A dark novel peopled with characters of torment, each carrying some kind of horrific past event or time as a defining point to their persona. A novel of folks that drink too much, philosophize grandly, are sometimes violent, and—not surprisingly—at times seem to feel sorry for themselves. Or stop just short of feeling sorry for themselves, with the very fallible good guys managing to overcome both great external and internal odds to successfully deal with the very very fallible bad guys, who while having the advantage of being able to pretty much make their own rules, ultimately fall prey to the fact that they are, after all, the bad guys, and of the ilk that always finds a way to lose in the end.
Nothing about the above paragraph describes a mystery that is particularly unusual in its premise, and the novel would not unfairly be called a "page turner," but the thing about Swan Peak is that James Lee Burke is a very good writer, and can bring it off. Anyone, for example, that can write lines like these...
Tomorrow would be the day that decided the rest of his life, he thought. He could say in all honesty he did not fear death. Once born, you were already inside eternity, not preparing for it. Existence was a deep pasture that had no fence across it. Jimmy Dale’s grandfather, who had been a shaman, had said that embarking upon the Ghost Trail was not a passage as much as a sharpening of his vision. Unfortunately, being unafraid of death was not the same as being brave.
...can not only use words, but think.
Or this brief moment of descriptive brilliance, effortlessly managing to describe both present and past at the same time:
I wrote down the plate number, then drove home in an electric storm that lit the Bitterroot River and the cottonwoods like pistol flares floating down from a forgotten war.
Swan Peak is, of course, a novel in a genre that is predictable. From the beginning you know the good guys will win, but as in any competent mystery (or in this case, more than competent), the lines are blurred as to who is on which side of the fence, and sometimes the delineation of good and bad, the why of it all, is a bit uncertain. It is not like—say—Crime and Punishment, or The Trial, where the outcome can not be taken for granted, and the reading is approached with different expectations. From start to finish in this one, the author pulls us through; the reading is effortless, there is tension and development, characters to care about...and through it all an extraordinary use of words—not necessarily the brilliance of the classics named above, but something missing—I think it can be called "depth"—in most mysteries.
It’s fair to say most of his girlfriends were nude dancers, grifters, drunks, or relatives of mobsters. Most of them wore tattoos, and some had tracks on their arms or thighs. But the similarity in Clete’s lovers didn’t lie in their occupations or addictions. Almost all of them were incurable neurotics who went through romantic relationships like boxes of Kleenex. The more outrageous their behavior, the more Clete believed he had found kindred spirits.
Ironically, it wasn’t the hookers and strippers and addicts who did him the most damage. It was usually a woman with a degree of normalcy and education in her background who wrapped him in knots. I suspect a psychologist would say Clete didn’t believe he was worthy of being loved. As a consequence, he would allow himself to be used and wounded by people whose own lack of self knowledge didn’t allow them to see the depth of injury they inflicted upon him. Regardless, it was the quasi-normal ones who hung him out to dry.
There is a scene near the end, where a prisoner is attempting communication with his captor, and in this scene Burke takes us through an encounter depicting the complete disconnect from reality of a mind bordering on insanity in a way that made my skin crawl. I’ve never read its equal, and am not going to quote any of the lines—it needs to be read in context—but the encounter takes us into the penultimate scene, then he’s done with it, and we���re left to reflect on the truisms of both the internal and external landscapes shaping our lives. From beginning to end, a "page turner" with depth. This is the third Burke novel I’ve read, and it is only fair to say there is a similarity between them, but when they are this good (the others are also good, but Swan Peak is the best so far) I’m certainly not one to object.
I couldn’t help but wonder if her sense of betrayal had less to do with an individual than her discovery that fame and celebrity are cheap currency and seldom purchase loyalty in others. I wanted to ask why she hadn’t stuck by Jimmy Dale when he went to prison and why she had married into a collection of scum like the Wellstones. I wanted to ask if she ever felt remorse because she’d helped deceive the audiences who had bought in to Reverend Sonny Click’s charlatanism. I wanted to ask if she had ever thought about the suffering Seymour Bell and Cindy Kershaw had gone through before they died. But I already knew the answers I would get. Andy Warhol was dead wrong when he said every American is allowed fifteen minutes of fame. Fame comes to very few, and when it does, it takes on the properties of a narcotic and puts into abeyance our fears about our own mortality. Anyone who acquires a drug that potent does not give it up easily.
A very good mystery, well written...highest recommendation.