The Laughing Monsters: A Novel

by Denis Johnson

‘In this land of chaos and despair, all I can do is wish for magic armour and the power to disappear.’Freetown, Sierra Leone. A city of heat and dirt, of guns and militia. Alone in its crowded streets, Captain Roland Nair has been given a single assignment. He must find Michael Adriko – maverick, warrior, and the man who has saved Nair's life three times and risked it many more.The two men have schemed, fought and profited together in the most hostile regions of the world. But on this new level – espionage, state secrets, treason – their loyalties will be tested to the limit.This is a brutal journey through a land abandoned by the future – a journey that will lead them to meet themselves not in a new light, but in a new darkness.

Genres: Fiction, Africa, Thriller, Espionage, Literary Fiction, Novels, Audiobook

241 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 2014

About the author

Poet, playwright and author Denis Johnson was born in Munich, West Germany, in 1949 and was raised in Tokyo, Manila and Washington. He earned a masters' degree from the University of Iowa and received many awards for his work, including a Lannan Fellowship in Fiction (1993), a Whiting Writer's Award (1986), the Aga Khan Prize for Fiction from the Paris Review for Train Dreams, and most recently, the National Book Award for Fiction (2007).

Reviews

[Kinga · Rating 2 out of 5]

‘The Laughing Monsters’ is a twist on the spy thriller – the twist being that it’s not very thrilling. This book just really doesn’t know what it wants to be when it grows up.

It's a story of selfishness and moral decay set against the backdrop of the cruel world of clichéd Africa. I suppose it must be hard to write about Africa, especially if you're a white middle-aged American dude - you're going to run into trouble no matter what you do. It's even more upsetting because Denis Johnson spent a considerable amount of time in Africa covering the civil war in Liberia, so I would've loved for him not to fall onto the same metaphors and the same short-hand symbolic pictures. The characters move through three different countries but they are all perfectly blended into one generic blob of 'Africa'. The ease with which I could imagine everything he was describing was worrying. It's not that these things don't exist or are not true, they do exist and they are true but so are acacia trees and sunsets but we should really stop putting that on the cover of every book which take place in Africa. I just expected more freshness from America's 'most underrated writer'.

It is what is described as a 'masculine' book, meaning there are a lot men doing manly things, there are a lot gratuitous sex scenes and all women appearing in the novel are interchangeable and consist only of their breasts. They are invariably cardboard characters with no personality, motivations or goals, at best they are plot devices. This is what really irks me. I get that the narrator is a misogynistic asshole and I don't have a problem with that. I know he doesn't see women beyond their breasts but there is a way to show that while also writing women as real characters - you know, just so I know it's the narrator that's sexist, not the author. A good guideline on how to write women so that they appear like real people is to imagine they are people. Mind blown, eh?

Frankly, it's a book easy to rip apart. It’s quite obviously written by a skilled author who just wasn’t trying very hard. World weary crooks/spies in a hell-hole Africa. Are all these clichés intentional? Is this a pastiche?

Michael Adriko is the only great character and the book’s only saving grace; charismatic, mysterious, a bit kooky, and definitely a conman. He says wonderful things like: “Oh my goodness, Nair, you just tickle them in their terrorism bone, and they ejaculate all kinds of money.” We're as hooked on Michael as is Nair, the narrator. Interestingly enough, even though the narrator is quite racist it didn’t stop him from presenting Michael as a three-dimensional character.

But then Johnson brings us this boring and utterly unconvincing love triangle involving Nair, the narrator, Michael and Davidia, who is African-American and beautiful. Even though she is the third main character here we know nothing other than the above and the fact she ‘sashays in an African way’ (or some such, I can't find the original quote). She is supposed to be educated and intelligent and God bloody knows why she is even there. Again, because of how cardboard she is, it's hard to believe that she is in love with Adriko.

One could argue it's a decent exploration of a white 'dude' psyche - a guy who writes tender love letters to his girlfriend 'at home' and callously fucks underage African prostitutes at the same time. What happens in Africa, stays in Africa. We're supposed to believe that the civilised rules don't apply there. Our concept of morality is irrelevant there according to guys like Nair.

There are some good scenes here, a skilfully created atmosphere, and it's clear that Johnson is a great writer on the cellular (words-sentences) level. This is what I still remember - a description of the smell of the detergent that the entire hotel had been cleaned with - "all that you fear we have killed" and other such nuggets. There are interesting observations about the prevalent paranoia and intelligence agencies as the new colonisers. But the novel doesn't work as a whole. It's a frustrating dream-like journey of constant setbacks and absolute inability to reach the destination which looks as if it should be a great read but doesn't deliver on any of the promises from the blurb. In one of the interviews Johnson said: "I told my editor Jonathan Galassi at FSG, “I’m not trying to be Graham Greene. I think I actually am Graham Greene." Seriously people, don’t ever say such things, don’t do it to yourself. You make it too easy for cantankerous reviewers like me when you then produce an infinitely inferior work.

I can't tell you how many times I've heard about Denis Johnson - and what I heard most was that he was criminally underrated, which I must say is a little ironic. I've heard some truly preposterous things like 'the best American writer alive' which is a hyperbole if I've ever heard one. I'm still willing to give him another chance but judging by this book alone I'd say he was overrated rather than underrated.

If you want something like "The Laughing Monsters" but better, (although equally confusing and meandering) I recommend the very first Booker Prize winner ‘Something to Answer for’ by P.H. Newby.

[Steven Godin · Rating 3 out of 5]

Johnson's final novel I found to be a bit of a mixed bag. The main plot - or should that be the side scheme - involves an uranium scam deal that's quickly going sideways. It works as a crazy and unusual light hearted thriller set mostly in Sierra Leone, Uganda and the Congo but still carries with it a seriousness in regards to greed, and how international spies have now become the latest colonialists to pillage the continent. He keeps you guessing with a moral compass as to the real intentions of both central characters, NATO's Roland Nair (possible double agent?) and the Ugandan soldier of fortune Michael Adriko, who is to wed the daughter of a high ranking US military official. Johnson's time spent working as a reporter in Africa does make everything feel convincing, and his prose no doubt shimmers in all that heat, but the story I felt died away somewhat towards the end, which was a pity. Hoping for better things with The Tree of Smoke, which I'll likely read next time. One thing I love about Johnson - still easily one of my fave American writers - is that his style and originality with each work really makes him stand out from the crowd. I miss him.

[Jason Coleman · Rating 3 out of 5]

Freetown, Sierra Leone. A casually treacherous, alcoholic NATO agent meets up with his old friend, a Ugandan mercenary and lost soul. A few options here for them to make some money—sell a map of NATO's African fiber-optics network to the Arabs, or maybe flash a plug of uranium to Mossad and tell them there's more in a non-existent plane wreck in some jungle. So many possibilities in the new Africa; so many interests converging, and yet so few rules. Although Johnson sets all of this up nicely, he seems to tire of the plotting about midway through and begins to hurry (the book is a slim 228 pages). One wonders why this greatest of lyrical novelists keeps coming back to international intrigue, a genre so unforgiving of the poetic effects he's ultimately dedicated to. There is also an American woman along for the ride—the book is a sort of triangle—and she does not even begin to come to life; a serious flaw.

But while Johnson may go limp on both spy and love story, he gives you Africa. The juice boxes of Wild Baboon whiskey, the slop bucket in the broom closet, the sixteen-hour flights piloted by drunk Russians, the dust, the rain, the hotel's power coming and going. Again and again, the writing is breathtaking. The American rushes his wounded friend to a former leper hospital after a knife fight in a bar; waiting for the nurse to sew the friend up, he draws water from a creek out back and washes the blood from the car, then wanders into a maternity ward with only one, unattended patient—the other guy in the fight. In another scene, he wordlessly follows a coffin maker for miles—two small, purple coffins strapped to the back of his bicycle—to a town where the water supply has been poisoned by mining and a funeral for two children is in progress. Scenes come and go, combining stellar reportage with a hallucinatory quality that, if anything, grounds things even more. The whole world is going rogue; Africa is just ahead of the curve.

[Steve · Rating 2 out of 5]

Very disappointing. The book had possibilities, but it seemed to fall apart (fragment) over the last 75 pages (which is significant given the novel is only 228 pages long). Ever since Tree of Smoke, Johnson has been writing small, genre-like stuff. Nobody Move was a nasty and tight little noir, and the wonderful Train Dreams which is more-than-a-Western. But Train Dreams was just a reprint from 2002. At this point you have to wonder if Johnson is working on something big, or he's just suffering writer's block and cleaning out his desk.

The Laughing Monsters seems half-baked. It operates in a fictional zone dominated by John Le Carre and Graham Greene, but never seems achieve the weight of those two fine writers. The main character, John Nair, is the kind of character both Greene and Le Carre regularly employ: a drunk sorta-spy, who seems to lack a core identity, and who possesses a fair amount of self-loathing. This kind of character, in the hands of Greene or Le Carre, usually discover, when put to the test, some sort of honor or sense of Conradian duty that elevates them by novel's end. You can kind of see this with Nair, in his sloppy loyalty to his Ugandan-mercenary friend, Michael Adriko. (Adriko is a wonderful character, and he's the reason I kept reading this book.) But it's hard to get traction with Nair, since he's often drunk or, by novel's end, hallucinating. There is a love interest as well, but that seems tacked on. "Laughing Monsters" does have some interesting, and not too hopeful, commentary on the state of Africa. The people are being poisoned and the land is being raped (along with the women). Armed bands roam the countryside killing and looting. In the best exchange in the book, a U.S. special forces officer (yeah, we're over there), who is interrogating Nair, tells Nair that "[s]ince nine-eleven, chasing myths and fairy tales has turned into a serious business. An industry. A lucrative one." And later in the same interview: "We can do anything."

Unfortunately those nuggets (and a few others) exist within a thin and undeveloped context that leaves you frustrated. This should have been a longer, and better book. Johnson certainly has the ability, but in this case he seemed to have lost interest.

[Maciek · Rating 3 out of 5]

Denis Johnson's latest book is "high-suspense tale of kaleidoscoping loyalties in the post-9/11 world" which is also mercifully shorter than his 2007 award winning Tree of Smoke, a 700 page long, sweeping psychedelic and often confusing novel about the Vietnam War. The Laughing Monsters is also sweeping and psychedelic novel, but at 228 mercifully shorter and much more focused - even though still occasionally confusing - suspense thriller set in West Africa.

The novel begins in the Sierra Leone capital of Free Town, where Roland Nair - the book's narrator and an international agent by ethnicity and profession - arrives for unclear reasons and with unclear intentions. Air is in Sierra Leone to rendezvous with his old friend, Michael Adriko, an Ugandan who may be organizing a trafficking scheme involving large amounts of enriched uranium. Although Nair and Adriko have fought together in the past and participated in not entirely legal operations, they're now both vary of one another - and to make matters worse Adriko is accompanied by a beautiful American woman, Davidia, his most recent fiancee and the daughter of the camp commander of the U.S. army branch from which he is currently AWOL...

"I love the mess. Anarchy. Madness. Things falling apart", Nair says early in the book, "Michael only makes my excuse for returning.". I've recently seen an ad for possible investors in Africa, where a young African man describes his continent as "the new frontier", by which he means a place offering unlimited possibilities and few, if any, regulations - for those rich and influential enough to pursue them. Africa in Johnson's book is also this frontier, a territory where warring drug lords and raging warlords compete for power amid tribal and ethnic differences. The underlying theme is new colonization of Africa - not by national empires as it once happened, but by giant, international companies, working their way to plunder the continent one last time.

The Laughing Monsters unfolds in a rather predictable fashion, almost as if it was a tribute to old caper stories but with the dark imagination and experiences of Joseph Conrad. At one point, the car with the protagonists narrowly misses hitting a small child, which ran in front of it as if wanting to get killed; "I watched to the side, keeping my eyes off the future", comments Nair, but deep down he realizes that while he can keep his eyes off the future he can't avoid it, that downward spiral into madness and anarchy that was precisely what drew him back. The horror? The horror is just beginning.

[Will · Rating 1 out of 5]

Denis Johnson is brilliant; this book is terrible. I was crestfallen when I found myself reading 220 pages of racist tropes, tired action scenes, and the thoughts of yet another depressed, oversexed white person "finding themselves" in Africa.

The narrator is insufferable. He's obsessed with sex: He hires and uses one-dimensional black prostitutes left and right, scrawls lewd messages to his one-dimensional lust interest, and tries to steal his partner-in-crime's one-dimensional fiancée. He's obsessed with money: He'll sacrifice his scruples for a few bucks and freedom from a boring life in the developed world. The Laughing Monsters is like Eat Pray Love for dissatisfied white men who hate that they can't say the N-word in public. It's for libertarians who fetishize chaos and the exotic.

It gets worse. The characters are all flat. They're boring, they're annoying, they're tropes. There's the African gun-for-hire who wants to become "king" of his village. There's the glamorous African American woman who stumbles her way across the book, always relying on men and waiting for her savior. There's the cookie cutter American intelligence goons. Soap opera writers put more effort into character creation than Johnson does.

I'm sure fans of The Laughing Monsters would praise Johnson's "realist" portrayal of Africa, Africans, and gender relations. Surely, they think, this is what people who work on the dysfunctional "dark continent" must feel. But no, it isn't. This book reads like Johnson has never even met someone from an African country. Johnson hides his colonialist, misogynist, borderline racist story beneath a veneer of "telling it like it is." It didn't fool me, and I'm happy to see that it didn't fool many reviewers here either.

If you want to continue to think highly of the author of the brilliant Jesus' Son and Train Dreams, skip this awful novel. The Laughing Monsters is the perfect argument for a certain timeless maxim: Stick to what you know.

[L.S. Popovich · Rating 4 out of 5]

Denis Johnson, for me at least, has always represented a more important place in American Lit than Bukowski. He is a tenderer, internationally aware, less solipsistic writer in my opinion. Though Johnson's writing lacks a lot of the wild humor, it is still black comedy and is often rowdy and mean.

The Laughing Monsters is a terse, constrained Heart of Darkness, where most of the day-to-day duties of an international amateur (or professional?) terrorist lend it an air of realism. The larger-than-life characters and grandiose plot devices undermine the seemingly less-than-competent narrator's blase attitude toward existence. Like Bukowski, the main character lugs around a sack of discontent and unfulfilled ideals, and an obvious label of 'washed-up' immediately comes to mind.

Taking place in Ghana, the Congo and Sierra Leone, about as much action occurs as one might expect from D. J., which is to say, not a ton, but just enough to justify all of the brooding, which is just another of many excuses to drink, not to mention a convenient moment to engage in a tad of womanizing.

Money is the root of all evil. We all understand that. But from Nair's perspective, it is a necessary, and alluring evil. This is more of a travel narrative, I thought, than an espionage thriller, and the commentary it gives on the state of affairs and the picture it paints of the African continent is absorbing and well worth the cover price.

[Fabian · Rating 4 out of 5]

Johnson is the contemporary equivalent of Graham Greene. If Greene had written about drug addiction and amoral thugs.

The Laughing Monsters is a travelogue in Sierra Leone. And for some reason Johnson does not horrify with his prose. He makes Africa a place of wonders, despite all the political tugs and pokes...

Beautiful writing, though not his best novel.

[mattu · Rating 2 out of 5]

RIP, Denis.

[Barbara · Rating 3 out of 5]

This novel is a quirky spy versus spy novel told by an unreliable narrator, Rolan Nair. Nair’s view of things is interesting. His narration keeps the story flowing. Denis Johnson is a witty guy. He uses quick banter and innuendo to keep the reader interested.

In this novel, Roland reunites with a former colleague (spy) and he assumes there will be a scam involved where they will make some money. But his colleague, Michael Adriko isn’t forthcoming in his intent of their meeting. I found Michael and Rolan’s exchanges to be hilarious. Neither is honest with each other, and both treat each other with suspect, yet, they trust each other….sort of.

Much of the story is told via letters to Rolan’s girlfriend of the moment: either Tina, whom we assume is also in intelligence, or Davidia who we KNOW is part of the military. Rolan furthers his story with these letters, while providing fodder for the reader to determine he is full of baloney. It’s a short novel, and it’s amusing. I’m not sure why it got Amazon’s best book in November. It’s not a “must read” from my standpoint.

[Jason Pettus · Rating 5 out of 5]

[Reprinted from the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography (cclapcenter.com). I am the original author of this essay, as well as the owner of CCLaP; it is not being reprinted illegally.]

It's funny that the same week I read Denis Johnson's new novel, The Laughing Monsters, I also happened to catch the new movie A Most Wanted Man, which has been (rightly) described by most critics as "based on a minor John LeCarre novel;" because when it starts out, it seems like this is going to be the best way to describe this book too, as a minor one by Johnson in the vein of his last book as well, the ultra-slight caper noir Nobody Move, this time ostensibly a spy thriller but in reality not much more than an extended character study in which not much happens, set in Africa and with the kind of world-weary tone of a typical Graham Greene novel. (The book's title comes from a famous quote by the first white man to travel in Uganda, missionary James Hannington, who found the experience so miserable that he started referring on a regular basis to the local Happy Mountains by this term, which Johnson uses as a metaphor for the entire history of white intervention in African affairs.) And in a way this is a shame, because Johnson's complex, dense and immensely rewarding 2007 Vietnam CIA drama Tree of Smoke continues to be one of the best books I've ever reviewed since opening CCLaP eight years ago, and it's naturally tempting to want to see Johnson output another novel just as thick and amazing; but in a way it's of course perfectly understandable too, in that even the best writers in history usually only have one or two Tree of Smokes in them over the course of their entire careers, and it's unrealistic to expect an author to knock out another one every time they sit down at their computer.

But ultimately the point turns out to be moot anyway; for the more you read The Laughing Monsters, the more complex and fascinating it becomes, and while ultimately not a masterpiece like some of his other works, by its end it is an immensely enjoyable and nastily dark little tale that once again examines the hazy line between good and evil when it comes to the act of undercover intelligence gathering, the same subject of Tree of Smoke but this time transplanted to a post-9/11 American hegemony, an all-powerful "planetary police" that now uses its creepy black-ops powers as a way to thwart all threats to the current world order. Set in a series of unstable African countries, as our protagonist Roland Nair makes his way from the west coast of Sierre Leone to the east coast of South Sudan, at first this seems like it's going to be an expat hangout tale, as Nair reunites with his African civil-war-era compatriot Michael Adriko, hangs out in a series of bars and hotels in Freetown, and slowly becomes convinced to join in on a scam to sell fake uranium to what may or may not be the Israeli secret service. But after Nair reports on his activities in a secret communications room in the basement of a decrepit internet cafe, we start to realize that he's actually there to officially keep tabs on this fake uranium scam, on behalf of what might be the CIA or perhaps is NATO; but then when we see him steal a series of sensitive documents about the locations of such spy centers across Africa, we're led to believe that perhaps he is a double agent, or maybe a mercenary who has grown tired of governments altogether, or even that the entire thing is a triple feint to get him in as a deep, deep undercover agent within a super-secret ring of legitimately dangerous terrorists, and using Adriko's laughably obvious con game with the uranium as a double cover in order to confound everyone involved.

The answers to these questions is what fuels most of the book's plot, so I will allow them to remain surprises to the first-time reader; but what can definitely be revealed is that these plot machinations are simply half of the story Johnson is telling, with the rich descriptions of these deeply flawed characters being just as important a reason to read this book as the three-act storyline itself, as well as Johnson's look at the history of European/American dabbling into African affairs, the futility of such dabbling, and the unending disasters over the last century that such dabbling has created. And so in this, The Laughing Monsters ends up becoming just as complex and fascinating a book as anything else Johnson has written, even if it perhaps doesn't climb to the same heights of an undisputed classic like Tree of Smoke (although in its defense, nor does it even try to). Richly engaging, and a good primer on the recent history of African politics to boot, the book is well worth your time even if you're not naturally a big fan of spy thrillers, and it comes strongly recommended to a general audience today.

Out of 10: 9.2

[Rick · Rating 3 out of 5]

His words sweat with the essence
of adventure I'll never experience.
Which is probably for the best.

[Neil · Rating 3 out of 5]

Book 16 out of 17 in my chronological (re-)reading of all Johnson’s poetry, short stories and novels. Reading it now in 2022, I obviously know that it was his last novel with just a collection of short stories to follow which was actually published shortly after his death.

This one is a book many reviewers compare to Graham Greene and John Le Carré. But it has Johnson’s characteristic poetic observations of details, just little snippets that evoke the dark atmosphere of the book in sights, sounds and smells. It’s a spy story of sorts as Roland Nair travels around Africa, starting in Sierra Leone where he joins forces with an ex-colleague (for want of a better word) Michael Adriko. There’s a woman involved as well but I think one of the book’s failings is how one-dimensional and almost invisible this woman is despite, I guess rather predictably, both men wanting her.

I guess you can see by the way this review is heading that I didn’t really enjoy the book this time as much as my initial review suggests I did a few years ago (but that was nearly 8 years ago and I think my reading tastes have changed a bit over that time). I still think Johnson does squalor really, really well. But I think I prefer his books when he creates space for his poetic leanings and I don’t think that space is there in this novel.

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ORIGINAL REVIEW
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I got quite absorbed in the second half of this book. In the first half, I felt a bit let down because I've read other Denis Johnson books and they often take me away to other places which this wasn't doing. Then there was a section in the middle where it felt like the writing really took off and then I just kept reading until it was done because I was in the story after that. Debated 3 or 4 stars and settled on 3 - the second half was definitely 4, but I'm not sure about the first half.

[Doubledf99.99 · Rating 4 out of 5]

A good take on the modern fight in these modern times, at times you can hear the hum of the crickets, feel the heat, and the sweltering nights. Better have a cold one handy..

[cycads and ferns · Rating 3 out of 5]

"Credible? It sounds completely and obviously false, Michael can't you see that? What words can I use? Nonsensical. Impossible. Out of keeping with reality."
"Reality is not a fact."
"Around here it certainly isn't. God."
"Reality is an impression, a belief. Any magician knows this." Like a cartoon villain, he rubbed his hands together. "Oh my goodness, Nair, you just tickle them in their terrorism bone, and they ejaculate all kinds of money. If you mention the name of one of the Muslim Most Wanted- boom, they put on a circus for you."

[Dennis · Rating 3 out of 5]

This was one of the books that didn’t know what it wanted to be when it grew up. Is it a thriller or a comedy? I doubt that even Denis Johnson knew quite what he wanted here and that may be why it’s so short; he perhaps started with an idea but didn’t quite know how he wanted to develop it so it could be taken more as a synopsis for a screenplay than an actual novel.

The story takes place in 1990’s Africa, where Johnson was a journalist amidst all the conflicts and civil wars taking place there. (Is that redundant? Sorry…) It starts in Sierra Leone where Nair, a Danish-American spy of sorts, a cyber-optics specialist – he seems to be somewhat freelance - has gone to collect information to sell to a group. Much of the story is in the form of a letter to his girlfriend who works for NATO as an attorney and is unwittingly helping him; in this we get a hint of the shadowy world of espionage where loyalty is a nice concept but rarely present. He’s also there to meet his friend, Michael, a Ugandan-Congolese who’s in the same sort of business, always collecting, selling, scamming whomever has the money to pay. Michael also has a fiancée, Davidia, an American of African heritage, who gets dragged into all this, also unwittingly, as he works a scam on Mossad. Her role in the book is pretty limited, more of a plot point than a character.

The whole story is a bit Graham Greene and a bit John LeCarré; however, more than anything, it reminded me of the “spy” farces of Jean-Paul Belmondo (“The Man from Rio”) and James Coburn (“Our Man Flint”) – which were good – or Dean Martin (“Matt Helm”), which was less so. Nevertheless, as the book features two protagonists, one more aware and another dragged along, I’d choose the films of the Italians Bud Spencer and Terence Hill (e.g. “Trinity is Still My Name”) or even Abbot and Costello because no matter how deep in the doo-doo the two get, you know they’ll get out fine. There are elements here which aren’t comic at all, such as when Congolese fighters invade a village to rape and murder, but the book never develops a tension where we worry about the characters; we know that whatever happens around them, they’ll get out fine. The only question is how and this book was not afraid to resort to the coincidental, miraculous and ludicrous to get our “heroes” out in one piece.

Denis Johnson was a brilliant and poetic writer but you wouldn’t know it from this book. I’d like to think of it as an interesting experiment which showed him the way NOT to go and remember him for some of his other, FAR superior works such as “Train Dreams”, “Angels” and “Jesus’s Son”. This one can be skipped.

[R. · Rating 5 out of 5]

I love books like this. Start out all realistic, then spiral into surreality. Then, boom, happy ending.

[Darwin8u · Rating 3 out of 5]

The vibes were perfect. The writing wonderful. The ending seemed ambiguous and a bit disappointing, but knowing Johnson, that may have been purposeful.

[Alex O'Connor · Rating 5 out of 5]

I really enjoyed this one - probably going on a Denis Johnson kick now. Literary spy book. Solid combo.

[Edward Rathke · Rating 4 out of 5]

This novel's hard to describe, but it's kind of doing a few very different things at the same time, and to varying degrees.

It's a bit like Kurtz from Heart of Darkness, but with less ambition.

But it's also a love story between two friends who sort of hate each other.

It's about a white man who mentally and emotionally dissolves and combusts in Africa. The weight of the continent and its various cultures and conflicts bend and then break him. This is sort of problematic, in that it does feel very 1800s, ideologically. But, at the same time, if you've spent any amount of time in a culture very different than the one you're used to, you know how much that can weigh on you. How much it can almost assault you. How much it can cause you to lose bits of yourself in the infinite flux of a culture where you don't know the conventions or rules but that you must navigate, make sense of, hold onto, swallow, and make part of yourself while reconciling who and what you were in the past.

Despite this novel taking place in several African countries, it does remind me of my time in East Asia. I mean, obviously those places are super dissimilar for a million reasons, but navigating a culture and country that isn't the one you know--it can be challenging. Or, not challenging, but...complicated.

At the same time, this is a novel about seduction and attraction. Not really sexual. Despite what parts of the novel hint at, it's really not a sexual novel. There's sex but it's not erotic. It's not really anything besides a small event, akin to washing your hands. At least in terms of how the novel deals with it. But seduction is really at the heart of this. The seduction of a personality. How a person can embody a sort of magic that someone else needs, but doesn't realise it. The narrator sometimes describes his African friend Michael as a conjurer, which hearkens back to that 19th century ideology, which is troubling, but also makes sense within the context of the narrator. Like, he's not exactly someone we admire or want to emulate. But anyway, Michael holds some magic over him. Something irresistible and seductive. Something the narrator barely even has a name or explanation for, so he falls back on imperialistic language.

And even though their friendship is frustrating and strange and violent and dangerous and doomed, it's also beautiful. Maybe beautiful for all those reasons. The fact that they don't understand one another or even seem to like each other that much, but they absolutely love each other. They may even need each other.

But, yeah, this is a really interesting novel. So different from the rest of Johnson's novels, and it's been interesting to experience two of his books back to back, considering I've not read anything by him in almost a decade.

Definitely worth checking out.

[jeremy · Rating 3 out of 5]

his first non-serial novel since 2007's national book award-winning tree of smoke, the laughing monsters is denis johnson's foray into spy fiction. set in the post-9/11 era of inter-agency intelligence, espionage, and double-dealing, johnson's new novel takes place in western and central africa. a first-person narrative chronicled by nato agent roland nair, the laughing monsters features three main characters - each with conflicting and often self-serving loyalties.

with a breadth of work that spans many genres (and forms), johnson's writing is consistently engaging. while the laughing monsters may be without the import and trenchancy of some of his earlier works, it is, nonetheless, a well-crafted and entertaining entry in an often formulaic brand of fiction. whatever may be left wanting from the plot itself, the laughing monsters makes up for in atmosphere, characterization, and dialogue.

this remorse twists in me like seasickness.
if you've been seasick lately you know what i mean. this remorse is physically intolerable.

[GeneralTHC · Rating 2 out of 5]

2.25-stars
This was a pretty quick read. It was only a little over 50,000 words. That's a novella IMO. Unfortunately, I thought it was pretty "meh." This was another case of an author who is highly skilled writing a story that I just never really connected with on any level.

[Jean Ra · Rating 4 out of 5]

Me doy cuenta que éste, en realidad es el libro de un viaje.

La primera parada son escenarios del mundo poscolonial, el turístico, que cuenta con comodidades como el acceso a internet o suministro eléctrico, pero que van y vienen con la mayor de las inestabilidades. Los países en el trasfondo son el ring perfecto para los auténticos capitalistas, los capaces de organizar negocios al margen de la ley, la ética y la moral. Un mundo dónde la ganancia es tan grande y rápida que necesita la vida de los negociantes a modo de aval.

La última parada de ese viaje, en la que creo que Johnson me ha terminado de conquistar, es una aldea en medio de la nada. Es la parte del continente más cercana a sus tradiciones, con menos huellas de la civilización moderna, dominada por una extraña y oronda reina tribal desquiciada que parece simbolizar las señas del continente. Ahí el animismo compite con el cristianismo. El agua embotellada es privilegio de reyes. También es el escenario dónde se sufren las consecuencias de los negocios de las ciudades, que especulan sin frenos éticos, un lugar dónde los problemas con filtrados en las minas puede contaminar el agua y acabar con la vida.

Simultáneamente con todo lo anterior se nos narra el viaje interior que supone la extraña y ambivalente amistad entre Roland Nair y Michael Adriko. Roland Nair se mueve en medio de ese mundo caótico como Dante lo hizo por los círculos del infierno. En los primeros apenas se detectan imperfecciones, en los últimos es una inmersión en la demencia. Tiene en Davidia a su propia Beatriz, el centro de sus afectos, y en Michael Adriko su propio Virgilio, un guía y un maestro atrapado en su mismo infierno. Y al final del trayecto, el empíreo del mundo actual: el dólar.

Denis Johnson es un verdadero cartógrafo del ser humano. Sus personajes tienen un relieve palpable y en ellos cabe todo, desde el cinismo y la traición, hasta la amistad y la compasión. Sin duda su esqueleto es el de una novela de espías, pero la carne es pura literatura, pura exploración (socarrona) del alma humana, sus motivaciones e intereses.

[Sub_zero · Rating 2 out of 5]

Supongo que esperaba más del autor de Sueños de trenes. En esta ocasión, Johnson nos trae un absorbente thriller cargado de espías, intriga y grandes dosis de paranoia que nos invita a hacer un recorrido casi satírico por diversos países del continente africano en la época post-11/s, criticando de manera subyacente el colonialismo que practican en la actualidad las distintas agencias de inteligencia. En Los monstruos que ríen, un agente escandinavo que trabaja para una organización internacional desembarca en Sierra Leona para reencontrarse con un viejo amigo que hizo una fortuna durante la guerra civil. Su objetivo, asistir a la sospechosa boda de su antiguo camarada mientras intenta desmantelar una posible operación comercial con uranio enriquecido de la que pretende sacar tajada. Aunque la primera mitad de la novela funciona muy bien, llega un punto en el que la historia se desmorona par dar paso a una esperpéntica procesión de aventuras y enredos amorosos que han acabado apagando mi entusiasmo inicial hacia una obra que, lejos de memorable, resulta anodina y repetitiva.

[Holly · Rating 2 out of 5]

It's generally accepted that Johnson is a masterful writer and I don't disagree, but this novel failed for me because of his handling of the subject matter. For the first few hours I was impressed by the skills of the audiobook narrator and lulled into appreciation, but I gradually realized how grim and un-redemptive this all was, and also how not-entertaining.

I know it's probably supposed to be hard-boiled and he's playing with genre a bit, but the women characters were offensively handled (in every sense of the word).

And more significantly, this: there is too much real-world human misery and corruption in places like Sierra Leone and the DRC that I could take no pleasure watching Johnson's despicable, immoral characters introducing additional, albeit fictional, corruption to those strife-wracked places.

Of course one thinks of a Graham Greene's self-described "entertainments" (as opposed to his "serious" works), but as far as I know The Human Factor has never been called an amoral novel. That's what I felt Laughing Monsters threatened to become.

[Taylor · Rating 3 out of 5]

If this had been written by just about anyone else, this would be a solid four star book - but because it's Denis Johnson, and I've seen what else he can do, it just didn't quite land with me.

It's not that The Laughing Monsters is bad - it's a wild story with fascinating characters that move a mile a minute, constantly keeping you guessing, sucking you in to more elaborate puzzles and schemes with each passing page. It's just that when compared to some of Johnson's other works, it feels like it's missing some of the same heart. Of the other two I've read, this is definitely more comparable to Nobody Move, but I'd recommend that one over this one.

[Gavin Armour · Rating 3 out of 5]

Denis Johnson führt seine Leser in seinem neuesten Roman THE LAUGHING MONSTERS (DIE LACHENDEN UNGEHEUER) ins tiefste Afrika, in den Kongo, dorthin, wo einer der Zentraltexte des 20. Jahrhunderts das HERZ DER FINSTERNIS verortete – in Gestalt eines verrückt gewordenen, dem Größenwahn verfallenen Kolonialbeamten namens Kurtz. Um die Fallhöhe gleich zu negieren: Unter der Latte, die ein Werk wie Conrads legt, marschiert Johnson problemlos drunter weg.

Johnson berichtet von dem Weißen Roland Nair, der für die NATO arbeitet, eine Frau hat namens Tina, die in Amsterdam lebt und der Roland regelmäßig mailt, während er seinen alten Kumpel Michael trifft, der ihn nach Freetown in Sierra Leone eingeladen hat. Roland und Michael haben Jahre zuvor offenbar ein großes Vermögen in Liberia gemacht – „Diamanten“, so raunt uns der Roman an einer Stelle zu und wer ein wenig über den Diamantenabbau und –handel in den schwarzafrikanischen Ländern Bescheid weiß, der weiß, daß diese Andeutung genügt, damit der Leser versteht, daß wir es nicht gerade mit netten Leuten zu tun haben. Nun aber geht es um ganz anderes. Michael neigt dazu, niemandem zuviel seiner Pläne zu verraten, und so kommt der Icherzähler Roland erst nach und nach dahinter, daß er, der keineswegs so unbescholten gen Afrika gereist ist, wie er es seinem Freund darstellt, sondern vielmehr selber einen Auftrag hat, diesen zu überwachen, nicht nur als Trauzeuge in Michaels Heiratspläne eingebunden werden soll, sondern zugleich ein Deal mit Uranium läuft, bzw. ein gefälschter Deal mit falschem Uranium, daß Michael und seinem Kumpel Reichtum verschaffen soll. Und zu allem Überfluß hat Roland einen eigenen Deal laufen, den er auf eigene Kosten betreibt und ihn aus all seinen beruflichen und privaten Fesseln befreien soll. Doch Michaels Braut, Davidia St. Claire, macht Roland einen Strich durch die Rechnung, denn er verliebt sich Hals über Kopf in die Dame. Gemeinsam treten diese drei vollkommen unterschiedlichen Menschen eine beschwerliche Reise zu den „lachenden Ungeheuern“, einer Bergkette im Grenzland des Kongo zu Uganda an, wo Michael seine Leute, seinen Stamm vermutet, bei dem er seine Hochzeit zu feiern gedenkt.

In einem zusehends unübersichtlicheren Gemisch aus Agentenstory, einem Freundschaftsdrama und einer verhinderten Liebesgeschichte vor dem geographischen Hintergrund eines geschundenen Kontinents strikt Johnson seine Geschichte und weiß – Meister der er ist – vor allem da zu punkten, wo er nichts schreibt: In den Zwischenräumen, in den Zwischenzeilen, da, wo nicht erklärt und ausgesprochen wird, sondern alles Geheimnis, Andeutung und Raunen bleibt. Dadurch entsteht eine unterschwellig bedrohliche Atmosphäre, die den Leser ebenso anstößt als auch fasziniert und anzieht. Wir folgen dieser Erzählung, die wenig Action bietet, dafür durchaus ihre komischen Momente hat, doch so recht glauben wollen wir nicht, was wir da lesen. Daß da einfach so ein den amerikanischen Streitkräften zugeteilter Agent – oder Killer? Oder doch ein reiner Hasardeur? – wie Michael Adriko sich von der Truppe absentiert, beginnt, höchstgefährliche Geschäfte einzufädeln, die vor allem auf eines hinauslaufen: Betrug, und zugleich seine Hochzeit irgendwo im Dschungel plant; daß Roland im Laufe seiner Beobachtungen nicht nur Agenten der USA, sondern auch gleich des Mossad und diverser anderer Geheimdienste ausmacht; daß Davidia St. Claire in der geschilderten Umgebung nicht nur völlig deplatziert wirkt, sondern sich auch noch als Tochter eines hochrangigen U.S.-Militärs entpuppt – all das wirkt zunächst vollkommen unglaubwürdig. Es ist Johnsons Kunst, Setting und Grundatmosphäre seiner Story so aufzubauen und dem Leser zu präsentieren, daß darin nicht nur „Afrika“ zur Chiffre und zum Klischee des „dunklen, geheimnisvollen Kontinents“ wird, sondern daß wir irgendwann in all dem Wahnsinn, den er uns manchmal als Gruselmär, dann als Farce präsentiert, zu begreifen beginnen, daß die Glaubwürdigkeit des Ganzen gar keine Rolle spielt – wir haben es mit Geheimdiensten zu tun und nichts ist einer geheimen Operation zuträglicher, als daß sie für unglaubwürdig und damit undurchführbar gehalten wird.

Johnson lässt seinen Icherzähler genau soviel berichten, daß der Leser bei der Stange bleibt, wissen will, wie sich die einzelnen Stränge auflösen, wie sich diese ganze seltsame Chose um Michael, Davidia und Roland entwickelt, doch er lässt auch eben so viel weg, daß der Leser sich nie sicher sein kann, ob das, womit er es zu tun hat, Lüge, strategische Unwahrheit oder schlicht die grausige Wahrheit in ihrer ganzen Unglaublichkeit ist. Jeder der hier beschriebenen hat gleich mehrere Eisen in diversen Feuern und obwohl sich Michael und Roland mehrfach – sich alter gemeinsamer Abenteuer erinnernd – ihre lang anhaltenden Freundschaft versichern, kann es durchaus sein, daß sie einander eiskalt über die erstbeste Klinge springen lassen, die sich bietet und die Aussicht auf bessere Geschäfte, höheren Gewinn verspricht. Und vor allem Liebe, denn wie Roland seinem alten Freund im Finale deutlich macht: Zwar würde er ihn niemals verraten, aber für eine Frau jederzeit hinterrücks ermorden. So speist sich der Roman aus dem Spannungsverhältnis dieser beiden ungleichen Männer, die dem Leser beide, also auch der Icherzähler, seltsam fremd und unnahbar bleiben. Auch kann Johnson dem Leser sicher einen Eindruck, weniger eine Erklärung, aber eben einen erfahrbaren Eindruck davon vermitteln, wie undurchschaubar die Ränke der internationalen Dienste sind, auch, wie fremd die afrikanischen Kulturen für den Westler anmuten, wird in Johnsons Text mehr als deutlich und macht wesentlich aus, was an diesem Text positiv zu verbuchen ist.

Warum bleibt dann ein gewisses Unbehagen? Das liegt sicherlich zunächst an einem technischen Problem der Konstruktion: Dadurch, daß Roland Nair uns als Icherzähler entgegen tritt, wir uns also entweder in seinem Kopf befinden oder aber in einer intimen Gesprächssituation, die zudem NACH den berichteten Ereignissen stattfindet, da der Bericht in der Vergangenheitsform erzählt wird, müsste er uns eigentlich auch nichts vorenthalten. Für die dramatische Konstruktion des Romans ist es aber dringend erforderlich, daß wir gewisse Informationen entweder erst spät (oder: später) im Roman erfahren, andere sogar gar nicht. Nur so ist das Wechselspiel aus Verrat und Komplizenschaft zwischen den alten Freunden aufrecht zu erhalten. Wüsste der Zuschauer alles über einen der Protagonisten, entstünde ein völlig anderer Roman. Johnson nämlich kommt es durchaus auf das Bewahren von Geheimnissen an. Der Konstruktion des Textes wäre ein auktorialer Erzähler förderlicher gewesen. Vielleicht sogar eine Erzählung im Präsens. Dafür hätte Johnson sich als Erzähler aber beider Männer – mindestens – gleichberechtigt bemächtigen müssen. Daß er die Perspektive des weißen Mannes einnimmt, der in die Heimat, den Raum des andern eindringt, ist im Grunde die fairste Perspektive, die ein weißer Schriftsteller, der sich dieser Thematik nähern will - anders nähern will, als all seine Vorgänger in den trivial- wie hochliterarischen Zirkeln – einnehmen kann. Denn wie wollte sich ein privilegierter Weißer in die Gefühls- und Erfahrungswelt eines Schwarzafrikaners einfühlen und -denken?

Soweit gut gedacht – und doch ist schon im Gedankengang selbst eine Falle angelegt, in die Johnson tappt. Denn er schreibt Michael Adriko mit seiner Entscheidung genau den Ort zu, den weiße Autoren schwarzen Männern immer schon zugewiesen haben: Es ist ein Ort des Draußen. Der Exklusion. Wir verstehen diese Männer, diese Menschen nicht, so die kulturelle Narration. Sie sind uns angeblich maximal fremd. Wir haben – angefangen von Cooper über Twain bis Faulkner - den fürchterlichen Fehler begangen, uns in sie hineindenken zu wollen und haben dabei etwas geschaffen, das wir selber nicht recht verstehen: Den kulturell determinierten Afrikaner (oder Afroamerikaner), der uns verschlossen begegnet und den wir nicht durchschauen können. Dafür müssen wir ihn fürchten. Wir haben ihn als Projektionsfläche benutzt, um all unsere Ängste zu exportieren – Versagensängste, die Unsicherheit über unser eigenes Handeln und Schaffen, auch unser Männerbild, unsere Männlichkeit haben wir an diesen Fremden gemessen und dann für zu leicht befunden…für all das hassen wir sie, die schwarzen Männer. Das ist unsere Schuld und das ist unsere Scham. So die Narration.

Natürlich ist es bitter nötig, diese Narration aufzubrechen und entweder zu dekonstruieren, zu destruieren oder mindestens als Klischee zu entlarven. Und Johnson will sie auch durchbrechen, aber er weiß keine dafür adäquate Geschichte zu erzählen. Er will einen Agentenroman schreiben und nutzt Afrika als Kulisse, weil es natürlich sowohl im Bezug zur Wirklichkeit hohes Potential besitzt, zugleich aber perfekt als Metapher und Allegorie funktioniert. Nicht zuletzt, weil wir bereits über eine komplette, homogene und hermetische Narration zu Afrika verfügen. Es ist natürlich ein imperiales, ein koloniales Narrativ. Und es ist ein komplett fiktionales Narrativ zwischen Trommeln und Feuern in der Nacht, David Livingston, Tarzan, geheimnisvollen Ritualen, schilderschwingende Hutu, Dschungeln, Löwen, Orang-Utans, bunter Vögel und jeder Menge Gebrüll, Gekreisch, Gewumms und Gesumms. Ein herrliches Sammelsurium von Versatzstücken aus Legenden, Erzählungen, Überlieferungen, ein kleines bisschen Wissenschaft und jeder Menge Gerücht.

Johnson erliegt schließlich der Versuchung, einen postmodern gebrochenen Abenteuerroman zu schreiben. Und auf einmal leben all die Klischees, die es eigentlich zu unterlaufen gilt – und die Johnson in Hinblick auf einen Spionageroman auch wirklich unterläuft, wenn auch oftmals an filmischen Vorbildern wie SYRIANA (2005) oder BLOOD DIAMOND (2006) orientiert - , wieder auf. Afrika wird wieder zu einer Art Spielplatz für entweder echte Kerle oder „Verrückte“, die das langweilige Alltagsleben mit alltäglichen Jobs (hier immerhin Jobs im Regierungsbusiness), alltäglichen Beziehungen und alltäglichen Freundschaften nicht mehr ertragen können. Es sind dann eben genau solche Dialoge wie der oben erwähnte über Verrat und Liebesmord, die Johnsons Anliegen verwässern.

Am Ende bleibt der Leser mit einem seltsamen Hybrid zurück: Eine kritische Auseinandersetzung mit einer politischen Wirklichkeit, die immer mehr im Geheimen und von Geheimen definiert und entwickelt wird; eine Ménage a trois, die ein Freundschaftsdrama verschleiert, bedenkt man, daß Davidia die blasseste Figur des Ensembles ist - auch das Eindenken in eine weibliche Figur fällt den meisten männlichen Autoren schwer; schließlich ein Afrikabild, das sich modern gibt, postmodern angerichtet ist und letztlich vormoderne Denkweisen nutzt. Und zwar nicht postmodern verzerrt oder ironisch gebrochen, sondern – Johnsons Text ist für eine surreale Farce nicht abgedreht genug – als Schmier- und Fördermittel für seine Story. Der Verdienst von Conrads Text war es unter anderem, überhaupt zu einem Bewußtsein beizutragen, daß „Kolonialismus“ und „Rassismus“ und „Imperialismus“ als Zustand und Bedingung der Lebenswirklichkeit anderer Menschen wahrzunehmen begann. Ganz gewiß ist es auch literarisch gesehen ein Schlüsselwerk des 20. Jahrhunderts, der literarischen Moderne. So, wie er Afrika als Projektionsfläche begreift, wie er die Ich-Erzählung als Möglichkeit innerer Befreiung – auch erzählerische Befreiung – begreift, wie er versucht, sich mit Mitteln der Lyrik als gleichzeitig, mit sich selbst deckungsgleich und doch seltsam uneins zu präsentieren, das sind hingegen schon durchaus der Postmoderne zuzurechnende Mittel.

Umso bestürzender, daß sein Epigone Denis Johnson diese Mittel nicht nur nicht nutzen zu wollen und ihre Erkenntnisse zu ignorieren scheint, sondern sogar auf ein Bild des „schwarzen Kontinents“ zurückgreift, das seltsam viktorianisch anmutet, angereichert durch moderne Bilder eines längst der Apokalypse überantworteten Kontinents. Ein Abenteuerspielplatz für Glücksritter. Will man sehr wohlwollend sein, fasst man dies als zynischen Kommentar auf eine Wirklichkeit auf, die langsam verrottet wie ein Haufen fauler Mangoven am Straßenrand in der Hitze der Sonne Sierra Leones. Ist man weniger wohlwollend, hat man es mit einem weiteren ausbeuterischen Roman zu tun, der sich für „Afrika“ kein bisschen interessiert.

[Michaelle · Rating 1 out of 5]

I started reading this book, but didn't like the writing style or plot. After three chapters (I wanted to give it a fair chance), I decided it wasn't worth continuing.

[Hilary · Rating 2 out of 5]

I’ve read a lot of great things about Denis Johnson, but Tree of Smoke looks long and like a lot of work, so once again, I picked up a much smaller book of his (the previous being the novella Train Dreams) that I didn’t like all that much. Lesson learned: read the one with rave reviews, or forever fail to understand why people like an author.

The Laughing Monsters is described as a “post-9/11 literary spy thriller,” but that’s like calling Zapped! a highbrow investigation into the limits of scientific experimentation and discovery. It’s more of a lazy buddy spy novel, where none of the spies care much about hiding anything from each other, and mostly drink a lot while half-heartedly pursuing various undefined schemes. Our narrator, Roland Nair, is an American/Danish alcoholic lech and lush who (ostensibly) works for NATO intelligence, and maybe some other combination of acronyms. Nair has returned to Africa at the behest of an old pal, Michael Adriko, a mysterious/crazy/violent Ugandan, who wants Nair to meet his latest fiancee, Davidia, and attend their wedding. Years ago, the two took advantage of the unrest in Sierra Leone to make a good deal of money, and they’re sort of circling each other to see if they should do so again, to test each other’s allegiances. Mostly, though, they’re sitting around and drinking a lot, and if you’re a Denis Johnson fan/apologist, that’s because he’s brilliantly subverting your expectations for a spy/action thriller at every turn. That is great, because there’s nothing I enjoy more than self-congratulatory performance art that criticizes me for expecting it to be what its creator described it to be.

This book is wilfully open-ended, inconsistent, and uninterested in continuity. The narrative style switches back and forth from regular narration to an epistolary format, the level of cohesion alters from seemingly sober and matter-of-fact to wild, seemingly drug-induced surrealism. This may well be an excellent way to depict a difficult, inconstant area, or the sort of catastrophe opportunists that Nair and Adriko represent, but I didn’t enjoy this book enough to unpack what it could have been saying, because I was too bored by what it did say.

[Matt · Rating 4 out of 5]

A Catch-22 for the post-9/11 world of geopolitical espionage, The Laughing Monsters illustrates the terrifying and tragic, and sadly ridiculous, results of having bodies with primary economic interests serving as the tip of the (inter)national security spear.

Denis Johnson presents this world through a relatively small story of two main characters--simultaneously allies and adversaries--and their misadventures in western Africa. The stage is chaotic, the actors mercenary. Their actions are craven in the micro, farcical in the macro (or maybe it's the other way around). The arena is a violent fever dream.

The Laughing Monsters is a gripping and colorful snapshot that tells a much bigger story about the meaning of citizenship, nationalism and national security in a world of unchecked globalization and U.S.-style capitalist militarism/militaristic capitalism.