I must be entering a new and wondrous phase in my existence, because if this tosh is what masquerades as ‘a profound meditation on the meaning of life’ these days, I’m gonna become a deep thinking mystical sage.
Skip this short paragraph if you don’t want a SPOILER on the plot. Here it is: A young reincarnated boy remembers his previous life in which he was murdered; well yipadedoo for the police. Case sorted!
These days, if a book hasn’t grabbed me in the first fifty pages it’s booted off to planet Discard. But sometimes there's a more frustrating dilemma for the reader. This is the book which starts off brilliantly but then hurtles off the rails – not knowing where it's going, repeats itself, loses focus, or becomes dull as it’s stretched, padded and bloated beyond its natural length to fill a page quota. But, foolish ole me, having invested so much time in it, I’m loath to sacrifice all those wasted hours and simply have to know what happens, and so painfully, I trudge on.
After a gripping, but as it narratively turns out almost pointless first 120 pages, the book seriously loses forward momentum to digress and ramble down every windy road for observances and comment on current life (because this adds depth of course); plus we have chapters of casefiles from a real investigator (a real person that is with an M.D.) - this is wedged in with a sledgehammer to convince the reader of the basic reincarnation premise; and we also have references to India and the mystical far east (because that adds - eh - mysticism and further depth). All of this tosh and nonsense limpets and barnacles itself around the bones of what this book really is, and would have been better off as - a mildly enjoyable, if somewhat silly, potboiler of a thriller. Instead, it’s drowned under incredible pretentiousness that aims at depth, but fails to wet even the toe nails.
I also have to comment on the disjointed construction. Much of the last two thirds of this book feel like the chapters gusted into the air at some stage and were quickly gathered up before another approaching storm reaches, then hastily thrown back together again willy-nilly. A big clue regarding these issues looms largely in the long lists of acknowledgements at the end of the book. There are thanks to an editor who advised through the ‘many drafts,’ further advisers who ‘supported me through the many incarnations of this book,’ to someone who helped ‘untangle the plot,’ to another person who helped ‘to give this story another life,’ to yet another person who helped me ‘focus this book.’ Mmm… This last person must have been the one gathering the chapters from the above storm.
Added to criticisms of construction and pretension, I would also point to poor pacing. It doesn’t half ramble at times. Just at a moment when you think we’re going to get some forward momentum, we take a detour for yet another trip down Pretension Lane for a visit to Mystic Square, or Casefile Parade; while all of the time leaning out of the window to make more observances and ask banal questions of modern life. Why do people wear caps indoors? Was one I remember. As for being over-written, well, here’s an extract from the bottom of page 291 of the paperback. Here, wracked with guilt over current issues, and by memories of his past, the investigator/writer (and doctor) Anderson searches for a lost child, ‘…the necessity of making it all right pulsed through him, pumping his body full of the harsh, spiking energy bequeathed by the hormones secreted by the adrenal medulla: adrenaline, increasing his heart rate, pulse rate, and blood pressure, raising the blood levels of his glucose and lipids, and sending his brain ricocheting from the wall of the present back, ten, twenty, thirty years.’ With all three pages of advisers who helped with this book, did someone not point out and kindly say, ‘Eh, do you think you’ve just gone a tad over the top there?’ Or was it a case of I’ve done the research, it’s going in?
Lastly, with regards to criticism of the book that is. At the cost of getting on with the story, there’s an all too keen and embarrassingly desperate urge to convince that it’s all beyond question: IT’S TRUE! IT’S TRUE I TELL YOU! REINCARNATION DOES EXIST! Look at all these casefiles and stories I’ve been telling you about. Here’s a quote starting at the bottom of page 338 in which Anderson internally questions a Detective Ludden for believing ESP is more likely than reincarnation for events, ‘…the answer that made the most sense to Detective Ludden was ESP. It never ceased to amaze Anderson. Here was this rational professional man with his sharp-razor intellect and world-weary outlook, grasping at some idea of Noah’s super extrasensory perception as inherently more likely than that some fragment of Tommy’s consciousness might continue in some fashion after his death. A samosa vendor on the streets of New Delphi, a taxi driver in Bangkok, would laugh themselves silly at such naïveté.’ Well, duh! How silly we are! Making a desperate case for one ‘out there’ thing by comparing it to another ‘out there’ thing is where foolishness resides. Get on with the story! I can accept a man walking around a street corner and finding himself one hundred years in the past; I do not need scientific nuts and bolts, and general guff and persuasion on how it could happen. Get on with the story...
But enough about the book. When I finished, I wondered what possessed me to read this in the first place. I foolishly believed some of the hype. I never do it with films, so I’m unsure why I did it here. Not again will I fall for quotes like, ‘Amazing,’ ‘Truly remarkable,’ ‘Unforgettable.’ And best of all, ‘A profound meditation on the meaning of life.’ [Must remember that application to become a wise old sage].
I’m not one for negative and sarky reviews on Goodreads, but this one pushed my buttons. As I’ve stated, there is so much wrong here, but pretension and hype (admittedly not a fault of the author) are key hates for me. We all have different tastes of course. One of my genres is old school horror short stories and pulp stories that were rattled off at a penny or cent a word. I love many of these, but many wouldn’t stand up to close scrutiny. If someone told me they’re crap, I’d just laugh and in many cases wouldn’t put up much of an argument. But they, along with their writers (in almost all cases) had no pretensions or illusions to being anything other than what they are. Entertainment. I’m a middle-aged bloke who’s tired (yes, yawn) of many years witnessing ever increasing marketing BS - usually regarding films, but books as well now - who takes an instant dislike to what I (the only person I can speak for) sees as pretentious claptrap. I can only offer this as an excuse for a certain lowness in this review. Writing is hard work, and as I’ve said, I’m loath to be ultra-critical – it doesn’t come naturally. Honest gov!
To end on the mildly positive (and to ease my conscience a tad). There is some gripping writing in the opening 120 pages, and buried within the bloated jumble that follows. A potentially interesting short thriller could have been sieved from the fat. But this was clearly not the intent. Unfortunately, the writer has unwisely tried to put depth and comment onto something which is essentially a popcorn B-movie plot.
What is that I hear from the back? 'You've missed the point, it's not just a thriller. It's a deep and profound story that says much about life today and of things we should enlighten ourselves of...'
Mmmmm, right! The writing needs to be far tighter and focused to make that anywhere near valid; to say nothing of accompanying a more worthwhile plot.