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Corps variables (Feux croisés)
Frankenstein du 21e siècle, Corps variables a le rythme et l'intensité d'un thriller, savamment combinés à la gourmandise littéraire d'un romancier passionné d'archives, de mystères, et en interrogation constante sur le pouvoir des mots.
Un jour, un ancien petit ami passe la porte de la boutique de Susanna, c'est Nicholas Slopen. Vingt ans ont passé, elle a du mal à le reconnaître. Lorsqu'il quitte les lieux, Susanna, curieuse, tape son nom dans Google. Surprise: Nicholas Slopen est mort l'année passée, laissant derrière lui une femme et deux enfants.
Il revient. Et il fait alors à Susanna le récit d'une extraordinaire aventure, celle qui lui permet de continuer à exister dans un autre corps.
Nicholas est un chercheur, il a été engagé quelques années auparavant pour authentifier des lettres de Samuel Johnson pour le compte d'un collectionneur. Nicholas, consciencieux, a creusé, jusqu'à trouver un faussaire, un savant russe, incroyable imitateur. Fasciné par le fraudeur autant que par le sujet, Nicholas s'est embourbé trop loin dans les enjeux de l'affaire, des recherches scientifiques menées en secret sur les clés de l'identité et la possibilité de dupliquer les êtres humains à travers l'écrit.
Architecture du doute et des fausses pistes, le roman de Marcel Theroux n'oublie jamais son héros, les émotions pertubatrices, profondes et puissantes qu'il éprouve, et le mystère de son existence ne l'empêche pas de nous emporter avec lui dans un tourbillon littéraire et dramatique, où les livres permettent de communiquer avec les morts, et peut-être de les rendre éternels ?
320 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 30, 2013
78 people are currently reading
3901 people want to read
About the author
Marcel Theroux
13 books170 followersMarcel (Raymond) Theroux is a British novelist and broadcaster. He is the older son of the American travel writer and novelist, Paul Theroux. His younger brother, Louis Theroux, is a journalist and television reporter.
Born in Kampala, Uganda, Theroux was brought up in Wandsworth, London. After attending a state primary school he boarded at Westminster School. He went on to study English at Clare College of the University of Cambridge and international relations at Yale University. Currently he lives in London and is married. His French last name originates from the region around Sarthe and Yonne in France. It is quite common in Francophone countries and is originally spelled Théroux. His paternal grandfather was French Canadian.
He wrote The Stranger in The Earth and The Confessions of Mycroft Holmes: a paper chase for which he won the Somerset Maugham Award in 2002. His third novel, A Blow to the Heart, was published by Faber in 2006. His fourth, Far North, a future epic set in the Siberian taiga, was published in June 2009. He worked in television news in New York and Boston.
In 2004 he presented The End of the World as We Know It part of the War on Terra television series about climate change on Channel 4, for which he was chosen as presenter precisely because he initially knew nothing about the subject. He even had a preconception about environmentalists being spoilsports opposed to progress. But during his research he became convinced that we face a global problem, on a scale so serious that an expansion of nuclear energy is probably the best solution (choosing the lesser evil). He reached this conclusion partly via the subjects of several interviews, amongst them Gerhard Bertz of insurance agency Munich Re, who indicated that in the past 20 years payments for natural disasters have increased by 500 percent. During another, with Royal Dutch Shell chairman Lord Ron Oxburgh, a PR assistant intervened to curtail the conversation, apparently because Oxburgh's negative views on the consequences of current oil consumption were considered detrimental to the corporation's image.
In March 2006 Theroux presented Death of a Nation on More4, as part of the The State of Russia series. In the program he explored the country's post-Soviet problems including population decline, the growing AIDS epidemic and the persecution of the Meskhetian Turks.
On 28 September 2008 he presented Oligart: The Great Russian Art Boom on Channel 4 about how Russia's rich are keeping Russia's art history alive by buying, and exhibiting domestic art.
On 16 March 2009, Marcel Theroux presented In Search of Wabi-sabi on BBC Four as part of the channel's Hidden Japan season of programming. Marcel travelled throughout Japan trying to understand the aesthetic tastes of Japan and its people.
Born in Kampala, Uganda, Theroux was brought up in Wandsworth, London. After attending a state primary school he boarded at Westminster School. He went on to study English at Clare College of the University of Cambridge and international relations at Yale University. Currently he lives in London and is married. His French last name originates from the region around Sarthe and Yonne in France. It is quite common in Francophone countries and is originally spelled Théroux. His paternal grandfather was French Canadian.
He wrote The Stranger in The Earth and The Confessions of Mycroft Holmes: a paper chase for which he won the Somerset Maugham Award in 2002. His third novel, A Blow to the Heart, was published by Faber in 2006. His fourth, Far North, a future epic set in the Siberian taiga, was published in June 2009. He worked in television news in New York and Boston.
In 2004 he presented The End of the World as We Know It part of the War on Terra television series about climate change on Channel 4, for which he was chosen as presenter precisely because he initially knew nothing about the subject. He even had a preconception about environmentalists being spoilsports opposed to progress. But during his research he became convinced that we face a global problem, on a scale so serious that an expansion of nuclear energy is probably the best solution (choosing the lesser evil). He reached this conclusion partly via the subjects of several interviews, amongst them Gerhard Bertz of insurance agency Munich Re, who indicated that in the past 20 years payments for natural disasters have increased by 500 percent. During another, with Royal Dutch Shell chairman Lord Ron Oxburgh, a PR assistant intervened to curtail the conversation, apparently because Oxburgh's negative views on the consequences of current oil consumption were considered detrimental to the corporation's image.
In March 2006 Theroux presented Death of a Nation on More4, as part of the The State of Russia series. In the program he explored the country's post-Soviet problems including population decline, the growing AIDS epidemic and the persecution of the Meskhetian Turks.
On 28 September 2008 he presented Oligart: The Great Russian Art Boom on Channel 4 about how Russia's rich are keeping Russia's art history alive by buying, and exhibiting domestic art.
On 16 March 2009, Marcel Theroux presented In Search of Wabi-sabi on BBC Four as part of the channel's Hidden Japan season of programming. Marcel travelled throughout Japan trying to understand the aesthetic tastes of Japan and its people.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 243 reviews
April 29, 2018
Body-swapping as a metaphor for reading?
A genre-defying excursion into the nature of existence and mortality.
I am very impressed by Marcel Theroux’s eclectic literary range and his metaphysical belief in the power of words to shape our reality and identity. He celebrates the act of reading as “the transaction between two consciousnesses, only one of whom needs to be alive.”
In this novel, which is a blend of science fiction, psychological thriller and Gothic horror, Theroux expands on Milton’s belief that books ‘contain the essence of the living intellect that bred them’ and asks whether consciousness can survive death. There are numerous references to classical novels, poetry and plays throughout the plot, which involves literary fraud, unethical medical experiments and a secret Russian/American conspiracy.
Theroux's seductive writing style creates a paralysing sense of nightmarish dread, guaranteed to destroy anyone’s longing for immortality.
A genre-defying excursion into the nature of existence and mortality.
I am very impressed by Marcel Theroux’s eclectic literary range and his metaphysical belief in the power of words to shape our reality and identity. He celebrates the act of reading as “the transaction between two consciousnesses, only one of whom needs to be alive.”
In this novel, which is a blend of science fiction, psychological thriller and Gothic horror, Theroux expands on Milton’s belief that books ‘contain the essence of the living intellect that bred them’ and asks whether consciousness can survive death. There are numerous references to classical novels, poetry and plays throughout the plot, which involves literary fraud, unethical medical experiments and a secret Russian/American conspiracy.
Theroux's seductive writing style creates a paralysing sense of nightmarish dread, guaranteed to destroy anyone’s longing for immortality.
July 13, 2015
I have been circling this novel since I saw it listed on The Millions Great 2014 Book Preview. Without a lot of books I had to read at home, it found its way into my pile from the library.
I think the author has attempted to combine some of the topics he is deeply interested in into one novel, when really they may have been better served divided at least into two. The thread following all the way through is a discussion on what makes a person human, through a scenario that puts a person's ideas (namely their written words) into another person's body. Rather than the animation of a created non-human being, a lesser person (criminal, etc) is used for a "better" human who will no longer be there because they are approaching death, or have been dead for centuries and all we have are his/her words. How this happens is kept from the reader for most of the book so I won't discuss it here, but don't read the publisher summary. It gives too much away.
The main story is about Dr. Nicholas Slopen, who wakes up in a new body after being dead for a few years, and his struggle to establish his identity (he ends up in a mental hospital), to deal with the loss of his family (who believes he is dead) and life, while still containing all of his memories, thoughts, and emotions. It is a bleak and devastating concept and not one he is active in choosing, making for a rather scary setup.
The other story is how Dr. Slopen gets introduced to the idea, but takes up so much room and takes time away from his own story that I am just not sure it belongs. That story centers around a "savant" who seems to embody Samuel Johnson. In fact the first 75 pages or so seem to be a story of intrigue, maybe with forgers of primary documents. Dr. Slopen is a Johnson specialist. I understand why it makes it sound like this story combines well together, but to me they did not flow together. Some of the similarities between Slopen and Johnson became redundant while others were not connected at all.
This was my first read of Marcel Theroux and I'm curious about some of his others. I have even more books by his father sitting unread on my shelf.
I think the author has attempted to combine some of the topics he is deeply interested in into one novel, when really they may have been better served divided at least into two. The thread following all the way through is a discussion on what makes a person human, through a scenario that puts a person's ideas (namely their written words) into another person's body. Rather than the animation of a created non-human being, a lesser person (criminal, etc) is used for a "better" human who will no longer be there because they are approaching death, or have been dead for centuries and all we have are his/her words. How this happens is kept from the reader for most of the book so I won't discuss it here, but don't read the publisher summary. It gives too much away.
The main story is about Dr. Nicholas Slopen, who wakes up in a new body after being dead for a few years, and his struggle to establish his identity (he ends up in a mental hospital), to deal with the loss of his family (who believes he is dead) and life, while still containing all of his memories, thoughts, and emotions. It is a bleak and devastating concept and not one he is active in choosing, making for a rather scary setup.
The other story is how Dr. Slopen gets introduced to the idea, but takes up so much room and takes time away from his own story that I am just not sure it belongs. That story centers around a "savant" who seems to embody Samuel Johnson. In fact the first 75 pages or so seem to be a story of intrigue, maybe with forgers of primary documents. Dr. Slopen is a Johnson specialist. I understand why it makes it sound like this story combines well together, but to me they did not flow together. Some of the similarities between Slopen and Johnson became redundant while others were not connected at all.
This was my first read of Marcel Theroux and I'm curious about some of his others. I have even more books by his father sitting unread on my shelf.
February 15, 2014
Strange Bodies is science fiction. But it is the kind of science fiction that is a springboard for larger conceits. In this way, it is similar to the novels of Margaret Atwood and Doris Lessing in that it is much more interested in philosophical examination than future speculation. The author Marcel Theroux has written a novel about identity and the state of reality. That put him in the company of a definitive sci-fi author, Philip K. Dick. Yet Theroux throws another philosophical log on the fire. What is authenticity? If your conscience can be duplicated and placed into someone else, is that person you? Is he every bit as authentic in his emotions and meaning as you?
A man, simply called Q, is living in a mental asylum. His identity is unknown to the doctors but he states he is Dr. Nicholas Slopen. This is impossible since the death of Dr. Slopen is well documented and the patient looks nothing like him. Through Q's chronicles and pasted psychiatric notes the mystery unfolds. We discover that Dr Slopen was asked to authenticate some letters by 18th century British writer Samuel Johnson. The letters appear authentic in the sense of subject and writing but are clearly not, due to the kind of paper used which was not in existence during Johnson's time. We are then introduced to savant Jack Telauga who can perfectly enact the writer's style. Yet there is more to this than imitation and this is where we go into sci-fi territory. Could the conscience of Samuel Johnson, or anyone else, be transferred to a body? What does this mean for the rest of society. Would that make one immortal?
These are just some of the questions Theroux tackles. This is a somewhat complex and dense novel. Yet it is a compelling read because Theroux has created some complex and compelling characters. Slopen is not very likable at first, being stuffy and full of himself. Yet as the plot develops he is brought along by the intricacies of the plot and we see him developed into a fuller protagonist. Jack is both fascinating and pitiful, while the other characters are alive in their motives which we find out eventually. The most poignant parts of the novel for me is when Slopen ruminates on his past life as the physical Slopen, dwells on his mistakes which he can never correct. It is a emotional novel drenched in what-ifs and why-nots. But we are always brought back to identity and the idea that we are real...or are we?
Identity and the fragility of reality seems to be an occurring theme this year. I recently finished E. L. Doctorow's new book, Andrew's Brain in which the author tackles many of the same questions in a totally different way. But I found Theroux's more elegantly structured tale to be much more enlightening in this area. even if it may bring up more questions than answers.
A man, simply called Q, is living in a mental asylum. His identity is unknown to the doctors but he states he is Dr. Nicholas Slopen. This is impossible since the death of Dr. Slopen is well documented and the patient looks nothing like him. Through Q's chronicles and pasted psychiatric notes the mystery unfolds. We discover that Dr Slopen was asked to authenticate some letters by 18th century British writer Samuel Johnson. The letters appear authentic in the sense of subject and writing but are clearly not, due to the kind of paper used which was not in existence during Johnson's time. We are then introduced to savant Jack Telauga who can perfectly enact the writer's style. Yet there is more to this than imitation and this is where we go into sci-fi territory. Could the conscience of Samuel Johnson, or anyone else, be transferred to a body? What does this mean for the rest of society. Would that make one immortal?
These are just some of the questions Theroux tackles. This is a somewhat complex and dense novel. Yet it is a compelling read because Theroux has created some complex and compelling characters. Slopen is not very likable at first, being stuffy and full of himself. Yet as the plot develops he is brought along by the intricacies of the plot and we see him developed into a fuller protagonist. Jack is both fascinating and pitiful, while the other characters are alive in their motives which we find out eventually. The most poignant parts of the novel for me is when Slopen ruminates on his past life as the physical Slopen, dwells on his mistakes which he can never correct. It is a emotional novel drenched in what-ifs and why-nots. But we are always brought back to identity and the idea that we are real...or are we?
Identity and the fragility of reality seems to be an occurring theme this year. I recently finished E. L. Doctorow's new book, Andrew's Brain in which the author tackles many of the same questions in a totally different way. But I found Theroux's more elegantly structured tale to be much more enlightening in this area. even if it may bring up more questions than answers.
May 28, 2013
In an age when our written words are more publicly available than ever, thanks to blogging, social networking, self-published e-books and internet message boards, Marcel Theroux’s Strange Bodies presents us with a prospect that seems even more sinister than it otherwise might: the notion that our personalities, our consciousness, our very being, could be reproduced solely from our written output.
Told through a combination of written forms including a psychiatrist’s case notes and the memoir of one of her patients, Strange Bodies explores some expansive themes, including identity, our thirst for immortality, scientific ethics and what really makes us the people we are.
Like Theroux’s dystopian novel Far North, which I've also reviewed, Strange Bodies has many of the trappings of science-fiction, but this is almost incidental – genre-wise, this is literary fiction more akin to, say, Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go or the speculative works of Margaret Atwood than full-on sci-fi. The plot has all the drive and thrust of a thriller, with Nicholas Slopen, an academic whose specialism is the life and work of Samuel Johnson, finding himself pulled into a dangerous scientific conspiracy growing from a seed planted in the former Soviet Union, but Strange Bodies is much more than that. It’s also a thought-provoking novel about language and how it shapes our identities and relationships.
Nicholas is a convincingly inept hero with numerous faults, although his growing awareness of them and his increasingly heightened understanding as the story unfolds mean it’s impossible for the reader not to sympathise with him, often deeply, and his relationship with Jack, an outwardly brutish savant with a seemingly unique talent, is perhaps one of the most touching elements of the book. Theroux also paints a vivid and plausible picture of the fluctuating mental health of Nicholas, and others, throughout: sometimes the fear of madness (as Samuel Johnson himself knew only too well) is worse than madness itself.
Weaving in numerous literary allusions and references, as well as elements of Frankenstein and age-old myths of doppelgangers and golems, Strange Bodies is an exceptionally well-executed novel, often sharply observant, in which the different themes interlock with the neat intricacy of meticulously-crafted clockwork.
Told through a combination of written forms including a psychiatrist’s case notes and the memoir of one of her patients, Strange Bodies explores some expansive themes, including identity, our thirst for immortality, scientific ethics and what really makes us the people we are.
Like Theroux’s dystopian novel Far North, which I've also reviewed, Strange Bodies has many of the trappings of science-fiction, but this is almost incidental – genre-wise, this is literary fiction more akin to, say, Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go or the speculative works of Margaret Atwood than full-on sci-fi. The plot has all the drive and thrust of a thriller, with Nicholas Slopen, an academic whose specialism is the life and work of Samuel Johnson, finding himself pulled into a dangerous scientific conspiracy growing from a seed planted in the former Soviet Union, but Strange Bodies is much more than that. It’s also a thought-provoking novel about language and how it shapes our identities and relationships.
Nicholas is a convincingly inept hero with numerous faults, although his growing awareness of them and his increasingly heightened understanding as the story unfolds mean it’s impossible for the reader not to sympathise with him, often deeply, and his relationship with Jack, an outwardly brutish savant with a seemingly unique talent, is perhaps one of the most touching elements of the book. Theroux also paints a vivid and plausible picture of the fluctuating mental health of Nicholas, and others, throughout: sometimes the fear of madness (as Samuel Johnson himself knew only too well) is worse than madness itself.
Weaving in numerous literary allusions and references, as well as elements of Frankenstein and age-old myths of doppelgangers and golems, Strange Bodies is an exceptionally well-executed novel, often sharply observant, in which the different themes interlock with the neat intricacy of meticulously-crafted clockwork.
April 25, 2013
‘What makes me, me? What makes you, you?’ Cat Stevens
When Nicholas Slopen turns up at the shop of an old friend, she is stunned. He looks completely different, his voice is different but, most surprisingly of all, she’d heard he’d died the year before. And yet once they start talking, she is soon convinced that it is indeed he.
This intelligent and very well written book poses the question – what makes us, us? Can we be defined, summed up, by the words we speak? What if we are sundered irrevocably from all our relationships - personal, professional, social: are we still us?
Our narrator, known as Q by his psychiatrist but calling himself Dr Nicholas Slopen, relates his story from the secure facility of the Royal Bethlehem Hospital (a descendant of Bedlam) to where he has been sectioned. Since Dr Slopen died the year before, and the authorities have his body and autopsy photographs to prove it, and since Q looks nothing like him, he is considered to be suffering from a delusion. But he has all Dr Slopen’s memories and an explanation of how he has become who – or what – he is. An explanation so fantastical that he understands why no-one will believe him…
Dr Slopen’s story begins when he is asked to use his expertise to authenticate some letters apparently written by Samuel Johnson. He is entirely convinced by the wording and content that these letters can only be genuine, but they are written on paper that wouldn’t have been available to Johnson. From this beginning, the author takes us on an investigation into identity, individuality and authenticity that is entertaining and unsettling in equal measure. Theroux weaves notions of psychiatry, philosophy, science and politics into a story where the human motivations become scarily believable even while the central point remains deliberately incredible. A story of mad science turned to evil purpose, the age-old search for immortality, man’s inhumanity to man, but at its heart this is a search for a definition of humanity.
Amidst all the fascinating theorising and philosophising, Theroux doesn’t forget to give us some well-rounded characterisation and a great story. At first, Slopen is an unattractive character, smug and superior, an academic disappointed at the world’s failure to reward him as he feels he merits. But as his nightmarish journey progresses, we see him develop compassion, a conscience, perhaps, and even courage. Jack, the mysterious savant, demands our sympathy and Vera, who cares for him, remains always enigmatic and somewhat unfathomable. An exceptional book in what is turning out to be a vintage year for exceptional books, this is both enjoyable and thought-provoking and will leave this reader at least mulling over some of the many questions it raises. Highly recommended.
NB This book was provided for review by the publisher.
When Nicholas Slopen turns up at the shop of an old friend, she is stunned. He looks completely different, his voice is different but, most surprisingly of all, she’d heard he’d died the year before. And yet once they start talking, she is soon convinced that it is indeed he.
This intelligent and very well written book poses the question – what makes us, us? Can we be defined, summed up, by the words we speak? What if we are sundered irrevocably from all our relationships - personal, professional, social: are we still us?
Our narrator, known as Q by his psychiatrist but calling himself Dr Nicholas Slopen, relates his story from the secure facility of the Royal Bethlehem Hospital (a descendant of Bedlam) to where he has been sectioned. Since Dr Slopen died the year before, and the authorities have his body and autopsy photographs to prove it, and since Q looks nothing like him, he is considered to be suffering from a delusion. But he has all Dr Slopen’s memories and an explanation of how he has become who – or what – he is. An explanation so fantastical that he understands why no-one will believe him…
Dr Slopen’s story begins when he is asked to use his expertise to authenticate some letters apparently written by Samuel Johnson. He is entirely convinced by the wording and content that these letters can only be genuine, but they are written on paper that wouldn’t have been available to Johnson. From this beginning, the author takes us on an investigation into identity, individuality and authenticity that is entertaining and unsettling in equal measure. Theroux weaves notions of psychiatry, philosophy, science and politics into a story where the human motivations become scarily believable even while the central point remains deliberately incredible. A story of mad science turned to evil purpose, the age-old search for immortality, man’s inhumanity to man, but at its heart this is a search for a definition of humanity.
Amidst all the fascinating theorising and philosophising, Theroux doesn’t forget to give us some well-rounded characterisation and a great story. At first, Slopen is an unattractive character, smug and superior, an academic disappointed at the world’s failure to reward him as he feels he merits. But as his nightmarish journey progresses, we see him develop compassion, a conscience, perhaps, and even courage. Jack, the mysterious savant, demands our sympathy and Vera, who cares for him, remains always enigmatic and somewhat unfathomable. An exceptional book in what is turning out to be a vintage year for exceptional books, this is both enjoyable and thought-provoking and will leave this reader at least mulling over some of the many questions it raises. Highly recommended.
NB This book was provided for review by the publisher.
November 23, 2014
This is a perfunctory and dour thriller that attempts to update the Frankenstein story, with mixed results. The ending is elegant and rather sad, but is a case of too little, too late. The big problem here is that the main protagonist, Nicholas, is so unlikeable that not even his doppelganger likes himself; which poses a bit of a problem for the reader.
I got the feeling reading this that Marcel Theroux himself failed to believe sufficiently in his hypothesis of using language to ‘code’ human consciousness, like a role of imprinted music for a player piano.
This can then be used to transfer such a consciousness into a different body. (We never learn what happens to the consciousness already inhabiting the body; all we get of ‘the Procedure’ itself are vague and bloody hints).
These sections of the novel are rather preposterous, tied up as they are in meditations on Russian mysticism and pseudo science. I think Theroux wrongly tries to straddle the fence here: he should either have opted for more mysticism and horror, or injected more scientific speculation and hence increased the thriller quotient.
Instead he tries to do both, which unfortunately turns a potentially fascinating premise into a bland potboiler. There are some standout sections here, like the ‘reborn’ Dr. Samuel Johnson figure who reacts in abject terror at the usurpation of the London of his memory, and the framing sections set in a rather seedy London mental unit. But this is very much a case where the parts (of bodies, minds and unfinished theories) do not make for a unified whole.
I got the feeling reading this that Marcel Theroux himself failed to believe sufficiently in his hypothesis of using language to ‘code’ human consciousness, like a role of imprinted music for a player piano.
This can then be used to transfer such a consciousness into a different body. (We never learn what happens to the consciousness already inhabiting the body; all we get of ‘the Procedure’ itself are vague and bloody hints).
These sections of the novel are rather preposterous, tied up as they are in meditations on Russian mysticism and pseudo science. I think Theroux wrongly tries to straddle the fence here: he should either have opted for more mysticism and horror, or injected more scientific speculation and hence increased the thriller quotient.
Instead he tries to do both, which unfortunately turns a potentially fascinating premise into a bland potboiler. There are some standout sections here, like the ‘reborn’ Dr. Samuel Johnson figure who reacts in abject terror at the usurpation of the London of his memory, and the framing sections set in a rather seedy London mental unit. But this is very much a case where the parts (of bodies, minds and unfinished theories) do not make for a unified whole.
April 19, 2014
If I could give this 2.5 stars, I would. Strange bodies, strange read. My god, it was a trudge to get through. The most annoying part was that it was JUST interesting enough to force me to keep reading it through to the end, but getting there was such a damn headache. There was just too much philosophy forced into the plot in such a heavy-handed way. Also, the main character, Nicholas Slopen, is a Samuel Johnson scholar. Who the hell is Samuel Johnson?!? Is this just a UK or maybe English major thing, and that is why I have never heard of this guy before? This is such a central point to the first half of the book, that it unfortunately kept me completely disassociated from so many parts of the book (plot, character, etc) and therefore made me care less. Gloss over -- next!
It was a nice attempt, I mean I -did- enjoy the soviet-Russian-Nikolai-Fyodorov plot device and that, paired with the psychological aspect, caused me to hold on to the end. For any Samuel Johnson scholars, or those more interested in philosophy, this might be the book for you.
It was a nice attempt, I mean I -did- enjoy the soviet-Russian-Nikolai-Fyodorov plot device and that, paired with the psychological aspect, caused me to hold on to the end. For any Samuel Johnson scholars, or those more interested in philosophy, this might be the book for you.
November 29, 2018
4.5 stars.
If you like David Mitchell or Christopher Priest, you'll be in familiar and enjoyable territory here.
Based on the blurb, I had been hoping for something a little more mysterious and mind-bending, but it was actually pretty straightforward -- very well written though.
If you like David Mitchell or Christopher Priest, you'll be in familiar and enjoyable territory here.
Based on the blurb, I had been hoping for something a little more mysterious and mind-bending, but it was actually pretty straightforward -- very well written though.
October 6, 2015
Whoa. Compelling. A modern retelling of . I'm adding spoiler tags, simply because I am a firm believer that you shouldn't spoil books by reading too much about them (or films by watching the trailers, or men by googling their names). Half the fun of anything is letting an author/a director/your new hot date reveal themselves to you.
And wow, I think that's why I liked this. Theroux reveals the novel piece by piece to you. I felt like I knew just a short few beats ahead what the plot was turning, but I think Theroux wanted me to guess before he spelt it out. Masterfully done... and just fun. Maybe this book hit on a day where its timing was just impeccable. I woke up today to the day I've been waiting for all year: a fall day, where the temps were cooling down and the porch required me, my dogs, and a page turner.
Some lines I liked:
"The love in marriage turns like the lamp in a lighthouse, leaving you in darkness for long stretches, but it always comes back."
"It was all arranged. I think this is in a woman's nature. A man would have presented a dilemma, or a bargaining position, but Leonora came to me with the done deed... Accommodation, new schools, packing their stuff: all taken care of."
"Human personalities are not stable or discrete. They're embedded in, and constructed from, other things: history, societies, cultures, families. Nor are they unitary... The human personality is not an object, it's a process, a constant state of becoming, that depends on a web of interdependencies, binding us to one another with invisible filaments, to our time, to memories and possessions, and back to our changing selves. And even that image probably overstates the solidity and integrity of the human personality. Strip a person away from the relationships that constitute his identity - the friends, the loved ones, the familiar sounds - and the outcome is bound to be breakdown and madness."
"This stranger inside me is a creature like every other: obsessed with the limits of his existence, haunted by the spectacle of his passage through time, the blossoming and deterioration of his relationships with other creatures, the unutterable sadness of a finite life on a beautiful planet."
And wow, I think that's why I liked this. Theroux reveals the novel piece by piece to you. I felt like I knew just a short few beats ahead what the plot was turning, but I think Theroux wanted me to guess before he spelt it out. Masterfully done... and just fun. Maybe this book hit on a day where its timing was just impeccable. I woke up today to the day I've been waiting for all year: a fall day, where the temps were cooling down and the porch required me, my dogs, and a page turner.
Some lines I liked:
"The love in marriage turns like the lamp in a lighthouse, leaving you in darkness for long stretches, but it always comes back."
"It was all arranged. I think this is in a woman's nature. A man would have presented a dilemma, or a bargaining position, but Leonora came to me with the done deed... Accommodation, new schools, packing their stuff: all taken care of."
"Human personalities are not stable or discrete. They're embedded in, and constructed from, other things: history, societies, cultures, families. Nor are they unitary... The human personality is not an object, it's a process, a constant state of becoming, that depends on a web of interdependencies, binding us to one another with invisible filaments, to our time, to memories and possessions, and back to our changing selves. And even that image probably overstates the solidity and integrity of the human personality. Strip a person away from the relationships that constitute his identity - the friends, the loved ones, the familiar sounds - and the outcome is bound to be breakdown and madness."
"This stranger inside me is a creature like every other: obsessed with the limits of his existence, haunted by the spectacle of his passage through time, the blossoming and deterioration of his relationships with other creatures, the unutterable sadness of a finite life on a beautiful planet."
April 16, 2014
Nick Slopen aka "victor" a "reincarnated" Russian peasant. The Common Purpose sneaks in around mid book, after an opening that is mysterious and, yes, strange. One who is ...but does not appear to be. I didn't realize this was SCience Fiction,,,it is so very firmly rooted in today, mundanely detailed in Facebbok, the internet, the minutiae of everyday life, and yet collides with the question of what is identity? The SF concept...that personality can be transferred to another's living self..supplanting the existing self...is weak science, not fully explained beyond some mumbo jumbo about using our writings to "code" our existence. Unsatisfactory if you are a true SF geek. The book runs out of steam towards the end, after a richly detail 365 pages, it becomes fragmentary and not terribly detailed, almost like a sketch outline for what is supposed to happen. Vera? Gone. Hunter? Resurrected? Probably not. Would I read this again? No. The promise of the beginning was not honored by the ending.
July 23, 2014
(FBC rv, all links and related stuff there):
After Far North (FBC short rv), the wonderfully written but pretty banal in content as a run of the mill post-apocalyptic story that could have been so much more, I kept an eye on any new offerings from Marcel Theroux, so Strange Bodies went my "wanted list" the moment I found about it.
The blurb above strongly reminded me of 9 Tail Fox, the second of a loose trilogy by J.C. Grimwood which imho is arguably the best recent series of near-future literary sf (see also FBC's review of the last installment, End of the World Blues).
However on opening the novel, the style and "feel" reminded me of Adam Roberts' books - and to put this in context, I consider A. Roberts the best literary sf writer of today - and Strange Bodies became another impossible to put down novel until finished.
Mostly a current first person narrative from the deceased Nicholas Slopen - crushed by a lorry when biking in London a year or so before the start of the book, his death is strongly documented and cannot be doubted - the dramatic and suspenseful storyline is interspersed with documents that Nicky uses to authenticate his otherwise strange story, documents that include seemingly original letters from Samuel Johnson that nobody has heard of - and Nicky is maybe the second ranked world expert on the famous Dr. Johnson - , excerpts from the diary of his psychiatrist at Bedlam - obviously when someone claims to be a dead man and goes and "harasses" the dead man's wife and children, the madhouse, however euphemistically called today, is clearly his place - revelatory emails and other stuff I leave you to discover...
Here is Nicky as seen through the eyes of Dr. Webster from Bedlam who calls him Q and maybe even gets a little crush on him despite the strong taboo on doctor-patient involvement; at least Nicky figures out soon how to manipulate her; the bolded words encompass the feel of the novel almost perfectly:
"Q is silent for half a minute and then his manner becomes conciliatory:
– I haven’t got long, you know.
– Long?
Q is silent again, then asks if I like haiku. I tell him I do. Q recites.
– This world of dew is a world of dew. And yet, and yet.
His recitation is slow and full of affect. For the first time in our sessions, the countertransference produces a pronounced sense of melancholy. I ask him again why he’s sad.
– I miss my family.
– Your family?
– My children, Sarah and Lucius."
Except for the relatively conventional device of "powerful interests determined to get their way regardless of morality etc etc" that towards the end distracts from what is otherwise such a powerful and moving tale, Strange Bodies is an extraordinary book that asks these fundamental questions: "who am I", "what make me me so to speak"?
While the answers - as they are since after all the book is literary sf so it doesn't claim to find the secret of life, universe and everything - are not necessarily anything not seen before, the narrative voice is so compelling to make it a top 25 novel of mine for 2013. Worth at least one re-read to appreciate even better the little touches the author puts in here and there, but whose full import is not clear until one understands clearly what is what, Strange Bodies firmly puts the author on my "get and read asap any new book" list.
I will end this with a quote from the actual beginning of Nicky's narrative as the first few pages you can read in say the amazon sample consist of a sort of introduction from a former girlfriend Nicky appeals to in his last desperate moments...
"My name is Nicholas Patrick Slopen. I was born in Singapore City on April 10th 1970. I died on September 28th 2009, crushed in the wheel arch of a lorry outside Oval tube station.
This document is my testimony.
As will shortly become clear, I have an unknown but definitely brief period of time to explain the events leading up to my death and to establish the continuity of my identity after it. In view of the constraints upon me, I hope the reader will forgive my forgoing the usual niceties of autobiography. At the same time, I will have to commit myself to some details with a certain, and perhaps wearisome, degree of exactitude in order to provide evidence to support the contention contained in the first paragraph of this testimony: that I am Nicholas Slopen, and that my consciousness has survived my bodily death."
After Far North (FBC short rv), the wonderfully written but pretty banal in content as a run of the mill post-apocalyptic story that could have been so much more, I kept an eye on any new offerings from Marcel Theroux, so Strange Bodies went my "wanted list" the moment I found about it.
The blurb above strongly reminded me of 9 Tail Fox, the second of a loose trilogy by J.C. Grimwood which imho is arguably the best recent series of near-future literary sf (see also FBC's review of the last installment, End of the World Blues).
However on opening the novel, the style and "feel" reminded me of Adam Roberts' books - and to put this in context, I consider A. Roberts the best literary sf writer of today - and Strange Bodies became another impossible to put down novel until finished.
Mostly a current first person narrative from the deceased Nicholas Slopen - crushed by a lorry when biking in London a year or so before the start of the book, his death is strongly documented and cannot be doubted - the dramatic and suspenseful storyline is interspersed with documents that Nicky uses to authenticate his otherwise strange story, documents that include seemingly original letters from Samuel Johnson that nobody has heard of - and Nicky is maybe the second ranked world expert on the famous Dr. Johnson - , excerpts from the diary of his psychiatrist at Bedlam - obviously when someone claims to be a dead man and goes and "harasses" the dead man's wife and children, the madhouse, however euphemistically called today, is clearly his place - revelatory emails and other stuff I leave you to discover...
Here is Nicky as seen through the eyes of Dr. Webster from Bedlam who calls him Q and maybe even gets a little crush on him despite the strong taboo on doctor-patient involvement; at least Nicky figures out soon how to manipulate her; the bolded words encompass the feel of the novel almost perfectly:
"Q is silent for half a minute and then his manner becomes conciliatory:
– I haven’t got long, you know.
– Long?
Q is silent again, then asks if I like haiku. I tell him I do. Q recites.
– This world of dew is a world of dew. And yet, and yet.
His recitation is slow and full of affect. For the first time in our sessions, the countertransference produces a pronounced sense of melancholy. I ask him again why he’s sad.
– I miss my family.
– Your family?
– My children, Sarah and Lucius."
Except for the relatively conventional device of "powerful interests determined to get their way regardless of morality etc etc" that towards the end distracts from what is otherwise such a powerful and moving tale, Strange Bodies is an extraordinary book that asks these fundamental questions: "who am I", "what make me me so to speak"?
While the answers - as they are since after all the book is literary sf so it doesn't claim to find the secret of life, universe and everything - are not necessarily anything not seen before, the narrative voice is so compelling to make it a top 25 novel of mine for 2013. Worth at least one re-read to appreciate even better the little touches the author puts in here and there, but whose full import is not clear until one understands clearly what is what, Strange Bodies firmly puts the author on my "get and read asap any new book" list.
I will end this with a quote from the actual beginning of Nicky's narrative as the first few pages you can read in say the amazon sample consist of a sort of introduction from a former girlfriend Nicky appeals to in his last desperate moments...
"My name is Nicholas Patrick Slopen. I was born in Singapore City on April 10th 1970. I died on September 28th 2009, crushed in the wheel arch of a lorry outside Oval tube station.
This document is my testimony.
As will shortly become clear, I have an unknown but definitely brief period of time to explain the events leading up to my death and to establish the continuity of my identity after it. In view of the constraints upon me, I hope the reader will forgive my forgoing the usual niceties of autobiography. At the same time, I will have to commit myself to some details with a certain, and perhaps wearisome, degree of exactitude in order to provide evidence to support the contention contained in the first paragraph of this testimony: that I am Nicholas Slopen, and that my consciousness has survived my bodily death."
January 8, 2023
Literary SF about a secret procedure to make a copy of a person's consciousness, ensuring immortality when placed in another body. Great idea, but the writing was uneven. It really bogged down in the middle, but the ending is good.
January 5, 2020
The biggest accomplishment of this book was ruining the word “carcass” for me forever.
June 12, 2024
I absolutely loved this book. Picked it up on a whim at a garage sale and couldn’t put it down. Smart intellectual and mysterious. It posits my favorite questions about consciousness in a fun and engaging way.
December 15, 2013
Strange Bodies is clever book, with a clever protagonist and a clever central conceit. Sadly it's almost too clever: while I think the style is deliberately quite dry and formal, evoking as it does 19th century works like Frankenstein, the effect is a bit distancing on an emotional level. So I kept turning the pages to see what happened next, but I wouldn't say I particularly cared. Clever though. Very clever.
November 29, 2014
This would have been even better if I understood the mechanics of this particular brand of Frankenstienism but what I got and the fascinating characters and relationships between them were different and kept me reading.
May 18, 2015
A modern day Frankenstein story that challenges what we believe about identity, experience and individuality. Masterfully suspenseful, subtlety written. Mind bender. I ate this book up. Gobbled it. Highly recc.
February 19, 2015
Without revealing much this is a good twist to the mystery-thriller format, although it takes a while for the action to unfold.
June 21, 2022
I really love how uncomfortable this made me
August 12, 2020
Well now I know I’ll never read another book by this author. Pretentious writing. Overwrought with veiled sentimentality, skip this pile of garbage
October 24, 2023
I like the theme. I like the twist. I like the last 20% of the book. But the rest made me groan aloud, literally, so many times that I can only give it three stars.
Dr. Nicholas Slopen begins the book by telling you that he has already died, and that he is now narrating the events that happened in a foreign body not his own. He has tried to plead with his (former?) family to recognize him, the real him behind this stranger's face - only to terrify his children and be hauled off by the police (called by his wife) and shoved into the asylum. He has to wrestle with the remnant memories and emotions of the previous owner of this borrowed body; he must endure therapy after therapy to "rectify" his delusions, and live a life under heavy surveillance, surrounded by the severely mentally ill. Abandoned and stranded, he is nobody and no one. With this not-quite-his body slowly failing him, he spends his last moments trying to tell us his story, from who he was - is - to how he got to this point.
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I really, really like this premise. And in some ways, the book delivered what it promised. This book isn't an objectively bad book. And yet ...
And yet, it nailed on the head one of my greatest pet peeves when it comes to first-person writing. Of all things, it chooses to narrate a modern story in the voice of a 19th-century British gentleman, with all its Latinate vocabulary, passive voice and nominalizations, tortuous sentences that turn at least three times before you see the period, and general melodramatic bemoaning about the transience of life and the pain of love. I am already groaning as I type this sentence.
See, Dr. Slopen is an English professor. And he sounds exactly like what you'd expect an English Professor to sound like, so stereotypical that it's almost a parody. I wish it was a parody instead - that would have made Dr. Slopen a more interesting character and a powerful narrator for a story that shouldn't have needed any artificial melancholy in the first place.
Listening to him, I don't picture a man in his late forties who is in the midst of a mid-life crisis and existential dread. No, I picture a princess. A princess of the Kingdom of The Educated, who resides at the top of the Ivory Tower. She speaks only Academese, and she tests the intelligence of her subjects by the number of literary references they can list. Her court is barred to all but those who can recite every Shakespearean sonnet by heart.
Dr. Slopen (or should I say Theroux?) is at least self-aware, though of course he feels more smug than anything else about his "peculiarity."
If I had a nine-year-old behaving like this, I would be very worried. There's nothing wrong with loving books - I myself was an angry little bookworm back then - but there is something wrong if a friggin nine-year-old is already a snob. If Dr. Slopen was like that when he was nine, how could he refrain from showcasing his intellectual prowess now that he's formally an academic?
"Of course, Johnson" indeed. I'll politely point out that all the listed masters of "the eternal knowledge" are, definitely coincidentally, British, but I'll move on to the topic of Samuel Johnson. Theroux - no, I mean Dr. Slopen - is one of the most brazen fanboys I've ever seen, and his jarring references to Johnson do nothing but add to Dr. Slopen's elitism while breaking the flow of the story. Here's the passage that immediately follows "of course, Johnson":
The irony is that Dr. Slopen's prose is nothing but empty sophistry, lacking any real substance whatsoever. For someone who only has minimal knowledge of Samuel Johnson, I came away as ignorant about the poet as ever from the book, despite all its lavish eulogies. I'll just let you read Ther - I mean Dr. Slopen's obsession for yourself.
One more:
Am I reading a doctoral thesis on Johnson? Where did all this pseudo-profound philosophizing come from? If the author already couldn't stop himself from going off-track on page 53, then what I should expect from the rest?
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I've already used far too many block quotes in this review, but I think I should give you more evidence of where I'm coming from, because I don't want to sound like a Gen-Z whining about the ridiculousness of the Old Masters (not that I'm not). But here's the twist: I am, in fact, a snob who largely prefers the classics and reflexively wrinkle my nose at the "juvenile" writing in contemporary work that dares to split infinitives and end sentences with a preposition. I'm kidding of course, but I do mean what said: I actually, really do prefer the classics.
However, that doesn't mean I like each and every classic equally.
Some classics are enshrined likely because they left a profound political mark on the society of their time, even though their mark may have been outdated by now. Some other classics become classics because they captured the rawest bits of humanity in their work, a feat that should have been impossible, but they managed it anyway. These are the classics that I have enjoyed the most, because they transcend time, social upheaval, and national boundaries.
Why have I gone off on a tangent to wax lyrical about the merits of the classics, not unlike what Theroux has done with Johnson? Because what Theroux has tried so desperately to do - express his love for, and emulate the sheer weight of, these immortal works - has not borne fruit. He has their tone, their melancholy, their philosophizing, and - hell - the damned verbosity, but I'd argue that it is precisely his insurmountable respect for these works that prevents him from delivering an emotional impact that is strong and, most importantly, original.
However excessive the above-quoted philosophical musings sound, they undoubtedly reveal a mind that's capable of sharp observations on the general human experience. And yet, when it comes to vulnerable, if not painful moments for Nicholas Slopen himself, this is how Theroux explores his character:
This is what baffles me the most. Theroux has the insights and, yes, the prose to back up any random hymn on Johnson's literary merits; he also has enough knowledge about philosophy and psychoanalysis to paint steely-eyed strokes about human nature. But when it comes to his story and his characters, his writing falls woefully short. Again and again, he resorts to analogies with the works of his predecessors. This is where Dr. Slopen and, let's face it, Theroux's penchant for dropping literary references becomes not just amild annoyance personal writing habit, but a hindrance to the story. Especially when we approach the end of this tale.
The last 20% of the book is, in my opinion, its true essence. The mystery is finally revealed:
My hypocrisy isn't lost on me: I complain non-stop about the philosophizing in the first part of this work, then I complain even more about the lack of philosophizing in the second part. I claim that the book should slow down and explore the characters more in the latter part, yet I will be the first to admit that the much-increased pace is perhaps what makes me like it more in the first place.
Once again, this leads to my conclusion: I like this book's theme. I like the plot twist. But I can only give it three stars.
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Will I recommend it? Yes, actually. Petty whining aside, I will not deny that this is an interesting work - literary fiction mixed with the thriller genre. Philosophy and detective work don't often go together, and whatever the results may be, Theroux made an attempt at it. His writing is somewhat ornate, though certainly nowhere near the level of what we now call "purple prose," and so it may be enjoyed by those who like that style. Its theme of the fragility of identity could be better handled, but it also works well enough as it is.
So why three stars? Because books are about taste. Yes, I don't like it, so I give it three stars - but I'm mature enough to know that others may not agree. So, as always, try it for yourself if you are interested.
Dr. Nicholas Slopen begins the book by telling you that he has already died, and that he is now narrating the events that happened in a foreign body not his own. He has tried to plead with his (former?) family to recognize him, the real him behind this stranger's face - only to terrify his children and be hauled off by the police (called by his wife) and shoved into the asylum. He has to wrestle with the remnant memories and emotions of the previous owner of this borrowed body; he must endure therapy after therapy to "rectify" his delusions, and live a life under heavy surveillance, surrounded by the severely mentally ill. Abandoned and stranded, he is nobody and no one. With this not-quite-his body slowly failing him, he spends his last moments trying to tell us his story, from who he was - is - to how he got to this point.
┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅┄┅
I really, really like this premise. And in some ways, the book delivered what it promised. This book isn't an objectively bad book. And yet ...
And yet, it nailed on the head one of my greatest pet peeves when it comes to first-person writing. Of all things, it chooses to narrate a modern story in the voice of a 19th-century British gentleman, with all its Latinate vocabulary, passive voice and nominalizations, tortuous sentences that turn at least three times before you see the period, and general melodramatic bemoaning about the transience of life and the pain of love. I am already groaning as I type this sentence.
See, Dr. Slopen is an English professor. And he sounds exactly like what you'd expect an English Professor to sound like, so stereotypical that it's almost a parody. I wish it was a parody instead - that would have made Dr. Slopen a more interesting character and a powerful narrator for a story that shouldn't have needed any artificial melancholy in the first place.
Listening to him, I don't picture a man in his late forties who is in the midst of a mid-life crisis and existential dread. No, I picture a princess. A princess of the Kingdom of The Educated, who resides at the top of the Ivory Tower. She speaks only Academese, and she tests the intelligence of her subjects by the number of literary references they can list. Her court is barred to all but those who can recite every Shakespearean sonnet by heart.
Dr. Slopen (or should I say Theroux?) is at least self-aware, though of course he feels more smug than anything else about his "peculiarity."
For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be an academic - even before I knew such a word existed. Something with the flavor of old books and libraries, ink, index cards, and the silent ingestion of pure knowledge must have been marked on my consciousness at birth, the way a green sea turtle is imprinted with the topographical sense of the beach where it hatched and returns there to lay eggs as an adult.
All my life, I seem to have been trying to re-create some primal ideal of bookishness. While my peers at primary school were playing football, I declared myself the custodian of the school library, embossed my name on a badge with the teacher's label maker, and spent break time memorizing the numbers of the Dewey decimal system. I was nine. The lid of my school desk was unshuttable because of the books I'd tucked away inside it. And it wasn’t just the books. Anything with a sense of ceremony and formality attracted me. My school had an optional uniform that was worn by only one family - Jehovah's Witnesses from Guyana - and me. The fashion of the 1970s meant that my peer group grew their hair long and wore polyester trousers and monkey boots. If a gown and mortar board had been available, I'd probably have worn them too. I insisted on a short back and sides every time I went to the barber. My appetite for books ruined my eyesight and I was delighted when I got my first pair of NHS spectacles at eight. (p. 36)
If I had a nine-year-old behaving like this, I would be very worried. There's nothing wrong with loving books - I myself was an angry little bookworm back then - but there is something wrong if a friggin nine-year-old is already a snob. If Dr. Slopen was like that when he was nine, how could he refrain from showcasing his intellectual prowess now that he's formally an academic?
Harbottle [My mentor] conducted his supervision in an atmosphere of reassuring certainty: governments could change and fall, fashions ebb and shift, but this was the center of the world; the eternal knowledge remained the same - Piers Plowman, the works of the Gawain poet, Chaucer, Shakespeare, the Jacobeans, the Metaphysicals, Milton, Pope, Fielding, Austen, Keats, and, of course, Johnson. (p. 39)
"Of course, Johnson" indeed. I'll politely point out that all the listed masters of "the eternal knowledge" are, definitely coincidentally, British, but I'll move on to the topic of Samuel Johnson. Theroux - no, I mean Dr. Slopen - is one of the most brazen fanboys I've ever seen, and his jarring references to Johnson do nothing but add to Dr. Slopen's elitism while breaking the flow of the story. Here's the passage that immediately follows "of course, Johnson":
Ah, Johnson! If there was a model for Harbottle's wry humanism, a clear and laughing eye fixed on the cold facts of life, scorning cant, embracing truth, refuting sophistry with the toe punt of the self-evidently real, a vast appetite for food and conversation - John was it. Ron Harbottle's life was shambolic, inefficient, totally lacking in any conception of career, and yet illuminated by his omnivalent curiosity, his spirit of humane endeavor, and his generosity to those he taught.
The irony is that Dr. Slopen's prose is nothing but empty sophistry, lacking any real substance whatsoever. For someone who only has minimal knowledge of Samuel Johnson, I came away as ignorant about the poet as ever from the book, despite all its lavish eulogies. I'll just let you read Ther - I mean Dr. Slopen's obsession for yourself.
[This writing] reminded me of the quality I had always loved in Johnson: the solace of his fierce, suffering intelligence. Like a rare handful of characters in books, Johnson seems to project a vast empathy back out to the reader; he seems to know what it is like for the reader to live. Wholly pessimistic, he admits and grapples with the dark, unresolvable facts that everyone knows in their hearts to be true, but every age finds its own ways of avoiding: that life is a painful, chronic illness lightened by brief bouts of remission, that death comes stalking remorselessly down every corridor, that the extraordinary disjunctions of human suffering are tragicomic at best, and at worst entirely meaningless. And yet, his preparedness to hold on to these dismal truths performs a kind of alchemy. His moral courage is transformative, a guide and comfort, but also a kind of protection: Virgil leading Dante through Hell, Tinkerbell swallowing the poison meant for Peter, Christ at Golgotha. Like them, his example seems to say: You shall face these things, but you shall not face them alone. (p. 53)
One more:
To me, Johnson's recognition of that ["reality" is merely a consensus] is part of his acute modernity as a moralist. I think he saw the relation between individual and collective delusion: the threat of madness to the human mind and the body politic. He knew that it was a small step from religious mania to religious wars. Madness is a part of that turn away from the real that Johnson was so vigilant in confronting wherever he found it - not because of his confidence in reason, but because he knew from his own experience how fragile the rule of reason is.
No one more embodies the illuminating potency of reason. Johnson was devastating in his capacity to sniff out the fake in its different guises, to know what the real is, or the real, if you follow Hunter's comical etymology. But this very power was riddled with its opposites: melancholy and uncertainty; fear of own loosening grip on the nature of reality. (p. 148)
Am I reading a doctoral thesis on Johnson? Where did all this pseudo-profound philosophizing come from? If the author already couldn't stop himself from going off-track on page 53, then what I should expect from the rest?
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I've already used far too many block quotes in this review, but I think I should give you more evidence of where I'm coming from, because I don't want to sound like a Gen-Z whining about the ridiculousness of the Old Masters (not that I'm not). But here's the twist: I am, in fact, a snob who largely prefers the classics and reflexively wrinkle my nose at the "juvenile" writing in contemporary work that dares to split infinitives and end sentences with a preposition. I'm kidding of course, but I do mean what said: I actually, really do prefer the classics.
However, that doesn't mean I like each and every classic equally.
Some classics are enshrined likely because they left a profound political mark on the society of their time, even though their mark may have been outdated by now. Some other classics become classics because they captured the rawest bits of humanity in their work, a feat that should have been impossible, but they managed it anyway. These are the classics that I have enjoyed the most, because they transcend time, social upheaval, and national boundaries.
Why have I gone off on a tangent to wax lyrical about the merits of the classics, not unlike what Theroux has done with Johnson? Because what Theroux has tried so desperately to do - express his love for, and emulate the sheer weight of, these immortal works - has not borne fruit. He has their tone, their melancholy, their philosophizing, and - hell - the damned verbosity, but I'd argue that it is precisely his insurmountable respect for these works that prevents him from delivering an emotional impact that is strong and, most importantly, original.
However excessive the above-quoted philosophical musings sound, they undoubtedly reveal a mind that's capable of sharp observations on the general human experience. And yet, when it comes to vulnerable, if not painful moments for Nicholas Slopen himself, this is how Theroux explores his character:
I took Lucius and Sarah to lunch at a restaurant near Borough Market a week ago. I seemed to have turned into a superfluous and pitiful character, like someone in a William Trevor story, but it seemed right to go along with . (p. 102)
"Think of Hamlet," she went on. "What appalls him is not the terrible death of his father, but a guilty glimpse of the dark part of him that willed it ... Harbottle and you were not mentor and disciple, you were father and son, with all the shades of Sophocles that entail. You resented the joint authorship. The bulk of the work was done by you. And on a psychic level, you wished him dead. Long before Tilda Swann, you wanted to usurp his throne. But when he - as it were - took his own life, the guilt almost destroyed you." (p. 11X)
I attempted to explain to her the pain I felt at being . "I'm Scrooge with no third act," I said. "I'm like a character in Greek myth: the Cassandra of personal development, who knows the truth but isn't believed or allowed to act on it." (p. 154)
This is what baffles me the most. Theroux has the insights and, yes, the prose to back up any random hymn on Johnson's literary merits; he also has enough knowledge about philosophy and psychoanalysis to paint steely-eyed strokes about human nature. But when it comes to his story and his characters, his writing falls woefully short. Again and again, he resorts to analogies with the works of his predecessors. This is where Dr. Slopen and, let's face it, Theroux's penchant for dropping literary references becomes not just a
The last 20% of the book is, in my opinion, its true essence. The mystery is finally revealed:
My hypocrisy isn't lost on me: I complain non-stop about the philosophizing in the first part of this work, then I complain even more about the lack of philosophizing in the second part. I claim that the book should slow down and explore the characters more in the latter part, yet I will be the first to admit that the much-increased pace is perhaps what makes me like it more in the first place.
Once again, this leads to my conclusion: I like this book's theme. I like the plot twist. But I can only give it three stars.
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Will I recommend it? Yes, actually. Petty whining aside, I will not deny that this is an interesting work - literary fiction mixed with the thriller genre. Philosophy and detective work don't often go together, and whatever the results may be, Theroux made an attempt at it. His writing is somewhat ornate, though certainly nowhere near the level of what we now call "purple prose," and so it may be enjoyed by those who like that style. Its theme of the fragility of identity could be better handled, but it also works well enough as it is.
So why three stars? Because books are about taste. Yes, I don't like it, so I give it three stars - but I'm mature enough to know that others may not agree. So, as always, try it for yourself if you are interested.
December 23, 2024
Captivating story - the author does a good job of weaving several points together into a nice tapestry. It was an interesting to contemplate what would happen if consciousnesses could be transferred to other physical bodies once yours is no longer useable. I was a bit lost at times; some of the details of the way the author was describing the science/what he was actually trying to say happened were a bit confusing and not fully fleshed out. This is definitely just the scientist in me who wishes that the biophysical parts were more nailed down, but I understand that he was trying to talk about an abstract and fictitious concept which we are technologically very far away from ever achieving. The lack of scientific explanation just made the narrative difficult to follow at times and I had to just accept that there were things that didn't make complete sense in order to move forward with the plot.
Overall, despite my earlier criticism, I thought this was a well-written book that explored many interesting themes. If I were to re-read the book with a more discerning eye I would probably have less to complain about anyways. I liked the character development of Nicky Slopen and how he was constantly aware of his own human fallibility. His struggles seemed so genuinely real yet equally as frustrating to have to accept on his behalf. The thought experiment of how would societal power dynamics be affected if one could pay for their consciousness to be moved to a new body was fascinating to ponder. I'm glad the Boston Public Library book display prompted me to read this. In all, I would recommend.
Overall, despite my earlier criticism, I thought this was a well-written book that explored many interesting themes. If I were to re-read the book with a more discerning eye I would probably have less to complain about anyways. I liked the character development of Nicky Slopen and how he was constantly aware of his own human fallibility. His struggles seemed so genuinely real yet equally as frustrating to have to accept on his behalf. The thought experiment of how would societal power dynamics be affected if one could pay for their consciousness to be moved to a new body was fascinating to ponder. I'm glad the Boston Public Library book display prompted me to read this. In all, I would recommend.
June 15, 2020
If I’d have had a glass of wine and been snuggled up reading in bed, I’d have cried at the end of this book. I’d fallen desperately in love with Nicky Slopen by the conclusion and also felt desperately sad for him. His wife and children, living a life without him, moved on and believing him dead. I wanted to hold my children close, because surely Dr Slopen’s fate is a fate worse than death?
I also wanted to know Vera’s end, and that of the psychologist that (almost...?) believes Nicky. And the main thing - does Nicky get another host!? It’s tantalising but almost better that we don’t find out definitively.
I’ll admit, I did engage with Google a couple of times when reading this book. Mr Theroux is obviously incredibly smart and well-read, and boy, does he make sure you know it! Or perhaps I’m being unfair... perhaps he wants us to know how well read our heroine scholar, Dr Slopen, is. I’m sure it’s the latter. Who knew ‘horripilation’ is another word for ‘goosebumps’?
Overall, I loved this book and felt a real sense of connection and accomplishment when I finished it. I loved the analogies between books being the unloved, transcended and left-behind things and the vision of a dusty library at the end gave real context to this story and Dr Slopen’s journey. The real message though, books, the written word, and love, well, they never die.
RIP Dr Nicky Slopen (or does he?!?!)
I also wanted to know Vera’s end, and that of the psychologist that (almost...?) believes Nicky. And the main thing - does Nicky get another host!? It’s tantalising but almost better that we don’t find out definitively.
I’ll admit, I did engage with Google a couple of times when reading this book. Mr Theroux is obviously incredibly smart and well-read, and boy, does he make sure you know it! Or perhaps I’m being unfair... perhaps he wants us to know how well read our heroine scholar, Dr Slopen, is. I’m sure it’s the latter. Who knew ‘horripilation’ is another word for ‘goosebumps’?
Overall, I loved this book and felt a real sense of connection and accomplishment when I finished it. I loved the analogies between books being the unloved, transcended and left-behind things and the vision of a dusty library at the end gave real context to this story and Dr Slopen’s journey. The real message though, books, the written word, and love, well, they never die.
RIP Dr Nicky Slopen (or does he?!?!)
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
December 10, 2015
If I could I would give this 3.5 stars out of 5 but I can't, and it's just not good enough for 4 stars.
So the premise is that one man's consciousness (Nicky Slopen) has been "transplanted" from one body to another following his assumed demise. Nicky then attempts to communicate this transference with little success; he finds himself in a mental institute. Eventually he manages to escape, tracking down a former lover and dying (for a second time) in her living room, hiding under a chair a USB key containing the manuscript that forms the bulk of the book.
There are some interesting ideas bounced around about one's mind, body and soul. The idea that a personality can be reconstructed in a new vessel using a code created from the literature of their life; the books they read, the memories they recorded etc.
However, it wasn't convincing enough to be real. There was a huge obsession with Ben Johnson and I am not sure why and the main protagonist wasn't very likeable making it difficult for me to care when bad things happened. Also, due to the Nicky being an English Academic, the book had a very formal tone.
It's not a book I would read again and unfortunately it doesn't entice me to try anything else by Marcel Theroux. It wasn't a bad book, I finished it!, and it was incredibly well written with some intriguing concepts. Unfortunately, it just wasn't for me.
So the premise is that one man's consciousness (Nicky Slopen) has been "transplanted" from one body to another following his assumed demise. Nicky then attempts to communicate this transference with little success; he finds himself in a mental institute. Eventually he manages to escape, tracking down a former lover and dying (for a second time) in her living room, hiding under a chair a USB key containing the manuscript that forms the bulk of the book.
There are some interesting ideas bounced around about one's mind, body and soul. The idea that a personality can be reconstructed in a new vessel using a code created from the literature of their life; the books they read, the memories they recorded etc.
However, it wasn't convincing enough to be real. There was a huge obsession with Ben Johnson and I am not sure why and the main protagonist wasn't very likeable making it difficult for me to care when bad things happened. Also, due to the Nicky being an English Academic, the book had a very formal tone.
It's not a book I would read again and unfortunately it doesn't entice me to try anything else by Marcel Theroux. It wasn't a bad book, I finished it!, and it was incredibly well written with some intriguing concepts. Unfortunately, it just wasn't for me.
June 28, 2014
Despite the 3 star rating I have given this book, I quite enjoyed it and would like to say its closer to 3.5 - 3.75 stars.
The story captivated me from the beginning, presenting an interesting narrative and several ideas that I will admit are too big for my brain to comprehend.
Due to the questions I found myself pondering relating to the self, consciousness and being, I would probably categorise Strange Bodies as philosophical fiction, rather than sci-fi as some reviews suggest.
I look forward to reading more of Marcel Theroux's works.
The story captivated me from the beginning, presenting an interesting narrative and several ideas that I will admit are too big for my brain to comprehend.
Due to the questions I found myself pondering relating to the self, consciousness and being, I would probably categorise Strange Bodies as philosophical fiction, rather than sci-fi as some reviews suggest.
I look forward to reading more of Marcel Theroux's works.
July 26, 2014
I really struggled to get into this book and I can honestly say that I didn't begin to enjoy reading it until 70% in! I almost gave up and marked it as 'Did not finish' on three occasions but something compelled me to keep reading; I don't know what because I found it boring and slow. I didn't understand a lot of what was happening and found it to be almost non fictional/autobiographical with it's complicated writing. I don't know, maybe I am not intellectual enough for this book.
June 21, 2014
Enjoyable -- seemed like a smart, fast-paced thriller (I guess that's the category it might be in?). It had some serious overtones of Frankenstein throughout, including the same melancholic tone pervading the story, imo. It raised some interesting philosophical questions about the nature of self & what makes a person.
A smart beach read, if you don't mind a little melancholy with your day in the sand....
A smart beach read, if you don't mind a little melancholy with your day in the sand....
January 24, 2014
I love literary fiction and a good literary murder mystery and this book certainly covers those requirements, but the unexpected (to me) science fiction twist was not to my taste so I gave up on this one. Just not my thing.
June 25, 2014
una novela con un punto de partida interesante, pero demasiado densa para mi gusto porque alarga la historia innecesariamente pasando de puntillas sobre la parte de la trama que más me interesaba.
http://dreamsofelvex.blogspot.com/201...
http://dreamsofelvex.blogspot.com/201...
October 10, 2016
An engaging novel about identity, madness and the relationship between mind and body.
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