“These wild kids are reared on baloney and navy beans, corn mush and Kool-Aid, and quick, terrible rough stuff. Their lips are circled by orange or red or green juice stains and their knees and elbows generally have scabs on them from two or three scraps at recess. All they ever know is that they want, and someday they’ll learn you got, and after that the rest is sirens and statistics and nods from the wall of dead.”
Uneven, that is, with flashes of something more: this is maybe a little awkward, but it’s the same thing that animates the best noir writing — a sense of injustice rooted in the specifics of place, class, situation. It’s not out of place here, really, because this book’s a jumble; in another kind of book, where this sentiment becomes the backbone of the story, you wind up with something dark and angry and maybe even important.
November 08, 2012, 11:00am Comments