Saturday Morning Thoughts on Two Novels

Last week I finished two novels of very different stripes. I'll give short reviews of both here as I enjoy some Saturday morning coffee. I'm up very early today (for me, for a Saturday) and not even hung over, which I think deserves a mention.

First is Aldous Huxley's first novel, Crome Yellow. Crome was an unexpected turn for me. The only other Huxley I had read was the classic Brave New World back in my college days, and a book of his mostly mediocre poems. Crome is quite dissimilar from that wonderful novel, but in some ways you can find early indicators of the direction Huxley is heading. The book doesn't have much a plot to speak of--a group of rich folks in England spend a few weeks lounging about their rural mansion, known as Chrome Yellow. It's very talky. Huxley in seems to simply find settings to pair his characters together so they can have a discussion and flesh out whatever philosophical ideas Huxley is kicking around at the moment. That sounds derisive, but I don't really mean it that way. The novel is not a mature work, but it has its moments of both hilarity (Huxley can be funny!) and of strange gravity.

My favorite moment comes toward the end, when the main character Denis finds a notebook that a minor character is often seem scribbling in. On the front of the notebook is printed "private" and there is some admonishment not to open it. Denis naturally opens it anyway and finds some drawn pictures and words written about himself that portray him in a deeply negative light. He is dumbfounded not because this character doesn't like him, but because he never imagined she was sophisticated enough to form any critical opinions whatsoever. He spends to remainder of the novel amazed that everyone in the world has an interior life, that they are a universe unto themselves. That synopsis really doesn't do it justice--it's both comic and moving in the book.

Chrome clocks in right around 140 pages and is a quick read. It's even still in print somehow, which I was shocked to discover.

The other, less satisfying book, was The Face of Fear by Dean Koontz. The sad fact is that I will be reviewing quite a bit of Koontz in this space because, even though I detest him, I still read him. I'm crazy like that. I'll be brief.

The Face of Fear is in all ways typical Koontz. The title is actually the best part of the novel, since it is not precisely what it seems. The face in question is not a human face, but face as in a side of a mountain or other object which a person may climb. The plot involves a psychic who foresees a murder. The murderer then comes to kill the psychic so he won't be identified. Murderer traps psychic in a building late at night and psychic has to try to climb down the outside of the building to escape. Oh yeah, and the psychic also used to be a professional mountain climber and had a terrible fall and now is utterly petrified of climbing. Do you suppose he will be able to overcome his fear and escape the murderous brute?

The novel is absolute trash. To boot, it is remarkably like Koontz's previous novel, The Vision, which also featured a psychic who foresees a killer in action and then must confront the killer. Neither is recommended. I hate stories or movies about psychics, since there are never any ground rules about how the psychic ability works and the author or screenwriter can use it in whatever ridiculous way the plot requires. I mean, vampires are silly, but at least we know what we're in for; daylight, a stake through the heart, and sometimes garlic or a cross can keep them at bay. Psychics have no rules attached to their power. I'm not sure I can think of a movie that I've ever enjoyed that featured psychics prominently. I guess The Gift was alright. I don't think Minority Report can truly be counted. Somebody help me out here.

Why Koontz persists in being a mega-seller despite his awful prose and plodding stories is one of the great mysteries of our time. But in my effort to read what the people read, I will be continuing in this long, hard slog through some of the most tedious novels known to man. And continuing to bitch about on this blog.