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Synopsis
An English dramatist retires to the coast to make a new life for himself and confronts his sordid past.
Review
When James Joyce was asked what he would do after the completion of his encyclopedic masterpiece Finnegans Wake, he replied that he intended to write a book about the sea. John Banville, another Irish writer, did just that with his most recent novel The Sea, which has been shortlisted for the Booker Prize; but if he wins, Banville will have been beaten to the punch by Iris Murdoch, who was born in Dublin and won the prize in 1978 for her sprawling psychological novel, The Sea, the Sea.
The famous playwright Charles Arrowsby has given up the stage for an isolated manor house by the sea. Not since the novels of Wilkie Collins has the English coast been made to sound so perfectly awful. The house is damp, cold, and molding with rot. There's no electricity, and the hissing, foaming, gurgling seascape that surrounds this inhospitable home is by turns seductive and disturbing — particularly when Arrowsby falls prey to strange delusions, such as when he claims he witnessed a sea monster rise up out of the tide.
Part memoir, part diary, Arrowsby's account alternates descriptions of his peculiar new life with reminiscences of his many affairs. It seems the old scoundrel never settled down because his first love, Hartley, rejected him for another. Arrowsby doesn't just dwell on his past, he picks at it like a junkie scratching a rash until he discovers he's made a raw and bleeding mess of his memories. When Arrowsby sees — or thinks he sees — his old flame Hartley, the shock sends him over edge. His slide into madness is a fascinating study of compulsion, making The Sea, the Sea the perfect beach book for people who hate beach books. (JR)
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Synopsis
The high times and fast life of devil-may-care/man- about-Budapest Attila Ambrus, professional gangster, quasi-professional hockey goalie and perfect symbol of the post-Communist zeitgeist.
Review
In Attila Ambrus, Julian Rubinstein has found what every writer craves: a larger-than-life character whose adventures veer from rollicking to comical to heartbreaking. Attila's tale begins in Romania where, under the vicious and malevolent rule of Nicolae Ceausescu, ethnic Hungarians are regularly humiliated and persecuted. Posing as a church painter near the border, Ambrus makes a mad dash through the woods. Once in Hungary, he finds that most of his presumptive countrymen — at least the ones who don't regard him as a spy — are alternately amused and annoyed by the diminutive young man who is so desperate to please, he insists on addressing everyone as "comrade." Like an errant hockey puck, Ambrus spends the next decade drunkenly careening from job to job — lowly electrician's assistant, second-string hockey goalie, gravedigger, pelt smuggler, and finally, notorious bank robber. Studs Terkel, eat your heart out.
In reaching for the transcendent, Rubinstein's prose occasionally goes over the top ("wisps of steam puffed from the thousand-year-old springs beneath the Széchenyi bathhouse like an eternal Chernobyl"). But such shades of purple are rare, and never enough to derail the galloping story.
The real beauty of Ballad of the Whiskey Robber is the way in which Ambrus' arc and all of its attendant absurdity tends to parallel that of Eastern Europe itself: the desperation, the sense of opportunity after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Wild West euphoria, the deep-seated corruption, and finally, the brutal hangover after the long bender. (MA)
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