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Books : Fiction : Authors, A-Z : T : Thomson, Rupert
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Rupert Thomson has a reputation as something of a cult novelist: his earlier books have garnered increasing respect and acclaim without ever really propelling him into authorship's Premier League. His previous novel Soft marked an upswing in terms of recognition, and The Book Of Revelation, his sixth, succeeds in augmenting his reputation further, for it is both psychologically and formally daring in a precise and intelligent manner.The narrator of the book is a dancer living in Amsterdam. One day he goes out to buy some cigarettes for his girlfriend--also a dancer--and is kidnapped and held for a period of time before being released. Although Thomson's book is not as plot-dependent as a thriller, for example, it would be unfair to give away too much, simply because the force of each development in the book and the response of the reader are part of the strength and psychological sharpness of the novel and its emotional geography, which is comparable to the narrator's own mental map of the city:
"There was a sense in which the city had been trying to tell me something all along. You'll never solve this case. You might as well forget it. But I had not been listening, of course. Look at the map. It's all there, in a way. The whole story".
At a time when so many writers are obsessed with trauma--particularly child-abuse and its psychological legacy--Thomson chooses to explore the concept through an event that is both more and less sensational. The narrator undergoes an ordeal that, given its aura of artifice and ritual, might find its literary parallel in, for example, The Story of O, but the book also distances the reader from the traumatic events by switching from first to third person narration--a simple device that complicates and deepens the effect of the book as a whole. This shift in narrative position suggests both a complex questioning of and reference to certain literary tropes of confinement and abuse as well as directing the reader to reflect on the psychological distancing perhaps necessary to deal with the trauma.
Charting the narrator's attempt to live with the ineradicable legacy of what he has experienced, his revelations are compellingly and acutely delineated: Thomson's strange, disturbing tale asks profound questions about the burden of the past, especially of past events that set one apart from others rather than providing a shared, communal retrospection: how do we relate to others when we have experienced events that defy rationality, explanation or resolution? --Burhan Tufail
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At first glance, the thrillers of Rupert Thomson seem to have nothing in common except the expansiveness of his imagination and the lucid radiance of his writing. Air & Fire is about a group of French people sent to California at the end of the 19th century to build a church. The Insult is about a man blinded by a robber in a supermarket parking lot who discovers one night that--because of a bizarre experiment--he can see again. Thomson's latest finds three very different characters--an aimless waitress, a reluctant hit man, and an ambitious young marketing executive--linked by the sudden success of a new soft drink. But a closer look confirms the feeling that Soft continues the author's fascination with the way science can bend and shape the destinies of all sorts of nonscientific people. Certainly Glade Spencer, the flaky young woman who flies off periodically for unpleasant encounters with her American lawyer boyfriend, has no idea when she signs up for a sleep clinic to earn some extra cash that the soda slogans planted in her brain could cause her death. Barker Dodds, the nightclub bouncer from Plymouth, doesn't know why he's being paid to kill Glade. And James Lyle, the striving marketer who thought up the brainwashing scheme in the first place, is deliberately out of the loop about its consequences. All three are so perfectly drawn that you'd recognize them on the street, and the way Thomson describes their quirky, weirdly decorated flats and lifestyles captures the flickering pulse of London with uncanny accuracy. --Dick Adler
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Rupert Thomson has a reputation as something of a cult novelist: his earlier books have garnered increasing respect and acclaim without ever really propelling him into authorship's Premier League. His previous novel Soft marked an upswing in terms of recognition, and The Book Of Revelation, his sixth, succeeds in augmenting his reputation further, for it is both psychologically and formally daring in a precise and intelligent manner.The narrator of the book is a dancer living in Amsterdam. One day he goes out to buy some cigarettes for his girlfriend--also a dancer--and is kidnapped and held for a period of time before being released. Although Thomson's book is not as plot-dependent as a thriller, for example, it would be unfair to give away too much, simply because the force of each development in the book and the response of the reader are part of the strength and psychological sharpness of the novel and its emotional geography, which is comparable to the narrator's own mental map of the city:
"There was a sense in which the city had been trying to tell me something all along. You'll never solve this case. You might as well forget it. But I had not been listening, of course. Look at the map. It's all there, in a way. The whole story".
At a time when so many writers are obsessed with trauma--particularly child-abuse and its psychological legacy--Thomson chooses to explore the concept through an event that is both more and less sensational. The narrator undergoes an ordeal that, given its aura of artifice and ritual, might find its literary parallel in, for example, The Story of O, but the book also distances the reader from the traumatic events by switching from first to third person narration--a simple device that complicates and deepens the effect of the book as a whole. This shift in narrative position suggests both a complex questioning of and reference to certain literary tropes of confinement and abuse as well as directing the reader to reflect on the psychological distancing perhaps necessary to deal with the trauma.
Charting the narrator's attempt to live with the ineradicable legacy of what he has experienced, his revelations are compellingly and acutely delineated: Thomson's strange, disturbing tale asks profound questions about the burden of the past, especially of past events that set one apart from others rather than providing a shared, communal retrospection: how do we relate to others when we have experienced events that defy rationality, explanation or resolution? --Burhan Tufail
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Rupert Thomson has a reputation as something of a cult novelist: his earlier books have garnered increasing respect and acclaim without ever really propelling him into authorship's Premier League. His previous novel Soft marked an upswing in terms of recognition, and it would be a shame if The Book Of Revelation, his sixth and latest, didn't succeed in augmenting his reputation further, for it is both psychologically and formally daring in a precise and intelligent manner.The narrator of the book is a dancer living in Amsterdam. One day he goes out to buy some cigarettes for his girlfriend--also a dancer--and is kidnapped and held for a period of time before being released. Although Thomson's book is not as plot-dependent as a thriller, for example, it would be unfair to give away too much, simply because the force of each development in the book and the response of the reader are part of the strength and psychological sharpness of the novel and its emotional geography, which is comparable to the narrator's own mental map of the city:
"There was a sense in which the city had been trying to tell me something all along. You'll never solve this case. You might as well forget it. But I had not been listening, of course. Look at the map. It's all there, in a way. The whole story".
At a time when so many writers are obsessed with trauma--particularly child-abuse and its psychological legacy--Thomson chooses to explore the concept through an event that is both more and less sensational. The narrator undergoes an ordeal that, given its aura of artifice and ritual, might find its literary parallel in, for example, The Story of O, but the book also distances the reader from the traumatic events by switching from first to third person narration--a simple device that complicates and deepens the effect of the book as a whole. This shift in narrative position suggests both a complex questioning of and reference to certain literary tropes of confinement and abuse as well as directing the reader to reflect on the psychological distancing perhaps necessary to deal with the trauma.Charting the narrator's attempt to live with the ineradicable legacy of what he has experienced, his revelations are compellingly and acutely delineated: Thomson's strange, disturbing tale asks profound questions about the burden of the past, especially of past events that set one apart from others rather than providing a shared, communal retrospection: how do we relate to others when we have experienced events that defy rationality, explanation or resolution? --Burhan Tufail
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