James Vance Marshall
New York Review Books
First published in 1959, this luminous and haunting parable about two children from Charleston, South Carolina, rescued in the Australian outback by an Aboriginal boy has long been overshadowed in the popular imagination by Nicolas Roeg’s dark and violent film version, produced in the early 1970s. The book, now reissued, is essentially a story of redemption from the ills of civilization, as Lee Siegel cogently explains in his introduction. But if Christian themes of love, sacrifice, and transformation form the core of the story, the intricate, nearly tactile descriptions of the endlessly strange flora, fauna, and geology of the bush are its true animating force.
Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity
Boo, a New Yorker writer, spent three years among the residents of a makeshift settlement in Mumbai to discover what makes people succeed or fail when they start out on the ground floor in newly prospering India. Organizing her story around a court case involving a woman who deliberately burns herself to ruin a family whose frail success she envies, Boo untangles a web of material while revealing the intricacies of daily life in a slum (the various categories into which refuse must be separated before it’s sold to a recycler, for instance, and the difficulties that composite materials introduce into this process). Her vividly detailed report conveys the terrible unpredictability of lives buffeted by vicious neighbors, grotesque mishaps, and corruption so endemic as to seem surreal—all of which will be familiar to readers of Rohinton Mistry’s brilliant, Oprah-anointed novel, A Fine Balance. Boo’s apparent conclusion—that ubiquitous corruption and indifference are poison no matter what opportunities capitalism and meritocracy promise—is unsurprising. Far more unsettling, if inadvertent, in these times of somewhat reflexive multicultural tolerance is the unsparing portrait she paints of what will strike many careful readers as an almost unrelievedly rotten and selfish society, culture, and population. (After finishing this book, not a few readers may give two cheers for the Raj, “the Odd Incorruptible.”) Most marvelous, as Boo observes, is that, in spite of such an atrocious setting, “some people are good.” This is a troubling drama, and the “characters”—a 16-year-old garbage trader, a 12-year-old scavenger, a woman who schemes to become a slumlord, and her daughter, who hopes to become a teacher—all of whom Boo presents with honesty, will break readers’ hearts.
D. J. Taylor
Taylor, an English writer in his early 50s, is a little young to fit the image of the Man of Letters; nevertheless, he may be the closest thing we have to that antiquated ideal. A prolific critic for the British broadsheets and smart mags, he has also written 17 books—including the finest (that is, the best-written and most astute) biographies of Orwell and Thackeray; a lively, discerning, and surprisingly moving social history of upper-class and bohemian social life between the World Wars; two probing studies of post-war British fiction; and nine novels, all tinged with melancholy and enlivened by a mordant wit. Some of his novels are “serious,” others stylish, historically informed entertainments with dark undercurrents. Taylor’s latest, which effectively marries a crisp, offhand tone with a bleak outlook, falls into the latter category. Set in late-Victorian England, this intelligently conceived novel, nominated for the Man Booker Prize, offers not only an intricate picture of the physical details of its time and place but also an admirably nuanced portrait of the social relations and attitudes of its milieu. Taylor’s historical knowledge is so deep that it’s fluent—the novel isn’t a period pastiche as is, say, Downton Abbey. The story revolves around England’s most prestigious horse race, the Derby at Epsom Downs, an event that, like the novel itself, attracts people from all walks of life with varying degrees of interest in the race itself—along with all the drama and dirt that come with them—to a single dramatic event. A criminal plot provides focus (and Taylor is obviously fond of his dogged detective, who also appears in an earlier novel, Kept), but this is, like all good novels, a rich study of character. Taylor layers texture and color in an almost painterly style, as he combines the complexity and formality of a Victorian novel with the narrative tightness modern readers demand.