Choppy. Copy. Thriller might be difficult to follow

Inside opens with a fascinating scene involving a wrongly convicted man’s release from prison. Choppy prose. Short, declarative sentences. But often only fragments. Punctuated like sentences. A metaphor for his shattered psyche. And thought processes. Written. This way. Sometimes in page-long paragraphs. Without transitions. Soon cause us to wonder. How long. The author. Will keep it up. For, surely. No one. Would sustain. This type of writing. For a novel length. Work of fiction. But he does. The cadence. Is at first mesmerizing. But soon. Only maddening. See what I mean?

Of the protagonist, little is revealed beyond his surname, Myrden. But this does not make him mysterious, only exasperatingly unfamiliar as a character. We learn from context that he is precisely the type of person we’d cross the street to avoid. He is larger than most men, semi-literate, dangerous in appearance and a loser from a long line of losers. His home is in a dark, dangerous section of a town where the streets are littered with broken glass, and where shouting and door-slamming pandemonium are the norm. Welcome to Hell.

Beyond the bleak descriptions of his neighborhood, I could only surmise from the text that it is located near the coast in some far northern region where seal-flipper pie and cod tongues are the local fare. Only after researching story place names such as Eastern Edge Gallery, Waterford Hospital and Bowering Park did I learn that the area was in, or near, St. John’s, Newfoundland. The only verification I found in the book was the mention that Toronto was to the west.

The author introduces a melange of plot lines that wander without direction, never quite reaching climax or resolution. Myrden is set to receive a bundle of money for his unjust incarceration. His wife is determined to spend it as fast as possible. She despises him. He reciprocates. His only family relationships with any semblance of health are with his daughter, Jackie, and her daughter, Caroline, whom he adores. But Jackie distrusts her father enough that she initially avoids situations in which he can be alone with Caroline. The rest of his family is estranged, in prison, or has died in an assortment of senselessly violent ways - the details of which are left to our imaginations.

When the novel eventually settles into a direction, Inside attempts to be a story of lost love. But as Myrden resumes his pre-incarceration extra-marital affair with Ruth, a wealthy childhood friend who may or may not have borne his child, readers will be left wondering what redeeming qualities she sees in him.

My only conclusion as to how this novel ever made it to print is the fact that Kenneth J. Harvey has succeeded with a half dozen other novels and the momentum of previous achievement carried this one through the ranks. I am surprised to find that an online search actually nets a few favorable reviews, but they are similar enough in content to make me wonder if all the critics even read the novel before declaring it a winner - or if later critics merely echoed what they read in an earlier review.

Some apparently feel they are in the business of selling books, regardless of quality. Of course the possibility exists that they are attempting to boost their careers by scoring points with authors and publishers - which, of course, never happens when a critic declares a book to be anything short of stellar.

But my allegiance is to my readers, with each book’s review based on honest assessment of quality. I could understand assigning this book to a creative-writing class as a unique example of avant-garde, experimental style. But I. Would. Never recommend. It. To a friend.

http://www.journalnow.com/servlet/Satellite?
pagename=WSJ/MGArticle/WSJ_RelishArticle&c=
MGArticle&cid=1173354551107