"Tim Picasso did not know whether such a thing as a criminal mind existed, but if it did, he did not, so far as he knew, have one.”
--opening sentence of Light House: A Trifle.
Soooooo far behind on my reviews. Finished rereading this on Feb 1, my note says.
After publishing Light House in 2000, Monahan went on to write several screenplays, and won the academy award for adapted screenplay, for Scorcese’s The Departed. He also won the Pushcart for a story. I bought a cheap remainder copy of Light House around 2002. I loved it, and promptly bought several more to give away to writer friends. This is my third read.
I see it only has around 25 reviews on GR. And zero quotes to borrow. A shame. It’s quite brilliantly funny.
The requisite dramatic finish, though, plays out longer than I would’ve like. (It's intentional, probably, poking fun at such windups in movies and films, but maybe goes a bit overboard.) And there’s a pointless, tasteless male rape scene that apparently, I guess, I suppose?, is played for “laffs” but fails miserably. Other than that not so minor-glitch, this novel is nearly perfect.
It’s a satire, loaded with puns, literary references, tongue-in-cheek metaphors, and meta playfulness. Oh and loads of adverbs … funny because writers are “forbidden” to use them. Plus, half the time Monahan uses them incorrectly, intentionally of course. And repeats them:
“Are you smoking a cigar?” asked Magdalene.
“Who the fuck are you?” asked Jesus Castro, politely.
(many pages later, this is repeated almost verbatim:
“Who these fuck are you?” asked Jesus Castro, politely.
You can read a synopsis of the plot elsewhere. I’d rather spend my time here with quotes, which helps me remember stuff down the road, plus gives the reader a better taste of the book, I think, than a synopsis does.
P33
“The hotel is shaking.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” said George. “This house has been here since 1801.”
This was not exactly true.
“I like storms, anyway,” said Tim. “I’ve always thought I might like nuclear war.”
“Yes. And complete societal breakdown,” said George excitedly.
“Say what you like about societal breakdown,” said Tim, “at least there’s something going on.”
p34
“So! What do you do, Mr. Picasso?”
“I’m a painter.”
“Really? I’m a poet.”
“Published?” asked Tim.
“Publication is not the business of poets. Do you know who said that?”
“Emily Dickinson.”
“Absolutely galvanized on opium.”
P70
(Jesus Castro) looked up at the New England winter sky with a degree of personal enmity. George took his bag and held the door as they entered the Admiral Benbow, and then raced around behind the desk. George had less experience of Latinos than Jesus Castro had with the Massachusetts winter. But he was liberal, and consequently nicer to Mr. Castro than he would’ve been to anyone who was not Latino, unless of course they were African-American.
Jesus Castro, who was rude to everybody, regarded George as if he were from another planet.
“You give me room.”
“Smoking or non-smoking?” asked George compassionately
“Whatever. I smoke if I want.”
“Of course! And how long will you be with us?”
“What?”
“How long will you be our guest?”
“Two tree days. Not your business.”
Laboriously, an unlit cigar in his mouth, Jesus Castro signed the registration ledger. George reversed it delicately.
“Thank you, Mr…. Wasserman.”
“You got problem sometime with my name?”
“No. No, of course not.”
…. The hotel was suddenly fully booked in the middle of February. Visions of solvency danced in George’s head.
P75
Magdalene gave Tim a curious look. Tim was as sybaritic as the next guy, but he was also Irish Catholic (the O’Picassoins are an old and noble clan), which meant that he had to wryly belittle all sybaritic experiences in the course of fully enjoying them.
P84,
Despite what the Israeli machine pistol suggested, Jesus Castro was not an unreasonable man.
P90
He skidded and slipped down the icy path to the jetty, past rocks on which he had painted various Yankee mottoes, or bracing Catoan monostitches, such as “Save Money”, “Trust in the Lord”, “Speak Your Mind,” “Never Hit a Lady,” and “Treat People Square and They Will Treat You White,” as well as, well, a few more surreal yet still moralistic things he had painted on obscurer parts of the island. Mr. Briscoe had come to Art late in life, but it was his intention to leave the universe improved.
P201
“Fiction is what makes sense in a courtroom. Never forget that. Reality doesn’t.”
P202
“I never expected this,” Magdalene said. “I mean, lesbianism isn’t something you expect to leap at you out of an alley, like a writer is getting drunk, and his lost control of his characters.”
Simone sat cross-leggedly on the bathroom floor, smoking a cigarette, and said nothing.
“I mean, I loved men until fifteen minutes ago, except for the tall woman at the frame shop, and now I want nothing to do with them at all. How did this happen?”
“You got in the shower with me.”
“No, you got in the shower with me.”
“Same difference,” said Simone.