Last Dance, Last Chance - Ann Rule

Rule has concentrated on cosmetic surgeon Anthony Pignataro here, but has also collected a series of vignettes about other (primarily sadistic) sociopaths to round out what would otherwise been a novella-length book, sub-titled And Other True Stories.
"Last Dance, Last Chance" comprises 314 pages of the book's 463 page total and meticulously details the life of Pignataro, son of a somewhat cold medical father, from arrogant adolescent to convicted attempted uxoricide, via the death of a young and previously healthy woman who came to him for cosmetic surgery she didn't need and he was woefully unequipped to perform.
While the story itself is an interesting enough series of unfortunate events that seemed to inexorably lead to tragedy, and an illuminating insight into the mindset of a sociopath, the execution was laboured and painful.
It's been a long time since I read a true crime book - I stopped when I discovered I fit the profile of the typical true crime reader and didn't like being so predictable, but also because the writing was so consistently bad, and this foray into the genre has nothing to alleviate my perceptions. The author is heavily woven into the opening of the story, and assumes a familiarity with her work I don't have ("once again, just as I had been when I researched And Never Let Her Go, I was drawn back to a place I had lived long ago"). It's a minor enough flaw - I often write myself into my own work, too.*
What I found significantly more annoying was the belaboured writing, full of foreshadowing, declarations of the obvious, and hyperbole. For example: "She told me of an all-too-true scenario that seemed almost unbelievable." Or Rule's emphasis, following a quote that "'She said she was kind of afraid of him'" that "So Bertha had been afraid." Not so surprising, especially as there's no record of anyone denying Bertha had been fearful. Or her surprise at how things work out. Rule is clearly no psychic - "I never expected to return to Buffalo or Niagara Falls or the thin eastern belt of Ontario where the land barely separates Lake Ontario from Lake Eerie. But the twists and turns of our lives are nothing if not unpredictable." So true.
And yet, despite her surprise, again: "When I wrote about [Jack Gasser] the first time, I never expected to write about him again. But I did." Bad luck if you wanted to know why she wrote about him the first time, or why she returned to his "backward or 'inside out' story" (it reads as neither), because unless you're already familiar with Ms Rule's body of work you're out of luck knowing how this account varies from the first time she apparently documented his life and times.
"Last Dance, Last Chance" revolves primarily around Pignataro's wife, Debbie, and equal weight is given to her upbringing and experiences as is to his. But do we really need three paragraphs to set the scene of 1957, the year of her birth? I'm not American, and I wasn't alive then, but I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in knowing it was the era of the Beaver, Father Knows Best, the first research suggesting smoking may be harmful, and Capitalist fears of an invading Communist threat (the Cuban and Russian paranoia is downplayed and McCarthy doesn't rate a mention in this soft-edged idyllic meander down memory road).
There were a couple of inaccuracies that niggled at me, chief of which was Rule attributing the wrong condition to a minor player in the main story (Sarah Smith, who died as a result of Pignatoro's inept preparation and support, had a brother who developed kidney failure the same year she died - Rule attributes this to Wagner's disease, instead of Wegener's, the more likely cause - picky, perhaps, but significantly different), and the fact that she didn't insert a [sic] into the quote from Pignatoro that "a son and daughter needs their father" irritated me. Or the effortless gliding from a fact to a judgement (as in the way "Elledge's father was committed to a mental institution [in 1953, that era of highly accurate psychiatry]" is then characterised as "After his father went insane...").
But mostly it was the overwrought writing - brace yourself for a number of examples:
"Craven had an Irish mug, but then so did Finney, who liked to say he was 'a potato-faced Irish man" - a fascinating contribution to the work. How about "Although he looks as Italian as his name... [lawyer Frank Sedita] explains that he is half-Italian, half-Scots - which he is. His dog s a West Highland terrier, and his son is named Mac." I think my favourite part is the confirmation that he is, as he says, of both Scottish and Italian heritage. I now feel much more able to engage with the writing.
How about the fact that "the D.A.'s personnel always referred to Dr. Anthony Pignatoro as Mr. Tony Pignatoro, ignoring his pretentious 'Anthony' [and recognising the revocation of his licence]." I had no idea it was pretentious to use your full name, and am glad I go by the abbreviation here, lest you all think me up myself.
For those of you with an interest in redundancy, there's this bit of scene setting from a non-Pignatoro true crime account: "In the 1940's, detectives still wore fedoras, suits, white shirts, and ties. The group of men who gathered around the body [in 1948] resembled an outtake from a film noir movie..." - spare me. But wait, there's more - it may interest those of you born yesterday to learn that "...DNA was as unlikely in 1948 as a spaceship landing in downtown Seattle."
Apparently real pathologists, both then and now, are less precise than imaginary ones:
'Time of death?' Don Sprinkle asked, knowing it wouldn't be as specific as fictional pathologist's opinions.
"Probably between 2 and 3 A.M., give or take an hour either way," Dr. Wilson said.
I must be reading the wrong books, because that sounds like what I read and what I see on TV crime shows. I'm amazed that this was the case sixty years ago, too. Either that or Rule thinks her 1948 cop could compare his contemporary with pathologists more than half a century in the future.
Okay, pickiness like this is a sign I'm well over it. I'm sure you are, too. Once again, a book completed solely because I was travelling, and a good example of the Seventh Rule of Book Buying (or Reading) - sometimes there's a reason why it's sitting on the shelf/in the box almost a decade after you bought it. - Alex

*Although that's fairly standard in the social sciences, and is there to demonstrate bias and declare perspective

By The Time You Read This - Lola Jaye

Twelve year old Lois Bates is miserable - her dad died of a mysterious (to her) illness when she was five and her mum's now remarrying a man she met at the bingo. She just knows if her dad was still around everything would be much better than it is. So she's excited, and a little nervous, when her father's' sister gives her a manual written just for her by her father. There are rules: the manual is private between the two of them, and she can only read a birthday entry on her birthday, but she can read the miscellaneous advice and Kevin facts any time she needs to. For the next eighteen years, until the ancient age of thirty, Lois will have her father to guide her through every stage, from starting high school and changing friendships to her first job and buying a car.
The author was inspired by news stories about dying parents leaving their children mementos, usually in the form of DVDs etc; she wondered what it would be like for someone living in the early 1980's, when that technology wasn't available, and the idea is certainly intriguing.
However, I found Lois' voice annoying (though this improved over the course of the novel), and her self-focus grating (which didn't change). Over the eighteen years we see Lois grow up: her mother has another child, who Lois deliberately stays distant from, at least until a near tragedy forces her to face her feelings about the moppet); she avoids her mother and new husband as much as possible, never revisiting her adolescent perceptions; she worships her dead father over the living people in her life; and she leaves relationships before the men in her life can leave her.
I should have related to this character, particularly as my grandmother died when my mother was the same age as Lois (and was never really mentioned again, like Lois's father). I get a little choked up whenever I think of my mother and her twin sister looking around the house for evidence that they hadn't made their mother up, but was wholly unmoved by Lois and her journey through life. Plus, I found the fact that her dad always had the right advice really annoying. Seriously - every time? That's pretty comprehensive for a guy who has only a few months to live. And yet there's barely a thing, especially in the beginning entries (where one would imagine it was the most important) on thinking about her mother's feelings, or it being okay for her to remarry. Later on there are a few mentions of it, but by that stage Lois's dislike of her new "dad" is deeply entrenched.
I certainly finished By The Time You Read This, but only because I bought it and am in Rome, with limited English-language reading material available (and my Italian is very much at the "Spot has a baby sister. Say hello, Spot" level).
So, rule five of buying books - don't buy on impulse or in panic at the airport. It's great that you can buy 3 books for the price of 2 (or buy one, get one half price) but if you don't like the book then it's a waste of time and money.
And rule six - don't let your choice of books in said situation be influenced by the opinion of your friend, particularly if she doesn't have the same taste as you and (though specifically asked which she thinks she'd like to read when you're finished with it) declines to take it when you've finished.
And most of all, remember rule two. - Alex

Racists – Kunal Basu

It’s 1855 and the scientific world is consumed with the question of race – are other races inherently inferior to whites? It is obvious that blacks are morally, intellectually and culturally deficit, and their strength and endurance clearly reflects the fact that they are better suited for manual labour than other endeavours, but how and why is this so?
Noted English professor Samuel Bates, member of the Royal College of Physicians, is a master craniologist – he uses scientific instruments to measure cranial angles to demonstrate the superiority of white over black. He and continental rival Frenchman Jean-Louis Belavoix (of the Société Ethnologique de Paris) have devised a long experiment to determine the cause. On Arlinda, a remote and deserted island off the Ivory Coast a mute wet nurse will raise two infants (a black boy and a white girl) for twelve years. Twice a year both scientists, and Bates’ assistant, will visit the island, bringing supplies and measuring the children’s heads. At the end of the experiment they will have their answer, and one will win – not only scientific acclaim but also be triumphant over the other.
The experiment is clearly multiply flawed (Lynn’s first response when I told her about this book was “and their being different sexes won’t make a difference?”), but I thought the premise of this novel was appealing – not only a demonstration of outmoded ideologies and thinking but the potential for a really fascinating tale of the lived experiences of children growing up in isolation. This could have gone in an interestingly dystopic Lord of the Flies direction, or been an interracial and utopian Blue Lagoon, or even completely surprised me with an unexpected twist.
Instead the plot focused almost exclusively on the scientists, primarily Bates, who is driven by an inchoate but strong and consuming need to be triumphant over Belavoix, who seems to be less committed to the project as it continues. There is a small subplot concerning Nicholas Quartley, Bates’ assistant, who falls in love with Norah, the enigmatic carer, and we get occasional glimpses at the lives of the children, though only during the half-yearly visits.
The time the book is set was pivotal in scientific understanding of racial differences – it opens when ‘sciences’ like craniology were flourishing, when criminality and class were seen as inevitable and immutable, and closes in the aftermath of Darwin’s findings. Belavoix expects that the experiment will end when one child kills the other, though there is no discussion in the text about which child the scientists expect will survive, and why; I expect that had the boy killed the girl it would have been interpreted far differently than had the girl killed the boy. And this is one of the interesting depictions of the way bias and expectation prejudice the interpretation of data – when the girl does something it is seen as being kind, or humane, or at the very least premeditated; whenever the boy does something it is thuggish, or evidence of slow wit, or animalistic. But if you’re interested in learning more about how allegedly scientific and unbiased measurements have been used to reinforce racial stereotypes you will be much better served reading The Mismeasurement of Man by the late Stephen Jay Gould.
The style of writing is extremely literary and, as has so often been my experience with literary writing, this comes at the expense of plot and character development. I didn’t connect with any of the characters, wasn’t engaged with the plot, and didn’t even care enough to throw the book at a wall. In fact I only finished reading it because I had taken no other book out with me today, and have vowed (once again) to stick to my current reams of unread books before buying new ones.
And thanks to Racists for furnishing a brilliant example of book buying rule #4: however good the blurb sounds, read the first page or two and make sure that the novel has the same promise. – Alex

One for Sorrow, Two for Joy – Clive Woodall

An avian Watership Down, One for Sorrow tells of Birddom, a land where birds once lived in harmony with one another, governed by the Council of Owls; they spoke a common language with mammals, and life was balanced. But with the increasing ravages of Man and the increase in road kill, scavenger species magpies have outgrown their environmental niche. Led by the evil and tyrannical Slyekin, bands of magpies have taken on the task of wiping out entire populations of smaller birds. Traska, a vicious and ruthless individual, is leader of a group hell-bent on taking out the last robin in Birddom, our hero, Kirrick.
The tale opens shortly after the murder of Kirrick’s partner Celine, by two of Slyekin’s offsiders, Skulk and Skeet. Heartsore with grief, and no longer driven solely by a need to survive, Kirrick begins to ponder the “malignant intelligence” responsible for the always-predatory magpies’ change in behaviour, and wonder if he can stop it. But “what difference could one small, single bird make?”
My memory for books is quite good – I can usually remember where and when(ish) I bought each one or, of a gift, from whom. But, as I work my way through the less new books on my To Read shelves I sometimes wonder what on earth possessed me to buy X in the first place – clearly something attracted me to it when I first saw it, but looking at it now I cannot for the life of me imagine what that was.
One for Sorrow, on the other hand, had been calling to me for a while. An elegant soft-cover volume, the cover art shows a white bird’s wing against a sky dark with black birds in flight, and the lavish praise of those in the know.
They should have known better. This story is (according to Alan Yentob, BBC Director of Drama and Entertainment) an “epic tale in the tradition of Watership Down and Lord of the Rings” and (says the Times Educational Supplement) it's “a resonant commentary – a savage as well as a sentimental tale” (they also called it an epic).
I was indeed reminded of Watership Down very often while I read One for Sorrow. This was partly because they are both stories told from the perspective of creatures we rarely think about as protagonists, partly because both have animals whose lives are changed due to the actions of Man encroaching on the natural world, partly because the main character/s embark on a life-altering journey.
But mostly I was reminded of Watership Down because Richard Adams created a brilliant, cohesive, rich, textured, internally-coherent world (if you haven’t already, read Watership Down today!). And Woodall? Didn’t.
For all that he tries to add depth with back-story, the characters lack depth and I didn’t give a damn about any of them. I found it particularly irritating that they expressed human emotions and exhibited human behaviour. I can buy avian grief, but not the floods of tears that the heroes (Kirrick and his new partner Portia) frequently create – to the point of saturating their feathery little breasts. At one point one bird affectionately kiss-pecks another on the face. Oh please.
In Watership Down the rabbits fear, then condemn, the warren that mimics human behaviour; they greet each other by scenting, like real rabbits do; and they have names that sentient rabbits might actually use – based on plants, character traits, or birth order (Hazel, Bigwig, Fiver). In One for Sorrow birds say “By the way, my name’s Mickey”; the villains have villenous names and the heroes human or humanish names (Tomar, Isidris, Caitlin).
The dialogue is stilted, unrealistic, and larded with descriptives – on page 45 alone (I opened at random), birds ask venomously, cajole in a conciliatory tone, reply, query, laugh cruelly, and repeat impatiently.
The plot meanders irritatingly, with the odd side trip for no good reason. For example, Kirrick, in his quest for help from across the spectrum of Birddom (other avian lands include - sigh - Wingland), becomes seriously ill for a couple of days and is semi-conscious in a wood. This delay doesn’t have any dramatic impact on the story, nor does his illness affect his personality or capacity for continuing his quest. It’s as though the author needed a few hundred more words and plopped the incident in at random.
Most of all, One for Sorrow is easily the most ‘telling’ book I’ve read in a very long time - I’m not a particularly critical, aware reader, but the lack of showing kept hitting me in the face, and contributed to my lack of engagement with the book.
As discussed, I could certainly see how parallels (though, in my case, unfavourable ones) could be drawn between One for Sorrow and Watership Down. I really didn’t see any similarity with Lord of the Rings, though Lynn suggests that it alludes to the long journey Kirrick makes. Eh. Still, I should be grateful to Clive Woodall, for furnishing two new rules of books buying:
2) Be cautious if a review refers to the book as an epic. Run if that’s the theme of the blurb.
3) Any book that is billed as the latest X (Stephen King/John Grisham/Harry Potter/Jodi Picoult/fill in your interests here) should be approached with suspicion. 3)a. Fear books that allegedly combine wildly disparate (and popular) predecessors. What would a Watership Down/LOTR hybrid look like, anyway? More to the point, what was I thinking? Please send your answers on the back of a plain, business-sized envelope… - Alex

Death by Chocolate - Toby Moore

Matt Devlin left his ex-wife and his career in Baltimore, and moved with his rebellious teen daughter Sylvia to New York. He's a member of the Christ is Fit congregation, and (with partner Kate Strong) a Health Enforcement Agent - he can stop and fergie people who might be over their permitted weight limit, search for stashes of imported brown or high-f*t C, and raid suspected eateasies. But when Cupid Frish, a woman he pulled over who was carrying thirty boxes of concealed ganache "for personal use", winds up dead, clad only in a bikini made of best quality Swiss brown, Matt gets embroiled in a city-wide conspiracy.
This novel is billed as satire, and it certainly qualifies - Moore has created a not-too-distant and believable future where religion is inexorably intertwined with thinness and Control, the local zoo has opened a 'humonster' exhibit so kids can learn that the f*t are people too, hypocrisy runs rife, and the effects of global warming are ignored in favour of distraction. The link between religion and weight control is particularly well written - Communion is now a salad, and apple juice (because of Eve's apple) is a beverage of choice for the faithful, and worship consists of prayercise, flexing for the Lord.
Although I found the premise intriguing, Death by Chocolate didn't grab me - I wasn't captured by the characters, uninterested by the murder, not distracted by the (admittedly creative) red herrings, and unsurprised by the resolution. I should have known when I saw the cover:
Rules for book buying #1: "Pure, uncut hilarity" is almost as much of a red flag as "A hilarious romp". - Alex