Deserving Passengers. By Amanda Perkins. Harper-Collins; 457 pages; $19.95.
Ms Perkins' second effort, after her religio-political parable debut Maximum Height Clearance, is a spellbindingly inspirational work which should be made mandatory reading in schools. In the honoured tradition of Paulo Coelho, she soothes the soul with tranquil tales of self-discovery, spiritual nourishment and comfort. Written in a no-nonsense, straightforward style overflowing with a touching sincerity, Passengers is aflower with precious nuggets of homely wisdom, golden tenets for our cynical age. This is the sort of honest anodyne we so desperately need to counteract the degenerate and abstruse ramblings of "high art"; something readily assimilated, meaningful and life-enhancing.
Amanda Perkins is a writer of that most contemptible variety: a parochial, pseudo-spiritual guru, a market-square mountebank, who peddles shabby self-help charms and tarnished talismans promising instant faith and mystic direction. The usual vehicle is the picaresque parable, populated by:
1. Sagacious personages who send the protagonist on perilous errands, during which said hero embarks on a parallel voyage of inner discovery;
2. "Chance" encounters with cripples and mendicants spouting cryptic advice;
3. An element of adversity (fearsome monsters, bandits swathed in flowing cloths, large-breasted temptresses, spectre of protagonist's past);
4. The insinuating, allusive presence of God (Julian Barnes in Flaubert's Parrot: "the bearded head gardener who is always tending the apple tree; the wise old sea-captain who never rushes to judgment; the character you're not quite introduced to, but who is giving you a creepy feeling by Chapter Four").
I wish Ms Perkins all future success. Doubtless she will continue to attract legions of adoring fans and credulous fools who will be profoundly touched by her visionary work.
No, I don't like this one at all. There is no gratuitous sex or violence, none whatsoever. It's just far too dull. Perhaps a few swashbuckling scenes of monster-slaying or some riveting political intrigue might save it. All the characters seem too implausibly well-behaved. We need something with broader market appeal, but still artistically interesting. Diaries of rape victims, for instance, or a lesbian romance.
Ms Perkins' second effort, after her religio-political parable debut Maximum Height Clearance, is a spellbindingly inspirational work which should be made mandatory reading in schools. In the honoured tradition of Paulo Coelho, she soothes the soul with tranquil tales of self-discovery, spiritual nourishment and comfort. Written in a no-nonsense, straightforward style overflowing with a touching sincerity, Passengers is aflower with precious nuggets of homely wisdom, golden tenets for our cynical age. This is the sort of honest anodyne we so desperately need to counteract the degenerate and abstruse ramblings of "high art"; something readily assimilated, meaningful and life-enhancing.
Amanda Perkins is a writer of that most contemptible variety: a parochial, pseudo-spiritual guru, a market-square mountebank, who peddles shabby self-help charms and tarnished talismans promising instant faith and mystic direction. The usual vehicle is the picaresque parable, populated by:
1. Sagacious personages who send the protagonist on perilous errands, during which said hero embarks on a parallel voyage of inner discovery;
2. "Chance" encounters with cripples and mendicants spouting cryptic advice;
3. An element of adversity (fearsome monsters, bandits swathed in flowing cloths, large-breasted temptresses, spectre of protagonist's past);
4. The insinuating, allusive presence of God (Julian Barnes in Flaubert's Parrot: "the bearded head gardener who is always tending the apple tree; the wise old sea-captain who never rushes to judgment; the character you're not quite introduced to, but who is giving you a creepy feeling by Chapter Four").
I wish Ms Perkins all future success. Doubtless she will continue to attract legions of adoring fans and credulous fools who will be profoundly touched by her visionary work.
No, I don't like this one at all. There is no gratuitous sex or violence, none whatsoever. It's just far too dull. Perhaps a few swashbuckling scenes of monster-slaying or some riveting political intrigue might save it. All the characters seem too implausibly well-behaved. We need something with broader market appeal, but still artistically interesting. Diaries of rape victims, for instance, or a lesbian romance.
posted by D at 02:29
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