Heat and Dust - Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

The author does her usual competent job. All the characters are interesting, though a bit fuzzy. It’s this fuzziness that makes the book no more than competent. Motivations don’t quite convince; relationships are a bit dubious; people’s actions are only partially accounted for. Not that they ring false; they just aren’t deep and grounded. The novel’s format is twofold: a journal in present time alternates with letters written by the journal writer in which she reconstruct a long-ago episode. But the author doesn’t provide insight into the emotional life of anyone, not even her journal writer. I can’t say that what Jhabvala does is a failure – this is an engrossing work. But the withholding that’s so prevalent kept me at arm’s length.

Stories by Frank O’Connor

A real stylist at work – working carefully, polishing until he has it just right. There’s even a distinct lilt and cadence to O’Connor’s writing. He explores the Irish sensibility (making it as exotic as a South Sea Islander’s, particularly in regard to the relationships between the sexes). The problem is that too many of these pieces are humorous glimpses of life; they’re brimming with local color but aren’t full-fledged stories. When there’s a solid plot and characters O’Connor can be wonderful. The best story is “Guests of the Nation,” in which he tells of a horrible act while making the inexorable proceedings seem friendly and light – until the end. Also outstanding are “The Majesty of the Law,” “The Luceys” and “My Oedipus Complex.” Some stories miss due to garrulity, a storyteller’s love of hearing himself go on to the point where he overdoes it. But this collection as a whole left me with a feeling of enjoyment, satisfaction and a fresh appreciation of the importance of style in writing.

Lolita: A Screenplay - Vladimir Nabokov

A dalliance. Strangely, I don’t recognize the Lolita in this one. Could I have missed the whole point of the novel? Kubrick never used this script, but I hope Nabokov got a nice paycheck.

The Invisible Player - Giuseppe Pontiggia (Italian)
A intellectual/emotional puzzle. It begins with an unsigned article in a scholarly journal on the etymology of the word “hypocrite.” The professor (that’s his only name) at the center of the book takes the article as a personal attack and begins a search for its author. Yet the search becomes unfocused, ambiguous. Odd characters (suspects) abound, the plot takes strange detours. All this is confusing but not quite frustrating, because the ideas on every page have vitality. The ending is both concrete (a character kills himself) and diffuse (there’s a “so what?” attitude to the death); we still know nothing. Pointlessness may be the point of this whole excursion, though for me the lack of something stunning, after all the complex buildup, was a letdown. Still, the book went into unchartered territory, and the trip was worth taking.

The Muses Are Heard - Truman Capote
Pleasant – no axes to grind, no character assassinations. Well-written – of course. An interesting look at the Communist Soviet Union. But no depth, so it was merely a diversion.

An Only Child - Frank O’Connor
This is not a successful autobiography. O’Connor is too emotionally reticent; he states feelings but is wary about showing them. His mother emerges fairly well, but O’Connor doesn’t. Minor characters come alive more fully than he does. This shadowy boy is not someone I cared about. The efforts at humor are creaky. When he grew into manhood (and the IRA) I had enough.

Therese - Francois Mauriac (French)
The book begins with Therese’s criminal case (poisoning her husband) being dismissed for lack of evidence. Yet she will never be free from that crime. Never, to the end of her sad life. This is a psychological study of what the author calls an “odious character.” Yet the “odious” Therese shares a common humanity with us all. Life, for her, is a struggle in which her terrible adversary is herself. There’s much here that’s true and incisive (but so unpleasant that it’s commonly swept out of sight). Yet the book has major faults. It’s so fixed on states of mind that it makes for laborious reading; a muddled and inconsistent plot doesn’t help. Also, the intensity sometimes moves into melodrama; Mauriac went full out when he should have pulled back. The final section is burdened by endless (it seems) people and events and complications. One complication – the young man becoming romantically involved with the aging Therese – rings false. Mauriac made bad choices. Still, parts of this book have the potency of a poison – like the arsenic Therese gave her husband.