Just finished reading The
Girl on the Train, by Paula Hawkins.
A frenzy of a read, written in the first person, but with a chorus of
voices and constantly changing array of characters. Rapid-fire divergences in who the hell is
speaking may confuse you at first, but read on.
All will become manageably coherent.
And, you’ll soon be in joyful celebration that someone other than you
owns these nightmarish lives. Let’s start with Rachel, the main voice.
Rachel’s awash in a tsunami of angst. She’s an overweight, divorced drunk, whose
newly remarried husband, his new wife, and their new child live down the block
in Rachel’s old home. Rachel also lost
her job some months ago, but travels by train to London everyday, just to keep
up appearances, and keep her suspicious landlord/roommate at bay. In short, Rachel’s angst surpasses waking up
to find you had unprotected sex with a male stripper in a leper colony and
you’re carrying his child.
Can it get worse and more problematic? With this collection of dysfunctional
misfits? Most assuredly. Hey, the book is a murder mystery. Maybe.
Perhaps it’s just as delusional as Rachel, whose blackouts are darker
than the streets of London at the height of the Blitz. Perhaps no one was murdered, but everyone is
guilty of something. In this book, guilt
runs like a pride of lions through a herd of gazelles.
Preposterous plot?
Yes. So what keeps the book
going? Scintillating writing.
Morbid curiosity. Characters that
sparkle like broken glass in a sewer.
Rachel lives in an undistinguished house, in row of
undistinguished houses, in a small, nondescript village on the outskirts of
London. The houses hide a lot of
secrets, but given the pathetic lives of the inhabitants, I find myself asking,
“Do I really want to know?” Oh, hell
yes! I’m as perverse as any other
voyeur, with time to spare, a gin & tonic in my grubby hand, and a nearby train
rattling my shabby windows.
In this hub of unwashed hypocrisy, husbands screw around
with any skirt that stands still, or doesn’t move fast enough. Wives are beautiful (except for Rachel)
harridans who wouldn’t know happiness if it blooded their noses…or in that
case, maybe they would.
The plot is a tangled web of lies and unforgiving hate, but
nevertheless, you’ll be driven crazy until you know the truth. In this case, the truth may not set you free,
but it may make you want to immediately do something to pull yourself out of
this tortured fug. Gargle with lye. Chug a pint of whiskey. Euthanize a few dogs. Sit on a curb with homeless people and
explain why you’re unhappy.
A great read if you’re strong of heart. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
No comments:
Post a Comment