The reader of Ms. Bainbridge's obliquely angled novel never directly meets Master Georgie -- amateur photographer, physician, head of a well-heeled and respectable Liverpool family in the mid nineteenth century. He is described by three people. The adoring Myrtle is a waif taken in by Georgie's parents and gradually incorporated into the family. Dr. Potter is his brother-in-law, a man who seemingly has never been self-supporting in all his scholarly life. Then there is "the duck-boy," a tough street urchin who grows up to be a tough small-circus performer. They all wind up in the Crimea, because Georgie has taken the war seriously. The novel creates, with conviction, a small segment of Victorian society in which surface propriety conceals some distinctly improper arrangements. Whether she is describing the morbidly comic or the dubiously experimental or the savagely bloody, Ms. Bainbridge writes with cool detachment in a prose as clear as gin. Her use of historical detail is subtle and surprising and functions brilliantly. This is a memorable novel, in part because the reader is left worrying the unanswered question -- Who was Georgie really?
The thirty-eight pieces in this collection are very early work, published in the 1880s, when the young author was studying medicine and supporting feckless relatives. They are not the equal of the great later work, but their popularity at the time is entirely understandable. They were, and still are, frequently amusing, novel in construction (Chekhov had approached invention of the O. Henry trick ending), irreverent in subject matter, provocative by implication, and full of vitality. Chekhov made his satirical points by ricochet, but they were sharp. Mr. Constantine deserves much gratitude for retrieving this neglected material.
Reading Mr. Pelevin's short stories in tandem with early Chekhov produces a sense of déjà vu. The modern Russian author is an adroit inventor of absurd satirical fantasies, but his targets are those of Chekhov -- inefficiency, arrogant petty authorities, ignorance, drunkenness, and general incompetence. Mr. Pelevin adds government gobbledygook to the list (the Czar's government did not supply that in any quantity) and omits sexual follies. It seems that the twentieth century has made less impression on Russia than one might expect.
The author is a professor of language and literature with an interest in iconography. He considers the dinosaur a cultural icon and proposes to describe its "life and times." He sees it as representing a variety of notions, often contradictory. As a detector and analyst of iconic symbolism, Professor Mitchell is formidably ingenious. He does not consider the possibility that widespread interest in dinosaurs may be merely a manifestation of that meddlesome curiosity (It's new -- let's investigate) that has carried Homo sapiens sapiens from mudholes to the moon. One need not share the author's views in order to enjoy his book. The man is amusing to argue against.
Mr. Taquet is a distinguished French paleontologist who has hunted dinosaur bones from Morocco to the Gobi, with side trips to Laos and South America and visits to everywhere else. His book consists of accounts of what he found in various places, reports of what others have found, geological explanations, adventures along the way, and historical anecdotes. When Andrew Carnegie presented a model of his dinosaur to France, a celebratory gathering of scientists and dignitaries expected a speech from the President of the Republic. President Arnand Fallières had probably never given a thought to dinosaurs in his life; confronted with the huge skeleton, he could say only "Quelle queue! Quelle queue!" -- and "tail" has the same connotations in French as in English. Mr. Taquet's book is charmingly written, generous with credit to fellow scientists, terse in describing mean climates and bad roads, and eloquent in conveying the excitement and growing delight the author felt when "a few bony fragments" emerged as "the whole right side of the skull of a superb Protoceratops." Enormously informative about dinosaurs, and a real pleasure to read.
Mr. Gorey could, no doubt, conjure perversely sinister chuckles from an antimacassar, but a tea-cosy serves just as well. No Gorey admirer should overlook this "Diversion for Christmas."
Mr. Masumoto's previous memoir concentrated on his peach orchard. This one covers, in a deceptively casual style, the history and present condition of a Japanese farming community in California, where Asian immigrants have suffered injustice and abuse. The author did not himself experience either the early days of landless field work or the wartime confinement in what amounted to prison camps. He has heard about those days, however, and reports them with no overt rancor. He is equally gentle in describing the decay of Japanese cohesion and tradition in his town, which he regrets but sees no way to combat. It is farming that excites Mr. Masumoto. He can keep the reader in sharp suspense over rain on the raisin harvest. He grows almost lyrical on the merits of the farm dump -- the repository of what may come in handy some day and, given farmers' ingenuity, often does. His humor is understated but pervasive. He is a remarkable writer with a field, and a sensibility, peculiarly his own.
It takes space to set up a horse theft or a racing scam, and to do it in short stories, Mr. Francis has had to reduce the solid background detail and tart social perceptions that distinguish his novels. The thefts and scams are, however, admirable; a couple are so enticingly plausible that the author appends advice to his introductory notes: "Don't do it!"
Recent books by Atlantic authors:
God: Stories A number of the stories in this collection first appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, and Curtis is one of the magazine's senior editors.
The Atlantic Monthly; December 1998; Brief Reviews; Volume 282, No. 6; pages 116-117.