Kyle Murphy Murphy itibaren Mezhdurechye, Saratovskaya oblast', Venemaa, 412974
It's another morning in the county drunk tank for Patsy, who is sadly inured to this ritual. She wakes up in her vomit and her filth, with no recall of last night--she experiences frequent blackouts when she drinks. A young, talented, comely, and statuesque college professor, Patsy is nevertheless on a grease skid to oblivion due to untreated alcoholism. This time she is accused of running down and killing a mother and daughter in her driveway, and her life subsequently takes a turn to prison. The first part of Patsy's story reflects the jacket blurb and marketing for Blame--bracing, taut, suspenseful. The book description even contains an unnecessary, thoughtless spoiler, which doesn't affect my rating of the author's work but does illustrate that the publishers are intent to mislead readers into thinking that it is one kind of book when it is entirely another. The author is a superbly talented writer, i.e. her use of language, the written word, is obviously what earned a sterling endorsement from Richard Russo. Her metaphors and turns of phrase are verdant, fragrant, lyrical. Her characters are sympathetic and genuine. There were no false notes there. Her erudition is in the contemplative, the characterizations. I adjusted to the temperament of the story, which often meanders and slows down to a staid portraiture of a collection of people. The narration actually reads like a 19th century novel at times, even though 20th century issues were involved. Now, that was unexpected. The author seemed to forgo what she started out to do and then changed course. The fuel-injected thriller morphed into a balmy sea. I went with it, but I want to warn readers--if you are looking for a tight, twisting, adrenaline-pumping thriller, look elsewhere. This is a cerebral look at rehabilitation and redemption. AA plays a vital role in this story, and the author does a stellar job of capturing the impact and life-altering possibilities of its sobering influences on existence. Blame opens in 1981 and spans twenty years. The weakest area of this story is its architecture and structure. Some characters are introduced as poignant, but elusive. And then they recede or disappear awkwardly (which is too bad, since she creates compelling characters). Direction is lacking, uneven; it is as if the author had several books or story ideas and then labored strenuously to fuse them together. It came off as choppy and indistinct. She kept my interest up because of her beautiful passages; the warm and dusky tone; and the characters of Patsy and her gay friend, Gilles, whose brio is scene-stealing. The concocted denouement was prosaic, tipping toward bathetic. As if the author decided to get back to writing a thriller again. I sighed. And the anticlimax was dour. Events felt cobbled together, the story was circumvented--and yet I read every word. And I would read her next book, too. She is a classy wordsmith, a sensuous writer, a fathomless thinker. Another draft or two would have helped this story to coalesce.