liquidfeet
Ski Diva Extraordinaire
I've just finished reading Mr. SkiDiva's book Finn. Calling it dark is an understatement. I loved it.
The only other novels I've encountered that venture into this territory are those of Joyce Carol Oates, who loves to figure out what makes uncommon (and disturbing) people tick, and In Cold Blood, which for Capote was a happy accident anyway.
I didn't want to stop reading Finn. It stayed in my head during the day like one of those songs that wouldn't stop repeating. It kept me happy for a couple of weeks, so I'm glad I didn't have the time to read it in one sitting. I'm sorry it's over. It was that kind of book and more.
The language was beautiful, and different. Just reading one paragraph after another was a pleasure too new to describe. The river was a felt force and I can sense its movement right now. Finn was totally believable, his actions seemingly unmanipulated by any usual authorial motive (entertainment, ideology, ethics, titillation, whatever). The interior spaces of his character are complex and sad and evil and all the things that prompt questions of justice and blame. The time shifts kept me busy until I gave up on sequencing, and once I did that I slipped into another layer of understanding. I think that was the way it was supposed to work, such a surprise. The mysteries of the plot were slowly revealed in an oblique way, a process so interwoven with the way everything was told that it seemed a natural part of the air.
What a pleasure to read.
If they make a movie of this, there's a danger that the voice embedded in the words will be gone and all that will be left is character and plot - not anywhere near what makes this book the mountainous accomplishment it is. I hope only the best producer/director gets the rights, recognizes the book's unique strengths, and comes up with equivalent filmic translations of those strengths. That'll take some vision.
Read this book!
The only other novels I've encountered that venture into this territory are those of Joyce Carol Oates, who loves to figure out what makes uncommon (and disturbing) people tick, and In Cold Blood, which for Capote was a happy accident anyway.
I didn't want to stop reading Finn. It stayed in my head during the day like one of those songs that wouldn't stop repeating. It kept me happy for a couple of weeks, so I'm glad I didn't have the time to read it in one sitting. I'm sorry it's over. It was that kind of book and more.
The language was beautiful, and different. Just reading one paragraph after another was a pleasure too new to describe. The river was a felt force and I can sense its movement right now. Finn was totally believable, his actions seemingly unmanipulated by any usual authorial motive (entertainment, ideology, ethics, titillation, whatever). The interior spaces of his character are complex and sad and evil and all the things that prompt questions of justice and blame. The time shifts kept me busy until I gave up on sequencing, and once I did that I slipped into another layer of understanding. I think that was the way it was supposed to work, such a surprise. The mysteries of the plot were slowly revealed in an oblique way, a process so interwoven with the way everything was told that it seemed a natural part of the air.
What a pleasure to read.
If they make a movie of this, there's a danger that the voice embedded in the words will be gone and all that will be left is character and plot - not anywhere near what makes this book the mountainous accomplishment it is. I hope only the best producer/director gets the rights, recognizes the book's unique strengths, and comes up with equivalent filmic translations of those strengths. That'll take some vision.
Read this book!
