What's here is good--conventional, though dressed up not to be: selfishly, I just wanted something different.
[Note the review has some spoilers, but, really, the tale's structure is such that nothing in it should come as a surprise. The conclusion may be tragic, but a large part of that tragedy is its predicability from about 1/4 of the way into the book.]
At its heart, Christian Kiefer's is an old-fashioned noir tale: a man is haunted by the sins of his past, which burden him even as he keep them and his emotions bottled up, trying desperately to make a new life for himself. But that's the thing about ghosts: they haunt. And so his past inevitably catches up with him, putting the small life of love he has constructed in danger.
Kiefer decorates this basic tale in several ways, some of which are more successful than others. One is an intense, introspective language. In the acknowledgments he notes that Richard Ford is one of his literary heroes, and there are strong echoes of Ford here--though to be fair I cannot really draw the parallels, because I have only ever read one of Ford's books, and that was only a few chapters of the Sports Writer, before I wanted to stab myself in the eye with a fork. Obviously, then, I wasn't a big fan of the lush introspection. (Edan Lupecki was, though: and I'm not fan of her work, either.) Things were not looking good for me early on.
Another technique he used, more successfully, was the shifting perspective. We were almost always in the main character's head--name withheld, on purpose--but Kiefer moved between third person-limited and second person perspectives that worked for a couple of reasons. One was that it let the narrative breathe a bit, liberating the reader from the intense introspection, bordering on self-pity. The other was--at the same time, the second-person perspective implicated the reader in the crimes and decision-making of the main character. Which was a neat trick because the main character--necessarily for this kind of story--made a lot of bad decisions. Kiefer was good at limning the thought processes and emotional complexity of addiction in a few short passages. And because he had shifted perspectives, it was hard for this reader, at least, to sit in judgment of the character. Finally, the shifting set up Kiefer's biggest gamble, late int he book, when he narrates the story from a perspective of a caged and--SPOILER--dying bear.
The overt use of symbolism finally raises the book above the usual standard of noir books--but does not necessarily make it better. Just more self-consciously literary. The book si called "The Animals" for a reason: the main character's life is symbolized his thoughts on animals--and there are some attempts to suggest that this symbolism should be interpreted more generally. As a boy, he is intrigued by animal shows, and learns the names of animals, seeing in the interaction with them some way of becoming a man, when all of his male role models, his father, his older brother, his best friend's father, are gone. It helps that a distant uncle sends him a book on the ecology of the inter-montane West. (He lives in Nevada, and later moves to Idaho.)
But his path to manhood is deflected by the stupid things he does in his late teens and early twenties--and which have him fleeing north to Idaho, where he takes over his uncle's decrepit animal refuge cum zoo. When the story starts, though, we learn first that his job has him killing animals, rather than saving them, and that the government wants to shut him down: manhood is not what he thought it would be. Indeed, it's mostly about keeping the animals in cages, even as the world wants to deny him. That is to say, the animal refuge is meant as a metaphor for his own emotional situation, the cramped masculinity of the noir story, curdled.
(There's an obvious comparison here: so often males in our society are described as alpha or beta, based on the supposed social organization of wolves. I say supposed because wolves only really display strongly hierarchical behavior in the unnatural conditions of captivity. So American masculinity is modeled on animals which are caged. Kiefer never mentions any of this, but it seems apposite.)
The metaphor can be too stark. Toward the end of the book--SPOILER--he chooses to let the animals go, but only after they have been literally poisoned by his past. And he burns the book to survive. I can imagine this book finding a home in high school classes, where teachers and students can spend time explicating the way the metaphor unspools. The presence of the metaphor isn't bad--it deepens the book--but it isn't necessarily good, either. It just is.
The reason the metaphorical parallel isn't good, in my opinion, is that Kiefer seems to promise more in the acknowledgments. (I know: who reads the acknowledgments.) He talks about wanting to write about the thorny philosophical problem of human-animal relations. And he cites a lot of research. Kiefer's a writing teacher at American River College. I did a year of study there, and live in the same general area he does. He talked with some of the people at the Folsom Zoo Sanctuary, which I volunteered at. These connections, I thought, were interesting to me personally, and forced me to overcome the slow, Fordian start (and the Edan Lupecki praise on the back). I didn't really care about all of the research he did--the more I age, the more I do not care how "factual" fiction is, and, indeed, an ever more drawn to fiction that takes pride in not being factual at all. But I thought an investigation of the animal-human relationship could be worthwhile.
The problem is, there isn't really such an investigation. Kiefer hints at the possibility, but pulls back from it--he wanted to write a noir novel with a metaphorical parallel, I wanted something. The animals of the story are, for the most part barely described. (Many are named, however.) They are symbols, only. At one point, near the middle, there's a debate between the main character and a bar tender over whether animals should be released to live their lives, even if that means certain death--even if it means certain death at the hands of humans--and the parallel with how a man should treat his emotions is clear. But it's not really about animals.
The closes Kiefer gets to investigating the link between humans and animals seems to be to say that the curdled masculinity of American society takes itself out on the bodies of animals, which are abused by our culture.
That's a fair enough point, but I wanted Kiefer to turn await from just documenting cramped masculinity. That was part of the problem with the first part of the book--Oh, God, not another emotionally constipated male character. You can't swing a dead cat in American literature without hitting a dozen of 'em! But as the story went on, and the narrative found some room to breathe, I wasn't quite so bothered, and was fascinated by the plot. I allowed that Kiefer just was going to document the phenomena--but to really do so he needed to get outside of it, too, and he never did. Every time I thought we might be free, he dove back in again.
And that was the failure--that was where I saw the book I wanted disappear. Because having all these animals--these creatures completely alien to such concepts as American masculinity--was a way for Kiefer to get beyond it and look at masculinity from the outside, too: from a completely different perspective. The closest he got was when he told the story from the bear's perspective, but even that wasn't as much as it could have been.
[There were a few women and a kid in the book, but they were peripheral, mostly there to show that the main character had connections--and, in the world of noir, that means vulnerabilities. They could not be used to gain a different perspective in the book, because they were window-dressing.]
There is one other aspect of Kiefer's narrative choice that deserves comment. He chose to write about near-poor, working-class people. This is not a common decision by writers recently. It seems like every mainstream novel is about people in unusual, artsy jobs who are, nevertheless, remarkably successful and therefore above concerns about paychecks. (She's a world-renowned potter; he's a rock guitarist.) I blame all the MFA programs, which seem to emphasize "quirky" and encourage authors to pick a character's career so that the author can go in mind-numbing detail about its practices, proving just how much research they did. Kiefer, for all the mentions of his research in the back matter of the book, hides it well in the narrative, and writes about the kind of characters no one else seems concerned with anymore.
So, in all, it was a good read: the basic story was complicated and yet also familiar, the characters believable and worth caring about. For all my quibbles, I liked the book, and if Goodreads allowed it, would give it 4.5 stars.