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michaelstearns 's review for:
Lowboy
by John Wray
Underwhelming.
I expected more from this novel, though it is hard to say precisely what I had hoped for. Early reviews were near raves, and I can objectively see why: There is much to admire in the prose. It is controlled and appropriately claustrophobic and smart. Wray is intent on getting us inside the head of a paranoid schizophrenic, and I suppose he succeeds, as far as that goes.
But I found myself thinking "So what?" throughout much of this. I suppose I wanted some grander context-setting, something that places this story (affecting at times, sure) into relation with my life and world. Instead, the story works small: very focused, very close, very much concerned with the ins and outs of a schizophrenic's experiences after he goes off his meds and disappears into the NYC subways. (As well, there are clunky intercut chapters with two characters who are hunting the boy as he rides the trains; these chapters are deeply unconvincing for some reason. Without the excuse-for-interest of schizophrenia, these character portraits come off as artificially thin and reveal the style for the cramped and cramping thing it is.)
Some reviewers praise the "suspense novel-like pacing," but I think they're stretching. Yes, there is a little bit of suspense, but it is not of a page-turning variety. More it is the paltry art of withholding information. Two final bits—a "revelation" that most readers will have figured out by page fifty, and a last paragraph reversal—feel expected, and because of that, aren't terribly moving. More you read these bits and think, Ah, so that's the way the story goes; thought it would.
All of that aside, may read more of Wray's fiction. He's clearly good; this novel just struck me as a bit cramped.
I expected more from this novel, though it is hard to say precisely what I had hoped for. Early reviews were near raves, and I can objectively see why: There is much to admire in the prose. It is controlled and appropriately claustrophobic and smart. Wray is intent on getting us inside the head of a paranoid schizophrenic, and I suppose he succeeds, as far as that goes.
But I found myself thinking "So what?" throughout much of this. I suppose I wanted some grander context-setting, something that places this story (affecting at times, sure) into relation with my life and world. Instead, the story works small: very focused, very close, very much concerned with the ins and outs of a schizophrenic's experiences after he goes off his meds and disappears into the NYC subways. (As well, there are clunky intercut chapters with two characters who are hunting the boy as he rides the trains; these chapters are deeply unconvincing for some reason. Without the excuse-for-interest of schizophrenia, these character portraits come off as artificially thin and reveal the style for the cramped and cramping thing it is.)
Some reviewers praise the "suspense novel-like pacing," but I think they're stretching. Yes, there is a little bit of suspense, but it is not of a page-turning variety. More it is the paltry art of withholding information. Two final bits—a "revelation" that most readers will have figured out by page fifty, and a last paragraph reversal—feel expected, and because of that, aren't terribly moving. More you read these bits and think, Ah, so that's the way the story goes; thought it would.
All of that aside, may read more of Wray's fiction. He's clearly good; this novel just struck me as a bit cramped.