, paints a wonderfully mundane, vivid locale of Rome. His characters walk his streets, and it shows. There, too, are wonderful juxtapositions of actual events in precisely the right time. The novel’s set around 2007, and headlines bubble up through the work, giving the characters a grounding in the real world we all know and fret about. Iraq war references abound, as do events like the Virginia Tech shooting.

That juxtaposition is Rachman’s real achievement here. He crafts believable characters living in a dynamic world. But, he doesn’t cast them larger than life, caught up in those events. He lets them be their imperfect selves, worried about a bit of flab or sucking on hard candies, or lonely at night. When their imperfections aren’t frustrating (and they are, those poor, imperfect bastards), they’re vulnerable and endearing. Cheer for them, anyway, won’t you?

In each tale, though, there isn’t much time to cheer. The stories are brief, as is the book. It’s a fine, quick read, but Rachman rushes at times. Dialogue is more reported than scored, which may be the effect Rachman aimed for. It’s a newpaper pace that doesn’t let the characters breathe.

And, taken as a whole, the strung-together short works stumble their way to the newspaper’s demise, yet those characters never realize their fates. The book works as a novel mainly in name. Yes, characters “cross” one another’s narratives, thus tying the work together. But, its differences from an anthology are sparse.

In the end, it’s a wistful look at the tough times newspapers face in a new digital world, and the human mess those stubborn old journalists make of things. I feel bad for them … almost.

The Imperfectionists: A Novel: C+

While most fans know the history of A Feast for Crows’ publication and the long wait for fifth book, A Dance With Dragons, here’s a quick summary. In 2005, Martin published A Feast for Crows with a note indicating that it was only part of text meant to be a huge fourth novel. So, he split the text in two, placing some of his point-of-view characters in this book, and the remainder in a fifth book. Fans have spent years since in sometimes impatient furor demanding the “other half” of the tome (it arrives this summer, July 12, 2011), replete with fan favorite (mine included) characters Tyrion and Jon Snow, among others.

This split structure reveals itself in the novel’s story. Unlike the previous novels, here the multi-character story is flatter, the build up less climactic and epic. A Feast for Crows opens with Westeros a ruin in the thralls of war. The landscape is apocalyptic. Winter is coming. The lands are muddy wastes, decorated with hanged soldiers. Packs of wolves and outlaws haunt the land, and the common folk suffer terribly.

That theme is more present than ever. Martin’s previous books squeezed tension between the nobles of the game of thrones and the commoners. Here, we see devastation, dismemberment, horrible cruelty, rape, torture and worse inflicted on those poor bastards not lucky enough to be born in a noble house. And, yet, every single point-of-view character has some kind of noble lineage or direct link to high nobility. True, some – like Arya – are thrust into commoner roles, seeing through their own eyes the sometimes ugly, sometimes profound, and nearly always suffering lot of commoners. Martin manages to draw out our egalitarian sense of pity for these folk, while still stoking our root-for-the-underdog sense of heroism for the noble-born good guys – like Brienne or Samwell Tarly (notably, both “slum it” with hapless commoner companions).

At the center of the book are those lascivious, leonine Lannister twins, Cersei and Jaime. Both feature prominently in the book, particularly Cersei, whose chapters outnumber those of all other point-of-view characters in the book. She serves ably, maddeningly as antagonist.

The focus on those twins, who spend the half the novel in the same locale, dampen Martin’s ability to reveal a fantastically realized world in Westeros and the lands across the sea. While their events ultimately prove interesting, the build is slow. What’s more compelling is Martin’s strength as a character transformer. He’s at his best showing detail by detail how Cersei spirals out of control and Jaime distancing himself from her and gaining back some of his own self.

Through them, we see key events, like the siege of Dragonstone, but Martin reveals these from afar, after-the-fact. Unlike, say, the battle at King’s Landing or the Red Wedding in previous books, we don’t even a point-of-view character present for their own part in the action. The “off-stage” effect feels less powerful than those tense scenes of pinpoint action in previous books that Martin then follows with subsequent chapters and perspective. The mix is genius drama in A Storm of Swords. Here, it’s quieter.

Tales of the Viking-like Iron Men, who finally unite and throw their own hat in the ring for the game of thrones by invading the mainland, seem to dwindle as the book progresses. Point-of-view chapters from varying Greyjoy family members wander and ultimately fizzle, leaving this reader uncertain why Martin bothered. It seems as though he’s experimenting, then gives up the game there.

The star of the book is Brienne, the ugly lady warrior knight. In her search for Sansa Stark, she faces the toughest struggles and the book’s only real, exciting action. With a motley crew of unwanted companions wandering the apocalyptic landscape, she’s heroic, driven, and at her best when Martin whispers, and sometimes reveals her vulnerabilities. In Brienne, fans of the series find a noble hero worth cheering for opposite the cynical villainy of Cersei and her cohorts.

The beloved Starks aren’t wholly absent. Sansa and Arya prolong their separate lives as refugees with hidden identities. Their chapters, also, are too flat, feeling more of the same from their chapters in previous books. And, we get a glimpse of Jon Snow through Samwell Tarly, who then ventures out on his own for a wandering, slightly confused trek to the south.

All told, the chapters do indeed build to a compelling ending, though some are whopping cliff hangers. Martin’s writing is solid, though I will say his affectation of describing clothing and medieval foodstuffs reveals one hell of a Renaissance faire complex! That’s my good-natured rubbing, as the novel held up surprisingly well for me given all the flak it received from personal friends and online commentary. It was enough to confirm that Martin will continue writing fantasy I’m thrilled to read.

A Feast for Crows: B+

Angry Robot Books just recently released Amortals by Matt Forbeck in the U.S. It’s been making rounds in the UK on reviews, and is currently gathering up good reviews here  in the states as well. It’s a science fiction thriller with plenty of twists, turns, and technological tricks.

Hot on the heels of my reading of Sandman Slim, Amortals is another first person account with a detective fiction feel. The protagonist narrator is Ronan “Methuselah” Dooley, the world’s first and oldest amortal. Amortality is the technological centerpiece of the book, a process where people can be resurrected by means of a clone and downloaded memories. Dooley dies protecting the president in the early 21st century, and his heroism helps usher in widespread acceptance of the new technology for a new era of rich, amortal haves and poor, mortal have-nots.

The book begins with Dooley’s latest death. After a string of dying in the line of duty over about 200 years, Dooley’s almost become used to the process. But, this death is more gruesome than most, and leaves a cold trail of who or what his killer wants.

Forbeck wastes no time propelling Dooley and his mortal partner Querer, a middle aged woman whom he distrusts initially, into action. After a presidential celebration of his rebirth, Dooley begins collecting up information, especially via his nanoserver implants. The effect for readers is seeing the technological layers of the world through Dooley’s eyes as a living, breathing internet enabled world reveals clues and threats. It’s a nice touch to consider how information swarms our senses, even in today’s real world.

Pacing in the first half or more of the book earns that thriller label for the book. Dooley’s attacked by Indian gangster, snipers, and rocket launching mystery men, then chasing after same in acrobatic hover car action. The action makes for a pleasant, page turning read.

Dooley himself is a salty dog of an agent, but also a lens for readers. He’s roughly my contemporary (and Forbeck’s) – someone born in the late 20th century, and still remembers bits of his family life from that time. Forbeck adds just a tad too much for my tastes on some minor details – it’s clear he’s writing for geek culture by drumming up Dooley’s fondness for Settlers of Catan in one passage, rather than the more rough and tumble Eastwood type that he otherswise behaves as in the line of duty. It’s a small thing, but one that snapped me out of an otherwise well done character who’s far too old for his young cloned appearance.

The Amortal Project, the official organization that controls amortality for an elite superpowered United States, is the matter of much controversy. Dooley’s investigation is peppered with references to religious objection and activism against the immorality of amortality. Here again, Forbeck makes some interesting commentary on the consequences of amortality, including class warfare and religious extremism, for which Dooley seems to have no interest.

Nestled between action sequences is Dooley’s introduction to his sixth generation descendant grandson, whom he calls Six. The teenager forms a bond with Dooley, but also introduces the relationship with the boy’s father, whom Dooley calls Five. It ends badly, or so Forbeck leads readers to believe.

It all turns sharply when Dooley encounters his killer, someone much, much closer to him than he ever suspected. The book then builds rather quickly to a revolutionary turn for Dooley with Querer at his side. Here, the book suffers. While the future shocks revealed in the final chapters of the thriller provide interesting turns, Forbeck rushes. The story builds to a dramatic confrontation with the Amortal Project conspirers, and then ends abruptly. Forbeck abandons Dooley’s relationship with Six. We see nothing of a key religious figure, or the presumably messy consequences of a probably better world. It’s a clumsy ending to an otherwise entertaining near-future science fiction thriller.

The book does provide a fascinating appendix (I read the Kindle edition — I assume it’s also in print). Forbeck includes a brief history of him getting the book published, and how he crafted the work over several  years. He even includes the original version of the first chapter written in the 90s. It’s a interesting peek inside his emergence as a published writer, and will be especially worthwhile to aspiring writers.

Amortals: B-

Sandman Slim

In true hardboiled style, the story is one tough guy’s first person account, replete with catchy commentary and colorful similes. It’s the book’s strongest suit – the mischievous, cynical voice of the titular Sandman Slim (a.k.a. Jimmy Stark) riddled with language that’s been dipped in razor blades and gasoline, and set alight with black candles for kicks. Kadrey mostly avoids tiresome social commentary, and his anti-hero is thankfully more chuckle-worthy than annoying.

As Stark’s tale begins, he finds himself escaped from hell – literally. He spent 11 years as Azazel’s gladiator, entertaining and ultimately terrifying the minions of Lucifer. He’s special. He has a few special tricks, including a creepy knife, a diabolical token that would make Batman’s Two Face blush, and a special key in his heart that lets him walk through shadows anywhere in the universe. He still prefers to steal luxury cars, though.

Stark has a single-minded goal – kill his old magician pals who sent him to hell and then killed Alice, the love of his life. As he stumbles around toward that goal like a minotaur in a China shop, Stark is absurdly tough. He battles wily magicians, pissed off angels, and ethereal demons posing as Neo Nazis. And, he emerges with a few scars and a headache, which he then dowses in Jack Daniels and a little sip of his best friend’s alchemical solutions. He goes through more clothes than he does antiseptic, though. It’s a running gag that Stark has a harder time keeping himself dressed than he does getting shot.

The alchemical best friend is a delightful character, the best of a cast of supporting characters that Kadrey breathes just enough color into. Vidocq’s a kind of father figure to Stark. He’s a 200-year-old Frenchman who cursed himself with alchemical immortality, which gives him plenty of experience as Stark’s wise advisor.

Stark’s flaw is that he doesn’t know what’s really going on. Kadrey tosses Stark from one set piece to another, then back again, as Stark keeps getting banged up by supernatural mysteries he doesn’t comprehend. Or care about. The problem isn’t that the story unfolds for the readers as it does for Stark. The problem is that Stark doesn’t give a damn about it all even when he does slowly realize the apocalyptic nature of it all. The story becomes a bit of expository ping pong as Stark bounces from one celestial conspirator to the next.

Still, Kadrey pulls off the anti-hero trick in the end with a violent build and a chase through hell. It’s the denouement where Kadrey stumbles slightly. After the dust (and hellfire) settles, Stark visits his doctor friend, who then explains to him the whole romp, with all the celestial hierarchy laid bare. It’s a bit unsatisfying after the fact.

Then, the book pulls off a trick that’s so bad it’s good. It’s the only book I’ve ever read that has a diabolus ex machina! Again, a bit unsatisfying, but I will say Kadrey writes the scene deliciously, a sort of Milton meets Chandler moment.

Sandman Slim: B+

Like many other works heralded among fantasists as the state of the art, The Name of the Wind – part one of The Kingkiller Chronicles – is a weighty tome exceeding 600 pages, though unlike some epics its focus isn’t a broad cast of characters. Here is the framed narrative of Kvothe, an apparently retired legend who agrees to record his coming-of-age with a biographer and scholar named Chronicler.

The narrative frame serves a larger purpose, and hints at one of Rothfuss’ recurring foreshadowing devices. Kvothe, incognito as a small town innkeeper, mentions his legendary feats before the narrative unfolds. Rothfuss uses the technique within the narrative itself. He has a habit of end the books mostly brief chapters with single lines surprises that sometimes delight, but often cheapen the book (the surprises are frequently disarmed and explained within one paragraph in the following chapter).  But, more importantly, the framed narrative tantalizes with legendary feats that will, of course, take part in future sequels of the series. Here again, it too frequently cheapens the work as a novel with its own merit.

Kvothe’s impossibly accomplished youth is surrounded by endearing poverty. Kvothe learns acting and music from his famous parents and their travelling Gypsy-like troupe. He then spends three miserable years living as a beggar and thief in a bustling port city. Then, somewhat inexplicably, Kvothe then finds himself the most gifted pupil at the University, a sophisticated school for aspiring arcanists. Throughout it all, Kvothe is the over-achiever. He is not just a talented musician, but apparently one of the most gifted in the world. He’s accepted into the university at a younger age than any other … and they pay him to attend, rather than charging tuition. The narrative strings along Kvothe’s constant obsession with being destitute, but of course he never truly suffers by being broke. Inevitably, his superlative talents land him in yet another fortuitous gain.

Strung together, these ups and downs are an illusion. They are mainly ups, and serve only as downs in so far as they further show Kvothe’s charm and brilliance. In short, he’s a sanctimonious annoyance of a protagonist, a frustrating Mary Sue. Many of Kvothe’s supposed mistakes and life conflicts are the result of  him being too brilliant or too talented.

Even more strangely, he’s a virginal prude obsessed with the one woman the book spends any time developing. Kvothe spends half or more of the book chasing after and pining after Denna, the aloof, mysterious girl with whom he’s obsessed. The book fails to capture any of the charm of a first love of teenage romance, and instead presents a clueless boy who believes himself too pure to sully her troubled life with even a kiss.

And troubled lives? I hardly know what the fuss is about. Most of the action is Kvothe either fretting about how many pieces of iron and copper coins he holds at the moment, or negotiating with others to buy or get more coin. Rothfuss does an admirable job imagining a world with tinkers and coins and quaint shops. There is life and vitality there, but the legends are few and far between. Such events happen either away from the actual narrative, or in a book that isn’t published as of this review.

When Kvothe’s narrative does reveal the events for which he’s now famous or infamous, we get his side of the story. This is some of the book’s best attempts at humanizing a massively legendary character. Kvothe’s memoir reveals how simply he achieved reputation – like dropping a massive iron wheel on the drug-addled herbivore dragon that inadvertently wrecks a small town. I think Rothfuss is trying to examine the power of a real character assuming the life of the legend – the pains and wild rumor and push and pull of relationships. It’s a noble theme, but one that Rothfuss ultimately can’t pull off.

I wish I could say I made up that bit about the drug-addicted dragon. The dragon – excuse me, draccus – sequence is a bizarre non sequitur that serves largely as the book’s climax. It interrupts Kvothe’s main quest – seeking out some dark hooded figures called the Chandrian. Kvothe’s main motivation is a vengeance-minded drive to find information about the fairy-tale figures, the Chandrian.

But as villains, the Chandrian are far from frightening. The book reveals far too little for me to care who or what they are. I have no doubt there is more in store in upcoming books, but Rothfuss fails to capture interest in this one.

So, clearly, I’m not one rallying to the banner of The Name of the Wind as a stand out among fantasy literature. I can see what the fuss is about, I simply don’t agree with it. There is much to like in the book, but it falls short with a frustrating protagonist, largely non-existent antagonists, and a plodding story that, despite pleasant reader, ultimately bores.

Here’s the true test for me. The sequel, The Wise Man’s Fear, arrives with some fanfare later this winter. I have barely any interest in investing in another hundred chapters.

The Name of the Wind: C-

It’s the second in Cornwell’s Saxon series. I read the first, The Last Kingdom, late last summer. Despite that book’s slow build to an exciting finish, I found the narrating main character, Uhtred, fascinating, even endearing.  He’s a spirited warrior, a Saxon from northern English lands, who is captured at a young age and raised as a pagan Dane. Uhtred’s skepticism, passion, and boldness are refreshing. But, it’s his violent nature and reckless spirit that not only gets him into all kinds of interesting trouble in his adventures, it also complicates his moral nature for readers. Cornwell’s writing historical adventure here, with heavy emphasis on adventure and action. It’s well suited for an escapist read with a root in historical context, but has a slight taint of machismo. I find myself cheering for Uhtred in the series, but then realize some of the awful things he participates in, namely violence and a sketchy treatment of some women in his life.

In The Pale Horseman, Uhtred’s tale continues. He’s quickly saddled with the complicated life of a married, landed nobleman despite his wishes to be free of his obligations and beat the invading Danes at their own game. Cornwell captures that excitement quickly as Uhtred raids Cornwallum, finds a mysterious pagan lover, and ransacks a major Dane warlord.

But, as Uhtred abandons his obligations for a time, he suffers for it. He faces accusations at the court of Alfred, the king of Wessex, this historical king of England now known as Alfred the Great. Before he can finish trial by combat, Danes invade Wessex, and Uhtred escapes. Unwittingly, he rescues Alfred himself, and the core of the book is Uhtred’s reluctant effort to improve his standing with Alfred. Sequestered in a swampy domain, Alfred and Uhtred gather a rag tag band that soon swells to an army of Wessex, and underdog effort to repel the Danes from Wessex once and for all.

Throughout it all, Uhtred retains his pagan beliefs, despite the highly pious Alfred and several other Christian warriors and women. I’m fond of this tension, especially between Uhtred and Alfred. Uhtred constantly seems like the wiser skeptic, but Alfred manages to find fortune in his beliefs at nearly every turn.

The climax of the book is, again, a large battle between Saxons and Danes, a press of shield walls and bloody mayhem. Here, the battle is more prolonged than the similar ending of The Last Kingdom. Cornwall appears to be falling into a formula a bit. It goes something like Uhtred loses everything, meets a mysterious and sexy woman, then recaptures glory with his heroics and passion in battle, despite losing his woman in the process.

Still, as I said, the series is endearing. Uhtred isn’t a gallant. He has his flaws, but remains captivating. Meanwhile, his rough and tumble companions are amusing, often tough exteriors with tender-hearted interiors. But, they aren’t much more realized that that. For all his sanctimony, Alfred remains the best realized character in the series, and the only one with any growth and depth.

The Pale Horseman is a good read, a historical romp with enough viking color to delight. I’ve not read Cornwell’s other works, but am pretty familiar with the formulas of his famous Sharpe’s series. He’s at it here, too, crafting a slightly formulaic but entirely enjoyable adventure yarn that’s enjoyable far outside the British isles.

The Pale Horseman: B

The narrator is one of the Midnight’s Children, a child born at the stroke of midnight on August 15, 1947, the day of India’s independence. These thousand babes grow to earn supernatural powers. The narrator can read thoughts, which accounts for much of his storytelling, and he assembles the thousand children into a kind of telepathic congress. He’s not alone — his “twin” has supernatural knees. Yes, knees, between which he can crush and kill.

The twin is actually a family friend, but there’s a critical twist. An English nursemaid switches the two boys at birth, and the narrator himself is born a bastard of a renegade Englishman and his servant Indian mother. But, because of the switch, he’s raised instead in a wealthy family of unusual characters. Meanwhile, the other boy grows in the poor family and becomes a violent killer then war hero, all hinted at a distance through the narrator’s tales.

That narrator is an untrustworthy fellow. He is — or claims to be — the catalyst of so many of the affairs and deaths and dramas surrounding him. The narrator often refuses to admit his responsibility, or to downplay his involvement. The effects are often tragic.

What his story crafts amid the web of magical realism and shady retelling is a strange and sometimes beautiful menagerie of tales that stab at the heart of India in the modern world. It’s not a subject I know much about, but Rushdie brings alive India of the 1950s and 1960s in personal detail, from the toothpaste brands to the wars in Kashmir. Mumbai in particular percolates with color and colorful characters.

It’s a challenging book, dense in its sometimes feverish prose and thick with layers of filtered tales. The book trails off into oblivion as modern India — and it’s pickled curries — grow beyond the reach of the narrator’s arms. He falls apart, literally, and the reader realizes there’s one thing he didn’t lie about: “To understand just one life, you have to swallow the world.”

Midnight’s Children: A-

The Club Dumas is a mystery thriller with shades of the noir detective. In this case, protagonist Lucas Corso is a book detective. He’s a mercenary hired by rich — and usually corrupt — book collectors to buy, sell, trade and find rare books. I found Corso fascinating. (My wife, who read the book with me, found him deplorable. Ce la guerre!) He’s a weasel of a man, exceptionally clever, and lonely. He occupies his time drinking gin and romanticizing his Napoleonic ancestor. Oh yes, and books — very expensive, very rare books.

The story begins with a book collector’s suspicious suicide. Corso gets hired to verify the dead man’s possession – a rare manuscript written by Alexandre Dumas. It’s a chapter from The Three Musketeers. Subsequently, he’s hired by an obsessive collector of the occult to discover which of three extant editions of The Book of Nine Doors is a forgery.

Thus begins a twin strand of narrative where Corso races to find eccentric book collectors and examine their occult tomes while he’s pursued by a modern-day Milady and Rochefort (Dumas’ famous villains) as a strange conspiracy re-enacts The Three Musketeers with him at the center. The eccentrics wind up dead, and Corso demonstrates his cleverness.

Along the way he finds the girl. The alluring woman gives Corso fictional names and careless excuses. She’s slightly infuriating to read. Corso asks her questions I wanted to know, and she’s just aloof. There are many hints that she’s supernatural – a guardian angel maybe, or even the Devil. Through her shining, green-eyed seduction we learn that Corso once loved and lost. It explains his emptiness and callousness. And, in the end, explains why the green-eyed girl is so fond of him. She is, it turns out, rather diabolical.

Throughout the book, Corso works to unravel the pictorial mystery within The Book of Nine Doors. The book contains nine engravings, and the novel actually shows the images. This teases out one of the most captivating mysteries of the book. I desperately wanted Corso to unravel this occult puzzle. And, he does. But, the result is disappointing.

Pérez-Reverte gives us a lesson in narrative; I’m still not sure I needed it. At times, the characters actually imagine that their absurd situations are so dreadful that perhaps they’re merely fictional characters in a book. Of course, they are. The author’s teasing. This itself, I don’t mind. He’s not the first to dabble in post-modernism. But, Pérez-Reverte has another, grander trick up his sleeve. To spoil it for readers, his trick is a lesson in how we perceive narrative. Those twin strands of narrative are ruses. They’re not intertwined. Corso – and therefore readers like me – have impressed upon these twin strands interconnectivity.

And what is the result? Corso, for all his cleverness, learns that he’s lost his soul long ago. He’s Faustian. And, in the end, he knows it. He’s smitten with the girl, and she’s pulling the strings behind it all, wrecking selfish interests for her own amusement. Let’s just say the devil’s in the details.

Like I said, I’m not sure I needed the lesson in constructing narrative. Fortunately, I the lesson entertained the hell out of me. It had all the wonderful trappings of that Umberto Eco style occult mystery (Eco himself actually has a cameo in the story!) in a tidy detective fiction package. It’s a good read with some frayed ends.

The Club Dumas: B-