It takes a rare and particular deftness to unravel a reader’s feeling of safety while sustaining an approachable, compulsively readable narrative, as Atkinson does in her 1995 début, “ Behind the Scenes at the Museum.” That book, which chronicled four generations of an English family through flashbacks, prolonged footnotes, and jarringly timed revelations, infamously beat out Salman Rushdie’s “ The Moor’s Last Sigh” for the Whitbread Prize. I have a strong preference for her metafictional books, precisely because of their disorienting effect. No doubt some Atkinson readers like both of these modes equally. These are deceptively light and playful works, and they leave the reader with a surprising emotional hangover upon turning the last page. The rest of her books are less easily categorized, and are linked mainly by their pointed interest in disturbing the expectations we might bring to a narrative. Half the time, she makes masterly use of familiar forms, as in her detective novels or her more recent foray into the spy thriller, displaying her trademark wit while hewing to the rules of genre. Atkinson operates in two distinct modes, both of which can be intoxicating. A new Kate Atkinson book is always an occasion for glee and a little trepidation, like a night out planned by a fun friend you don’t entirely trust.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |