On the Greek island of Samothrace, the natives are born dispossessed. They mourn the loss of their Nike, the most beautiful of classical statues, the timeless embodiment of victory and grace. Buried in an earthquake, she was recovered in the 1860s by a French antiquarian -- only to be whisked away to ornament the Louvre. Even today the islanders can hear the sickening clatter of shovels, of spade hitting marble, of a Frenchman profaning the Greek word Eureka! They long for repatriation. They want their Nike back. No one feels this loss, this grudge, so deeply as Photi Anthropotis. Keeper of the ruins of the sanctuary, the damaged, hapless Photi dreams of glory, of rescuing his goddess in distress. He is abetted in his fantasy by two beautiful women, an innocent, love-starved French museum guard and a glamorous, narcissistic American documentary filmmaker. Together they hatch the art theft of the century -- together, but each to his or her own ends.
Read this book because it was on my dads shelf and it looked interesting. The plot is decent but told using the most embarrassing (and freudian) language possible. Passes neither the bechdel nor reverse bechdel test. Despite this, the book was compelling enough to finish.
The beginning of this reads like a poem. I could not keep still for joy at the twists of language in the first few chapters, and the first exchange with Gabrielle is a skilled and suprising dance. Susanna ruins everything: her appearance brings down the prose, her influence on Photi is unearned and a reader cannot understand her appeal. Maybe this is part of the effect: a particular failing common to humanity, that of idolizing without a clear look at the idol. The climax of the book, the van trip, falls short in many respects, and the story ends in an obscure slump. I wanted the final strokes to mean more. Good, but not rewarding.
I was delighted, because I thought this little book was about the courageous and prideful resuce of the great Hellenistic sculpture, the Nike of Samothrace, from the Louvre. (You see, I am one of those poeple who thinks the Elgin marbles ought to be moved from the British Museum and returned to Athens where they belong...) Anyway, the book is much less about the taking back of the sculpture and more about a romantic encounter. Quite flowery prose and much too melodramatic for my taste.