A novel set in 1840s New Orleans, about Claude Marchand, the (fictional) apprentice of Daguerre, who steals his technology of daguerrotypes – early photographs – flees to New Orleans, and becomes rich taking memorial photos of the dead during a yellow fever epidemic. Along the way he hooks up with Millicent, a mixed-race woman who becomes his mistress, and Vivian, the young daughter of a prominent white family. The most interesting thing about this book is its stylistic conceit. The story is told through three intercut threads: Claude speaking in the first person, in which he is very obviously an unreliable narrator, frequently changing events to make himself look better; excerpts from Millicent's diary; and a modern-day academic study meant to accompany an exhibition of Claude's surviving daguerrotypes.
All I have to say is that it's a damn good thing the multiple styles are interesting, because nothing else about this book is worthwhile. Right on page one the academic study says, "Because of his constant contact with the mercury vapor used to develop daguerreotype images Marchand had lost all of his teeth and was reportedly mad for the final months of his life." so it's not a spoiler to say that Claude is increasingly a complete and total dick throughout this book. I guess going insane from mercury poisoning is a pretty good excuse for beating a young enslaved child until his face needs stitches, taking nudes of an eight-year-old, nearly having sex with an eleven-year-old, mistreating all the women in his life, and generally being an irredeemable asshole, but knowing that the author is doing it on purpose doesn't make spending two-hundred pages with Marchand remotely pleasant.
There are so many things that irritated me about this book that it's hard to decide which tops the list. Perhaps how the author continues to refer to Millicent as an "octoroon" even when he's discussing her in modern-day interviews, or the scene where a dude in the 1840s figures out mosquitoes transmit yellow fever because I guess the author didn't trust his readers to understand that people in the past don't have access to the full scope of modern knowledge, or just the overall sleazy attitude of the text, which seems to think that it's oh-so-shocking because it has (extremely mild) sex scenes and a main character who uses drugs. Yellow Jack thinks it's saying something deep about the nature of perception – can a photograph ~really~ capture the truth, or is reality dependant on the beholder? – but it's really just a few shallow ideas wrapped around the story of an equally shallow asshole.