The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins

A cheating husband, the other woman, the other other woman, and a woman whose life is so devoid of purpose that she lives inside her head 85% of the time and then projects her fantasies onto strangers.

This veneer may convince you that this is a ripped page out of a soap opera, but it’s not. It’s most definitely a morose, psychological, white-knuckling story with gut wrenching tension found on every page.

The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins has been compared to Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, both having unreliable narrators and dealing with marital problems. Train is navigated by three, suspicious narrators: Rachel, the divorced ex-wife of Tom; Anna, newly wed wife to Rachel’s ex-husband Tom and subsequently the woman Tom had an affair with while he was married to Rachel; and Megan, a woman who ostensibly has no connection with any of the other characters, except that she lives in the same neighborhood as Anna.

Train begins with Rachel, divorced, an alcoholic, and unemployed. She rides the train almost every day and on her commute to nowhere, she passes the house of Jess and Jason, her perfect, doting couple. She doesn’t actually know them though. Rachel has dreamt up a whole world where these two live the life Rachel always wanted. One day, Rachel sees Jess, or rather Megan, but she’s not with Jason; she’s kissing another man. This permanently shatters Rachel’s illusion and after getting stupid drunk seeks out Megan to confront her. When Rachel wakes up the next morning though, she can’t remember anything from that night but learns that Megan has gone missing. What starts out as innocent curiosity (sort of) quickly morphs into obsession and dangerously leads Rachel through a macabre of events which may not only spoil Rachel’s image of Megan but also uncover a few other dirty secrets.

Hawkins’ novel surprisingly assimilates halves of insanity and acumen to make for a seemingly ordinary story. Contrary to Flynn’s Gone Girl, a novel very much about manipulating people’s perceptions and the use of artifices, Train is based more off the idea of the Rashomen Effect. Gone Girl, as I pointed out in my review, is an interesting reading experience that feels like the work itself is fully conscious while you’re reading it. Train simply relies on the fact that these characters are heavily biased towards each other and are being influenced by other elements (people or substances).Train organically gives us a hazy impression of events that is believable and reflects what a series of eye witness accounts would look like.

What bolsters the effect of this story is its delusional and hardened characters. Although there’s virtually nothing to see except women assuming traditional matriarch roles, i.e. Rachel, barren, Megan, stay-at-home wife and (possibly) emotionally battered woman, and Anna, a stay-at-home mom, we see these characters transform from repressed and broken to liberated and independent women.

Extrapolated from Train is a not so subtle allegory of overturning patriarchy and an extreme hostile feminine uprising. There’s a clear distinctive man v. woman conflict that emerges as a constant struggle in each of the woman’s lives. It’s not to say that these woman sole priorities were their male partners, although it plays a significant role, these women are clutching for something indescribable and missing from their lives. Even when they might have everything, except for Rachel, they’re restless and not quite happy.

It’s almost impossible to extricate myself from these characters with each of them possessing a certain toxic personalities that you’re able to identify with. Even when you don’t like these characters, they’re interesting. Megan exaggerates and self-victimizes. Anna is the self-involved woman, and Rachel is an addict and aimless; she cannot stop drinking or thinking about her husband long enough to focus on her own life.

Possibly one of the least credible characters but having the most coverage in the book, Rachel lends to the novel a weird dichotomy between sympathy and revulsion. At times, we feel for her but the intensity of her character, the lack of boundaries, filters our impressions and casts off any remorse we have for her. The book maintains this yo-yo effect and preserves it mostly within her character. It’s this juxtaposition that makes her so complicated; she’s by far one of the most complex characters I’ve come across this year and is simultaneously one of my least favorite characters—it’s really hard to love her when she essentially bar hops from one guy to the next.

Train doesn’t have the cutting, immaculate prose that Gone Girl has, but it is pronounced. I can only described it as a gem under rubble. Its works so well with the characters’ voices and adds a certain nervous, desperate edge to them.

Yes, the story starts out with a girl on a train (or rather a woman but I can argue semantics at a later time) but it diverges and becomes more. Train reels you back from its high intense moments back to a semblance of average-day life, with the characters cured of their afflictions and some secrets staying secrets.

Inferno by Dan Brown

Packed with fun and craftiness, Dan Brown’s Inferno originally debut in 2013 and was well received overall by critics. Lost during the four hundred and eighty pages of Robert Langdon trotting through Italy though is any kind of deviation from the structured plot stringent to the tropes of the mystery and thriller genre. It makes everything extremely predictable. Inferno is not a loved or hated book but it’s so specifically mapped out in its stories and characters, which Brown also applies to his other novels, that it makes for a mediocre story with few punches but an ending that will knock you right in your polar vortex.

Robert Langdon wakes up in the hospital with no memory of the last few days. He’s in Italy with some kind of head wound. He meets the talented, resourceful (beautiful, of course) Sienna Brooks. Not long afterwards, they are running for their lives from a mysterious organization who seem to perceivably want Langdon dead. In the events that unfold, Langdon soon finds himself caught in the middle of a plot in which he must piece together clues to help not only prove his innocence but also save the population from a catastrophic engineered virus.

One of the book’s selling points is the references to Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, which as you would expect, coincides with nearly every part of the story and also prompts us to try and solve the next clue. Here Langdon is in his element and where the story feels strongest and self-confident, but then the story begins to wobble; it tries too hard to misdirect us and undermines some of the novel’s setup and we’re suddenly in a different kind of story.  There are no villains here, but apparently there are a number of heroes and dark knights. Everyone’s motive is quintessentially for the greater good, and although that thought is an interesting concept, Inferno simply pastes these ideas together without really exploring it.

And while the art references are certainly one of the highlights of novel, it’s also hinders it. The art exposition morphs into fodder towards the end. Langdon’s commentary on the art pieces, which he’s supposedly seen on more than one occasion, should be treated more like footnotes instead of being incorporated into the main story. They just don’t elevate the story or its characters–other than to reaffirm that Robert Langdon is an art historian and, yes, he loves art. I don’t know whether if he’s aplomb or if he’s just extremely desensitized by this point in the story. And let’s not forget to mention how Mr. Robert Langdon was disorientated from his initial ordeal; yet he seems to function just fine at solving the mystery, as if it’s just a game of cross-word puzzle to him. Granted he is a smart man, but it feels too convenient for him and too much of a stretch for me to jump on board Langdon’s art knowing wizardry. The idea itself is silly, but without it, the story would be less entertaining, which is the sole purpose of reading it considering the plot ends up being a wild goose chase.

Sienna Brooks, however, is an exceptional, strategic, and compassionate woman. It’s hard to believe she’s only sidekick material though. She possesses an incredible amount of tenacity and intellect that surpasses Langdon. Knowing her involvement in the story, it’s a surprise she’s downgraded mostly to a supportive role. Complicating this is Inferno’s conventional story and character growth. Boxed in by a formulaic plot, the character development is contained; hence, Sienna Brooks provides just enough smarts and conversation to move the story along.

Inferno wears you down eventually and you’re ultimately sucked into its absorbing plot in saving the world from a mad scientist bent on dealing with the overpopulation problem, which is possibly my favorite part. It ends up being more unexpected than you would think considering how everything is so neatly placed.

But Brown’s style of writing has its own problems, employing short chapters that end with ‘suspenseful’ cliffhangers. I’m well aware that this story is a mystery/thriller; yet I feel it’s disabling the writing and content. Most of these chapters are sprints. Anything significant is held for the very end and then wraps up at the beginning of the next chapter. This tactic is done in nearly every chapter and quickly loses its effect.

We also see this in some of Inferno’s miscellaneous characters. Although some are intriguing, it just doesn’t serve to highlight them, especially when their only purpose is to open the door for the two main characters to make their getaway. Just—why? To appreciate the Average Joe by reinforcing the notion that Average Joe can only do average things? Need I remind that buried in these pages is an ostensible threat to kill off most of the population?

A banal story, Inferno still serves its purpose in distracting our attention and leading us toward a conclusion, and it does so in the most entertaining way possible; however, there is little satiating substance that can be found in its story and characters. It’s a novel not worth taking too seriously but can pacify your boredom on a Sunday afternoon.

Annihilation

Books in the science-fiction genre are a hit or a miss with me. I find either these books are too saturated with McGuffins or stories too epic and fantastical that plot or character elements go by the wayside, which is why Annihilation pleasantly surprised me in more than one way.

We are introduced to a team of four women that make up the 12th expedition into a place known as Area X, a mysterious, uncultivated region occupied with anomalies. Previous expeditions have ended strangely with members of each expedition succumbing to different illnesses and fates such as aggression, injuries, trauma, cancer, and death. The members of the 12th expedition are designated names according to their occupation: Surveyor, Psychologist, Anthropologist, and the Biologist, who narrates the story based on her observations and occurrences in Area X, and she also reflects on her life with her husband, who was a member of the last expedition who died under mysterious circumstances as well. As the team explores more of Area X, the team’s behavior change, showing increased signs of aggression, anxiety, and paranoia. The Biologist, however, seems unaffected. As she learns more about Area X, more questions start to surface, which no one seems to want to ask despite all the previous failed missions. What’s the real reason behind coming to Area X at all?

What I found surprising about this story was its telling of a complex, unknown world in a way that doesn’t completely alienate us. There’s no question that Area X is bizarre, but it’s not like we are dropped in a place that requires a new language to understand everything. Buildings and objects resemble things in our post-modern world, which makes me speculate that Area X was once connected to our continent until such-and-such event happened, and humankind decides to wall up Area X to isolate it from the general public (since, you know, walls solve everything.)

The external environment acts as a plot agent that generates the conflict and characters’ actions. The characters’ development is contingent on Area X. I would argue that this form of plot narrative can hinder a characters’ progression only because the characters act as filters sifting through the odds and ends of the world’s landscape. Because the protagonist is a biologist though, the narration about the world coincides with the progression of her character, which works really well. In a team of four, the Biologist receives the most attention, considering she’s the protagonist narrating the story, which allows us to learn of her back story and varying thoughts. The other three members don’t receive the same attention and turn stale midway through the story (i.e. they outlive their purpose.)

Admittedly the Biologist is not a character everyone will like or relate to. She’s considerably cold and distant towards her team members. She views life through a scientific lens, even though her narration doesn’t completely reflect this. It’s surprising the way she changes, not into someone warm and gooey, but in the way she perceives the world and how she’s relearning the events from her past. Her relationship with her husband is complicated, not for martial reasons but for introspective reasons. While she continues to observe the outside world, she internalizes what she sees and tries to provide an objective view of things that sometimes differ from her responses. I grew to respect this character, and I enjoyed watching her change. She herself takes notice of this change and laments that there’s no going back. I also found that the book specifically heralds this transition in her character, having one of the characters, the Psychologist, describe her as if she was brighter or on fire.

The writing style mirrors the protagonist’s analytic mind and incorporates a lyrical narrative style that I imagine is difficult to do in a science-fiction, genre book. I was impressed at the descriptions, which is what made reading this easier than reading other science-fiction works that are meticulously concerned with accuracy and sometimes overwhelming attentive to detail—needing to tell us everything—that it interferes with the writing style.

The conclusion loosely ties everything together leaving things purposely vague to be explored in the other two books. Annihilation is a part of the Southern Reach Trilogy. I wasn’t aware it was a part of series until after I started reading it. . .

Consider this a benefit in reading reviews prior to reading a book.

With that said, Annihilation generates enough interest to want to read the second book. Annihilation ends up asking more questions instead of answering some of the mystery it’s laid out for us. I’m conflicted in some ways because Annihilation by itself is flimsy and cannot stand on its own, but I really do want to know more. Individual books in trilogies must wrap up their stories, even if the overarching story is a continuation. I don’t need a book to give me all the answers, but there’s so much said in Annihilation that very little is actually revealed.

Rating: 3.3

Lovely Book News:

The sequels for this book have been released!
Book Two: Authority
Book Three: Acceptance

Eventually I will be picking these books up to review, but this was a relief to find and odd since I usually don’t see books in a series released within in a short amount of time. This is also the first book I’ve read by Jeff VanderMeer, and if his books are published this quickly then that’s more awesomeness for everyone.

Dark Places

My friend Don warned me before reading Dark Places that I’d have to prepare myself and come armed with rainbows and kittens and find something immediately afterwards to raise my spirits—or what remained of my spirits as this book obliterated them, which is not to say I didn’t like the book because I really did enjoy it. I’d rather not think what that says about me.

On one hand, I enjoyed the book immensely for its writing, its brittle settings, and the sharp, brooding characters, but there are parts, such as the characters and story structure that disagree with me and weakens the climax and resolution of the book, making my experience reading this disjointed and less satisfying.

“I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ.”

What a way to introduce a book.

This impressive first line encases the book’s themes, plot, writing style, and sets the tone. You’re not gradually introduced to Dark Places; you’re already in it.

Dark Places by Gillian Flynn tells the not-so-happy tale of Libby Day after her family’s demise. This is putting it lightly, however. On the night of January 2 in 1985, Libby Day’s brother Ben Day slaughtered their mother and their two sisters. Ben Day is convicted based on DNA evidence, Libby’s testimony, and spliced stories about Ben Day’s involvement with satanic worship and occult rituals. Case closed. Libby Day is the hero and all’s well that ends well, except our Libby has to grow up with her family still dead and her brother still locked in prison. She’s jobless and living off people’s charities and donations. A guy named Lyle shows up and invites her to a club called the Kill Club, fanatics who gather to discuss all things murder oriented. Reluctant but desperate, Libby attends one of these meetings, and everyone there reopens the Day case. None of the members believe Ben actually killed the Day family. Libby, despite how furious she is at first, starts to question the same thing herself. She was a kid then. She wasn’t sure that what she was told was what actually happened. Did her brother really kill the Day family? Why was she the only survivor? What actually happened the night of January 2, 1985?

Although Dark Places is a murder mystery suspense novel that will lock you into its pages until you figure out the truth, it’s not reliant on its plot entirely. The plot structure is what we’d typically expect for a murder mystery. We have the protagonist questioning other characters to piece together missing chunks of time in order to solve the mystery. The witness interrogation, however, is less about unveiling the true murderer and is more about Libby Day relearning who Ben Day is. Until now, she’s only been able to see him as two things: her loving brother and a sick psychotic killer. Even as the story is mostly told from Libby’s perspective, the plot is not tied to her. In many ways, Libby Day is not even the focus of this this story. She’s more of Nick Carraway character observing the bigger picture. Everyone has stories going on simultaneously that are not directly related to Libby herself. It better reflects reality and takes readers away from a plighting egocentric universe.

Flawed and broken, the characters are fascinating to read. While it may be difficult to relate to any of these characters due to their traumatic upbringing or lack thereof, you’ll find yourself liking them and, at the same time, having a hard time accepting them. We can know them, but it’s hard to understand them. They’re morally complicated characters. All of them.

In the case of Libby Day, Libby lives only to survive. She initially starts to investigate her family’s murder to turn a profit but later on shows some interest in learning as to what actually happened that night. This becomes apparent after she speaks with her brother in prison. The characters’ morality is contingent on their motivation.  In the heap of all things twisted in the book, it’s interesting to find that what remains good, the virtuous meaning of the term, is preserved within the characters’ intentions. Ben Day’s reasons are considerably selfless even chivalrous including Patty Day’s reasons. The characters undergo stages of development that are simply sublime and interesting to read. As you can tell, I cannot get enough of studying them.

The language in the book and style invite you to read more. It captures the depth of poignant and raw feelings that mercilessly plunge you into a cold place with no air and little chance for hope. It’s important to note that the style of writing works in favor of the three narrators: present day Libby Day, 1985 Ben Day, and 1985 Patty Day, the mom. Usually I would expect the voices of the narrators to shift, but in general, the narrators all sound like the same person. To some readers, this may be problematic. But the writing is so chilling and cutting that I’d hate to go to something different. It also helps that each of the characters are of a similar mind set. As they transition, they go through the same inflection of feelings despite being in drastically different situations. If nothing else, this book’s writing needs to be savored.

The novel’s conclusion left a somewhat bitter taste in my mouth, however. Without spoiling it, the ending compromises the novel’s continuity and the structure. Some could argue that this is a semblance of real life interjecting into literature. For the most part, I agree with incorporating fragments of reality into literature to keep the piece grounded and familiar. But a novel is a work of art and part of what makes a novel successful is the style in which it ends, and this one, sticks out too much for me to accept. This is not to say you shouldn’t read this novel, but do expect something abrupt to happen and then have everything end nicely.

Rating: 3.75 out of 5

The Fever

I consider myself a book polygamist since I tend to read more than one book at a time. How do I do this? No idea. My brain just works that way.

I started my mornings with Megan Abbott’s The Fever. Now I know it’s hard to compete with coffee and the instant, gratifying caffeine boost it gives you, but I really didn’t need it. This book caffeinated my interest right away, describing in the first few pages what I thought could only exist in science-fiction horror via alien insemination. It really makes you guess and stimulates your brain.

The Fever probes the lives of high school girls, mean girls. When one of their own suddenly collapses in the middle of class and starts to convulse and froth at the mouth, hysteria snakes its way into the minds of the girls, their parents, and the entire community. Once another girl succumbs to these strange symptoms and is hospitalized, the police and media colonize the town. It doesn’t take long for rumors to spread and theories to surface. Bio terrorism. HPV vaccine conspiracies. STD. The water. It’s the type of book that weaves a bunch of ridiculous and very possible conclusions while continuing to feed you clues and give you an ending that will either leave you reeling or wishing it had been one of the hocus-pocus conclusions; sometimes the truth is more painful to believe.

In several ways, The Fever is like a modern adaptation of The Crucible. Girls. Gossip. Witch-hunt. The Fever studies the psychology of its characters’ sexualities, perversions, intimacies, and the effects of hysteria, which I love, and what makes this book hard to ignore.

The disparity amongst the characters occurs from the varying viewpoints of the Nash family, Deenie (sister), Eli (brother), and Tom (father). The viewpoints argue different theories and opinions of the mysterious illness and provide some insights to the girls. While the narrators give us some history about them, it’s not enough to really know who the girls are, shedding only a few peculiar character traits. Considering the story’s plot, I thought it would take place on a larger scale, but it’s relatively contained to just a few characters. The police, media, and gossipers generate enough dialogue for speculation, but are not noteworthy characters themselves. If you’re looking to read something aimed specifically at the mean girl archetypes, then this won’t scratch your itch. Not entirely.

The story is very much about the girls, their friendships, their budding sexual feelings, sexual maturity, their insecurities, and social pressures. But it also conveys the boys and adults having similar problems too, thus, aligning the characters’ stories and converging themes. It had me contemplating if anyone really grows into being an adult or if we’re all in a perpetual state of adolescence, always changing physically, mentally, and emotionally.

Abbot’s writing beautifully captures the mean girls’ vernacular. The writing details the girls’ sexual curiosity and prowess piquing. The way the strange illness is described and compared to the girls’ hormonal and sexual feelings brings out what I love about this book. The title plays on both the epidemic and the girls’ sexuality. I’m now more than ever itching to read other works by Megan Abbott.

The ending did not disappoint. Not a bit. It ends as it started: ambiguous. It’s one of those endings that didn’t neatly wrap up everyone’s story. I’m relieved not everything is resolved. I personally like stories that don’t answer everything for me, and The Fever still keeps me guessing as to what actually happened, and if we ever truly know anyone, let alone ourselves.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5

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