| Review: Dennis Lehane, Mystic River |
| With Mystic River, Dennis
Lehane has written a book hard to put down. But Mystic
River is more than a page-turner, more than a who-done-it,
more than a sex and violence trip on paper. Though it is all those
things, Mystic River manages to be character-driven, as well. That’s
the pull for those of us who need and want to read not just about
the administrations of human savagery and pain, but the leavings manifested
on the bodies and minds of those who experience it. All the characters in this novel feel like real people. They hop from the page into your mind. You recognize them. You fear and feel and imagine for them. Most importantly, you remember them after you’ve closed the book. As complex beings, they act in unexpected ways, are confounded by their own emotions, and never settle into stereotype. And Lehane creates an absolutely authentic world for them to inhabit. The writing itself is efficient and smart, and Lehane handles his prose with the kind of self-assurance it takes to make us trust that a perfectly rational man will talk to a silent phone with complete confidence that the person he’s talking to really is who he thinks it is. The only serious flaw in the book lies with Dave Boyle (the Tim Robbins character for those of you have seen the movie.) When we’re in Dave’s consciousness, we see everything he sees, hear everything he hears, feel everything he feels. In other words, we know everything he knows. Except for that one crucial bit of knowledge the author withholds until almost the very last page. Okay, I said to myself—a tip of the hat to the conveniences of the detective/who-done-it genre. And although it’s a pretty big cheat, it didn’t come close to ruining the book for me. It simply lessened my regard. One minor caveat. Occasionally, but throughout, over-writing rears its ugly head. As in: She could feel another teardrop piece of Jimmy’s heart detach and free-fall down the inside of his chest. I had to read that one twice, just to be sure it was really there. Which it was. And maybe in a way, I was glad. Not a perfect book, not a perfect writer. But close. Damn close.
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