Nom de Plume

Once upon a time, I remember really, really liking T.C. Boyle. I devoured The Road to Wellville, Riven Rock, The Tortilla Curtain, and various books of shorts. His writing is so effortless, and he has a unique ability to capture the truly bizarre. But I lost patience with Drop City a chapter in–and while I finished The Inner Circle, I wonder if I’ve outgrown my T.C. Boyle phase or whether his more recent novels have lost their spark.

The Inner Circle is about Kinsey and his sex studies. The protaganist is one John Milk, who tells the story of his involvement with Kinsey as a researcher. He’s recruited while still in college, gets married, conducts research, and basically screws pretty much everything until the lackluster end. The thing is, sex sells and T.C. Boyle is cashing in. And now that I think of it, he’s always cashed in. His writing is as effortless as ever, but I finished the novel with a strong sense of disappointment.

You note there is no handy-dandy little Amazon picture next to this one; I picked it up at Heathrow, and it’s available only in England. It’s too bad. This was a lovely little novel–apparently Mavis Cheek is big on the other side of the pond. I get the feeling based on past titles and the somewhat too-catchy title that this novel represents a departure from her previous books. Anyone know? In any case, the novel follows the life of her hapless heroine as told through a history of the crummy houses she lives in. It’s full of pithy insight and penetrating observations, and if you can get ahold of a copy, I think you may be reminded of a British Ann Tyler.