Beautiful, and Yet...

I finally finished Ron Hansen's novel Atticus. I say finally because I've attempted to read this book on and off for about a year. I'm not sure why it took me so long to get into it. I bought a used copy of it a year or so ago, with part of a gift certificate, and it's been lying on top of various book piles (often in the bathroom) ever since.

I must have started it half a dozen times. The writing is beautiful, so I really can't figure out why it didn't "hook" me more immediately. Once it did, I read the whole thing in just a few days. I'm still trying to sort out my reaction to it...or to be more precise, why my reaction wasn't stronger.

Because the writing is beautiful, and the themes of the novel very close to my heart. In many ways, it's a contemporary retelling of the "prodigal son" story with some very cool twists. It reads like rich, literary fiction and also a compelling mystery/suspense novel at the same time -- in some ways it reminded me of Dorothy Sayers (not at all in tone or language, but in the way it used a contemporary "murder mystery" type genre to explore big moral questions).

Is it possible that the writing was too beautiful? What a strange question. But I sometimes felt as though all the language was getting in the way. Almost every sentence seemed so well crafted -- and there were a lot of them. This novel is dense on description and light on dialogue. I'd be interested to know if that's typical of Hansen (this was my introduction to his work) or if it's somewhat unique to this novel given that Atticus, our main character (and POV for a good portion of the story) is taciturn and immensely private. A man of few words, but lots of thoughts -- he observes everything very carefully. One guess that's his nature, but it's also partly driven by the needs of the story, since he spends much of it investigating his son Scott's suspicious suicide in Mexico.

I often found myself pausing to admire lines like: Horizontal snow was flying through the halo of the green yard light and carrots of ice were hanging from the roof's iron gutters. Carrots of ice! Isn't that a perfect description for icicles? Hansen's wonderful at looking and naming the tiny details that bring a landscape or a face to life. Green and pink buildings were high above them on both sides and hot sunlight glared like snow off the walls. I like that one. The mixing of temperatures, the hot sun glaring, not just white, but "like snow." Startles you. Good stuff.

But for some reason, all this good stuff seemed to jump up and ask to be noticed. It felt distracting. So while I admired the book on technical levels, I didn't find myself connecting as much emotionally to the characters, and given what they were going through, and the themes of love, guilt and forgiveness that he so skillfully wove together, that seemed strange.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe it just wasn't the right time for this book. Some books don't "grab you" right away, but they can stay with you, deeper than you realize, and when you go back to them at a later time you find more of the story lodged in your heart than you knew. And you're ready for it the second time around. Maybe that's the case here.