The Lies of Locke Lamora by Scott Lynch, 2006
Oh, man. How long has it been since
I've read a novel that was this well-written, this sharp, this
thrilling, and this much fun? A really long time. The Lies of
Locke Lamora is fantastic, y'all. It's the kind of book where just
about everything works just as it's supposed to, where you can find
yourself excited, horrified, amused and shocked all in a row. The
fact that this is author Scott Lynch's first novel is kind of
staggering, because Lies is a crisp, vivid, perfectly calibrated read
from start to finish.
The novel is set in a sprawling,
fantastical city called Camorr that's a mix between Venice and
London. Our (anti)hero is Locke Lamora, a silver-tongued conman who
leads a group of thieves called the Gentlemen Bastards. The Bastards
gleefully plunder from the nobles of Camorr, right under the nose of
the city's most formidable crime boss. Locke's life of merry
derring-do is plunged into chaos with the arrival of the Gray King, a
mysterious figure who starts a deadly war in the city's underworld –
and he wants Locke's help.
Where do you even start with a book
like this? Every just worked, start to finish. The novel is
fat, over seven hundred pages long, but the pacing is so good that it
just zips by. The plotting – my God, the plotting is fabulous.
It's somehow completely straightforward and deftly complex, a mixture
of fantasy thriller and crime caper that's so logical you wonder why
you don't see it more often. Lynch is as good a conman as his
protagonists; he's got a real knack for smooth plot twists and tricky
authorial maneuvers that always took me by surprise (seriously, be
ready to yell “No!” out loud at least twice). And I know I
already mentioned the pacing, but seriously: absolutely top-notch.
It's a common gripe, especially when dealing with a long fantasy
novel, that the pacing is “off” or “slow.” Not here. This
novel is perfectly calibrated. Even the constant flashbacks
interspersed throughout the narrative fit without bogging things
down. There's the odd tangent that strays from the main plot, but
nothing like the myriad of subplots that clog the novels of Jordan or
Martin. Lynch's plot is clean and crisp.
Lynch's worldbuilding is terrific, too.
His fictional universe is a complicated and fascinating hybrid of
medieval fantasy, steampunk and even an intriguing dash of sci-fi.
The mythology and politics of Camorr are integrated into the story
perfectly (no artificial info-dumps for Lynch). Instead, he builds
his world in a natural way, while still keeping the story front and
center. His lavish and tactile descriptions of the city are superbly
handled, for the most part; there's plenty of description, but the
pace of the story never lags because Lynch is busy describing a
church spire or something.
His writing is self-assured, smooth and
excellent. Great facility with language, and a Diana Gabaldon-like
talent for immersion through careful description. You can see, hear
and smell his world – which, thanks to his Quentin Tarantino
streak, is not always pleasant. His dialogue is a huge highlight,
too. It's incredibly colorful, nimble, often laugh-out-loud funny and
features some of the most creative and lyrical vulgarity I've ever
read. There's the occasional stylistic hiccup, but nothing
that would rise above the level of a personal preference.
Most novels, in my opinion, live or die
based on the characters, and thankfully, Lies has a cast
jam-packed with great ones. At first, I thought Locke and his fellow
thieves might end up a bit too cookie-cutter to be compelling
protagonists. Nope. I was very, very wrong. Locke is one of my
new favorite characters. He's devious, short, quick on his feet,
incredibly proficient at all forms of deception, fiercely loyal, and
completely useless in a fight. I ended up totally adoring him. And I
loved Jean, the badass bruiser with a gentle heart. Even the
supporting players get fully developed characteristics. The main
villain is perhaps a bit mustache-twirl-y, but he's appropriately
formidable, and he gets a nice dash of development towards the end of
the novel.
If I have a nitpick about the novel as
a whole, it would be the lack of introspection on the part of the
main characters. The novel has so much forward momentum that it seems
like we don't often slow down to get inside Locke's head. Of course,
Lynch makes up for this with flashbacks that illuminate the
characters' pasts, but I still would have liked a bit more internal
narrative. Also, there are a few super minor plot shortcuts taken
throughout the book, which are acceptable, but sometimes a tad
noticeable. But yeah, those are both very, very minor issues in an
otherwise stellar novel.
In summary, Lies is wickedly clever, often
hilarious, and cruel enough to make George R. R. Martin proud. It's one of the most purely entertaining books I've read in a long time, and it's crafted with incredible skill. Most
exciting of all, there are more adventures to come; although Lies
could stand on its own well, it's just the first in a projected
seven-book series, thank God. I'm not sure I could have let this world and these people go after just one novel. Bring on book two.
I'd Know You Anywhere by Laura Lippman, 2010
I'd Know You Anywhere begins with Eliza
Benedict, a seemingly ordinary suburban mother in her late thirties,
receiving a letter. It's from Walter Bowman, the man who kidnapped
her and held her hostage when she was fifteen. Now on death row for
the rape and murder of another girl, Walter is about to executed. And
he wants a favor.
From this simple, chilling premise,
Laura Lippman weaves a novel of incredible psychological tension and
astounding depth. The book isn't quite a thriller (there's no action
or pyrotechnics, no real mystery to be solved), but it reads like
one, a white-knuckle journey full of subtle horror. This book gave me
a genuinely sleepless night, I was so involved in the story. It's horrifying because the characters are so well drawn and the emotions so expertly evoked - not because Lippman splatters blood and gore all over the place.
A novel like this can only work if the author is exceptionally talented at sketching complicated and interesting characters. Lippman is. In Eliza, we have a very unusual and very complex protagonist, and in Walter, we have a chillingly realistic and strangely sympathetic villain. The interplay between these two characters provide the bulk of the novel's tension, but the pages are also crammed with colorful supporting characters, all realized with enormous sympathy, balance and intelligence. Even walk-on players like Eliza's liberal parents or a put-upon attorney have multiple dimensions.
Lippman is an extremely well-regarded crime writer, and it's easy to see why: she manages the very difficult trick of creating prose that is resoundingly literary (you would not mistake this novel for an airport mystery) while still being completely readable. She rarely uses flourishes or fancy devices to show you that she is writing, dammit. She just draws you in with the force of her storytelling; this novel is definitely a page-turner. If I have a critique - and it's extremely nitpick-y - it's that Lippman's dialogue sometimes has a touch of sameness to it.
The central question of the novel is the true nature of Eliza and Walter's somewhat twisted relationship. It's a complicated question with a complicated answer, and Lippman deals with it beautifully. It's an incredibly suspenseful device, and it's absolutely to Lippman's credit that she doesn't make it into a big twist at the end. The solution to the mystery - if you can even call it a mystery - is that Eliza and Walter understand each other in ways that no else does. To paraphrase Lippman's gorgeous title, they'd know each other anywhere.
Honestly, I wish there were more thrillers like this - novels that used emotion and character development to shock and thrill us, rather than cheap plot twists and gunfights. Ultimately, this is a novel about people who have a limited ability to understand their own emotions. What makes it amazing, in my opinion, is not only Lippman's deep understanding of grief and pain, but her equally great knowledge of strength and grace. For a novel as deep and dark as this one, it ends on a surprising moment of melancholy, deeply earned triumph.
A novel like this can only work if the author is exceptionally talented at sketching complicated and interesting characters. Lippman is. In Eliza, we have a very unusual and very complex protagonist, and in Walter, we have a chillingly realistic and strangely sympathetic villain. The interplay between these two characters provide the bulk of the novel's tension, but the pages are also crammed with colorful supporting characters, all realized with enormous sympathy, balance and intelligence. Even walk-on players like Eliza's liberal parents or a put-upon attorney have multiple dimensions.
Lippman is an extremely well-regarded crime writer, and it's easy to see why: she manages the very difficult trick of creating prose that is resoundingly literary (you would not mistake this novel for an airport mystery) while still being completely readable. She rarely uses flourishes or fancy devices to show you that she is writing, dammit. She just draws you in with the force of her storytelling; this novel is definitely a page-turner. If I have a critique - and it's extremely nitpick-y - it's that Lippman's dialogue sometimes has a touch of sameness to it.
The central question of the novel is the true nature of Eliza and Walter's somewhat twisted relationship. It's a complicated question with a complicated answer, and Lippman deals with it beautifully. It's an incredibly suspenseful device, and it's absolutely to Lippman's credit that she doesn't make it into a big twist at the end. The solution to the mystery - if you can even call it a mystery - is that Eliza and Walter understand each other in ways that no else does. To paraphrase Lippman's gorgeous title, they'd know each other anywhere.
Honestly, I wish there were more thrillers like this - novels that used emotion and character development to shock and thrill us, rather than cheap plot twists and gunfights. Ultimately, this is a novel about people who have a limited ability to understand their own emotions. What makes it amazing, in my opinion, is not only Lippman's deep understanding of grief and pain, but her equally great knowledge of strength and grace. For a novel as deep and dark as this one, it ends on a surprising moment of melancholy, deeply earned triumph.
