A brilliant stylist like Joan Didion shouldn’t have to apologise for any difficulties the reader of one of her novels might experience at the end of proceedings, just as a filmmaker such as Dee Rees – who adapted this novel for the screen recently – should be able to get a fair assessment from critics of her work, however allusive are the clues left indicating what happens, in the narrative, to the protagonist.
This novel is unquestionably good, better by far than most works of fiction, though it mixes elements of the journalistic craft – the insistence on precise details, such as the time and date of a particular occurrence, and an unwillingness to commit to a fact unless it is known for sure – with the traditional features of novelisation, such as plot, character, and point of view.
At some points, the insistence upon positive knowledge of facts – something may or may not have been seen to have occurred at a precise time and in a specific place, for example – gives the story a surreal feel, as though you were listening to a barrister in court elaborating upon a case in order (as the case may be) to exonerate or to accuse someone of something. Because of this, the story can appear to be an attempt to convict an organisation or people belonging to an organisation – the US administration or, more precisely, the CIA – of doing something unconscionable in the course of carrying out its duties in a part of the world – the Caribbean and Central America – where it is known to operate.
The story is more complex in the novel than it is in the movie, but both are equally good. America’s adventures in its quadrant of the world are well-known, but it might be a good idea, for the benefit of younger people who were not alive at the time, to include here a link to a relevant Wikipedia page.
Elena McFarlane is the main character in the novel but there is also an all-knowing narrator whose identity we are not shown, and who sums up the story for the reader. The narrator is clearly someone who is, like McFarlane, a professional writer, but there are things left out – things a person who was intimate with McFarlane’s thoughts, and who was by her side all of the time, would know – that make you wonder who is telling the tale. It’s almost as though the narrator – for the benefit of those who would, at some unspecified time, become acquainted with her manuscript – were trying to paint a picture with certain delineations, certain controlled ellipses, certain regulated lacunae through which the reputations of one or more people would be allowed to escape.
It’s an impressive novel and I read it in one day, sitting, as is my wont, on my yellow-red-and-grey couch with the dye stain on the back where a shirt I bought cheaply ($15) and that was made in Bangladesh marked the vinyl with a rosy tint because I wore it one day. I didn’t notice the mark until I got up after sitting there – either reading a book or watching something on TV, I don’t remember – but I found, at the hardware store, something in a yellow bottle that did at least part of the job: remove the stain. But the reddish hue where my clothed back rested against the surface of the couch remains to this day.
This novel is unquestionably good, better by far than most works of fiction, though it mixes elements of the journalistic craft – the insistence on precise details, such as the time and date of a particular occurrence, and an unwillingness to commit to a fact unless it is known for sure – with the traditional features of novelisation, such as plot, character, and point of view.
At some points, the insistence upon positive knowledge of facts – something may or may not have been seen to have occurred at a precise time and in a specific place, for example – gives the story a surreal feel, as though you were listening to a barrister in court elaborating upon a case in order (as the case may be) to exonerate or to accuse someone of something. Because of this, the story can appear to be an attempt to convict an organisation or people belonging to an organisation – the US administration or, more precisely, the CIA – of doing something unconscionable in the course of carrying out its duties in a part of the world – the Caribbean and Central America – where it is known to operate.
The story is more complex in the novel than it is in the movie, but both are equally good. America’s adventures in its quadrant of the world are well-known, but it might be a good idea, for the benefit of younger people who were not alive at the time, to include here a link to a relevant Wikipedia page.
Elena McFarlane is the main character in the novel but there is also an all-knowing narrator whose identity we are not shown, and who sums up the story for the reader. The narrator is clearly someone who is, like McFarlane, a professional writer, but there are things left out – things a person who was intimate with McFarlane’s thoughts, and who was by her side all of the time, would know – that make you wonder who is telling the tale. It’s almost as though the narrator – for the benefit of those who would, at some unspecified time, become acquainted with her manuscript – were trying to paint a picture with certain delineations, certain controlled ellipses, certain regulated lacunae through which the reputations of one or more people would be allowed to escape.
It’s an impressive novel and I read it in one day, sitting, as is my wont, on my yellow-red-and-grey couch with the dye stain on the back where a shirt I bought cheaply ($15) and that was made in Bangladesh marked the vinyl with a rosy tint because I wore it one day. I didn’t notice the mark until I got up after sitting there – either reading a book or watching something on TV, I don’t remember – but I found, at the hardware store, something in a yellow bottle that did at least part of the job: remove the stain. But the reddish hue where my clothed back rested against the surface of the couch remains to this day.
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