* if anything, Ibbotson might have influenced Rowling; not the other way ’round. Unless one of the authors has a time machine

needs more demons? no.

But the aspects that annoyed me outweighed those that intrigued me. Even as worry for a character quickened my pulse, I felt manipulated by the specifics of the threat. The main protagonist, Nicholas Close, repeatedly makes choices of such tooth-gnashing stupidity that it was difficult to maintain sympathy for him. The reader learns early on that Close sees ghosts. People-who-see-the-dead is such a well-explored device that there are “I see dead pixels” t-shirts parodying it; Irwin approaches it with a heavy-handed thoroughness, as if it were so fresh that it demanded a great deal of exposition.

The recurring motif of large quantities of large spiders at first just seemed lazy — an automatic gross-out for many people, with no subtlety — but eventually I got desensitized to it. Meanwhile, the repeated juxtaposition of arachnoid imagery with aged female sexuality suggests that they’re intended to be viewed as parallel scopes of horror, which I find unpleasantly close to misogyny.

needs more demons? well, not literally

I didn’t enjoy Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List nearly as much, partly due to mismatched expectations. This was a rare case where I really did want to read the same-book-only-different, but Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List is a very different novel. The title plainly telegraphs the impetus of the plot: if two people need to keep a list of people neither of them are allowed to kiss, it’s a sure bet that someone kissing someone is going to create conflict at some point. The list-keepers are Naomi, who, even though she has a boyfriend, is still nursing a long time crush on Ely, despite his being actively and unambiguously gay. When events force Naomi to confront the futility of her crush, they both react at least a little badly, and stoke the fires of respective grudges for several chapters. This is really my biggest problem with the novel: it’s not much fun to read about two people who obviously care about each other deeply being really mad at each other. Also, I thought both the gay boy-love-interest and the straight boy-love-interest were kinda dull. And whereas I thought Dash and Lily’s alternating narration worked very well, the multitude of first-person narrative voices here was a bit overwhelming; I think it would have been better to stick with the core four.

On the plus side, there is some courtship by mixtape, which invariably makes me go, “awwww!”. And Naomi and Ely are vividly portrayed. I just spent much of the book being kind of annoyed with them.

needs more demons? mmmmaybe.

Given this, I spent most of time in the book looking for the places where the wool was being drawn over my eyes. When Irving mentioned that the records of a gallery which allegedly purchased some of de Hory’s fakes are no longer extant, it rang the same alarm bells in my head as the clumsy conman trying to derail suspicion by airing first. When a car rolled down a hill and burst into flame, I was tempted to cry aloud, “Aha! Fiction!”

Unfortunately, the meta-textual aspects of the book were perhaps its most consistently compelling. Elmyr de Hory’s story might’ve made a great long article for The New Yorker or Harper’s, but there’s not quite enough there there to sustain a whole book. The catalogue of de Hory arriving in some city, peddling his wares, wearing his welcome out, and moving on is too repetitive, and Irving’s approach — working hard to convince us that this is fact, not fiction — is too flat, too reportorial.

Irving only flirts with concepts that could have given his book weight beyond de Hory’s personal tragedy. He never suggests complicity on the part of any of the gallery owners who bought de Hory’s forgeries — he only provides circumstantial evidence, alleged queries as to whether the “small, private collection” which de Hory is allegedly liquidating might “happen to have” a work matching the interest of a specific potential buyer. And Irving observes but doesn’t analyze (or even judge) the strange climate that briefly allows de Hory to prosper: new money trying to legitimize itself by purchasing works of art it knows nothing about.

Irving doesn’t even go so far as to shoehorn de Hory into one of the classic plot arcs: de Hory rises, but not very far, and falls, but not very far. Irving brings the curtain down on his book before (but not much before) de Hory brings his own curtain down, after several previous botched attempts. Perhaps Irving even has some slight complicity in that, as the notoriety accompanying Irving’s book must have destroyed the only livelihood de Hory had ever known.

I learned about de Hory and Irving watching Orson Welles’ odd, fascinating/infuriating pseudo-documentary F for Fake, and I wonder if Welles’ interest might have been sparkled by this phrase in the book:

One must imagine swift cuts between shots, rapid pans of the camera and certain herky-jerky quality in the movements of the two heroes

Ironically, if sadly predictably, there is now enough interest in de Hory’s forgeries that they themselves are forged.

needs more demons? a bit.

As in the prior novel, Irby seamlessly melds real historical figures like Harvey Firestone, Joe Kennedy, Gloria Swanson, and her third husband Henri de La Falaise into his fast-moving, twist-filled plot. Also as in the previous book, Irby leans hard on coincidence, mostly to establish connections between his upper- and lower-crust characters, but that bugged me less this time. Once again, there’s enough accurate historical detail that the reader could learn a few things without it ever getting intrusive.

One feature I didn’t mention when I wrote about 7,000 Clams is that sometimes there’s an additional level of irony. Some of Irby’s descriptions of 1928 could easily apply to other years up to and including 2009, viz a northern society lady’s first glimpse of a swank hotel:

[She] joylessly trudges through the well-appointed lobby of the Flamingo Hotel located on the bay side of Miami Beach. It is a huge, hulking barn of pink stucco, with a decor that strikes her as relentlessly Florida: pastels, marine life, palm fronds. Everything is bigger than it needs to be, glossy to the pint of smarmy, overbearing in its irrepressible invitations to “have fun” and “relax,” and above all dedicated to the haughty display of wealth. Why wear one necklace when six will do just fine? These sunburned barbarians talk loudly, guffaw like baboons, and careen about like they have been jolted with electricity.

(7,000 Clams similarly featured a brief trip to a Baltimore cop bar that was almost like a scene from The Wire.)

Here’s my most telling reaction to this book: If Irby writes another novel about Hearn, I’ll certainly read it. But I hope he doesn’t — I hope he finds some other improbably charming lowlife to write about instead — because I’d like to think that after the conclusion of The Up and Up Hearn might get to live out the rest of his days without anything especially suspense novel-worthy befalling him.

needs more demons? nossir.

But there’s nothing fannish about 7,000 Clams. Ruth is portrayed as a man ruled by his appetites — for food, women, and amusement. He’s a bit of a stinker, frankly, even if he’s not totally charmless. His massive presence — literally and figuratively — forms the gravitational core around which the other characters orbit.

Irby is a history professor, and 7,000 Clams is spiced with enough historical detail that one can learn a bit from the book, but not nearly enough to detract from its substantial entertainment value. Irby skillfully blends a handful of historical figures with invented characters. His people are vivid and multi-dimensional, particularly the brutish yet lovable thug/grifter Frank Hearn, and the two strikingly different dames he gets entangled with in his pursuit of the titular 7,000 Clams. Irby also concocts a remarkably unpleasant but chillingly believable bogeyman (as well as giving a cameo to a real-life nasty). The dialogue is filled with the requisite snaps and wisecracks, and Irby’s descriptions are clear and vivid. The handful of awkward sentences are certainly forgivable in a debut novel.

My one gripe is that Irby’s plot leans awfully hard on coincidence. His St. Petersburg seems like such a small place that there would be no way for people with connections to avoid running into one another. But if the twists strained my credibility, they didn’t much reduce my enjoyment. There’s a sequel, The Up and Up, and I’m eager to read that, too.

needs more demons? nope