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352 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published December 2, 2009


People who come to Mr. Shivers because they enjoyed Robert Jackson Bennett's later books will probably be in for a bit of a let down. Not because it's a bad book, because it's really, really good, and not even because his other books are better. It's just that relative to the books that followed, which are all sweeping high-concept fantasies, knotty conspiracy thrillers or both, Mr. Shivers is smaller, tighter and to my mind, much nastier both in tone and content. Might be a bit jarring for somebody coming straight from the more high-profile (and excellent) City of Stairs, but there's still plenty to enjoy here.
On the face of it, it's a simple story: a taciturn drifter hunting down a killer, a man the hoboes call Mr. Shivers, set against the blighted backdrop of the American dustbowl. This really was a horrible time to be Midwestern and poor and, if you aren't clued up on that period of American history, the mood alone will tell you everything you need to know. Everyone you meet might want to rob and kill you. The railroad police will beat you half to death if they catch you riding without a ticket. The crops are failing, the banks are crashing, and everybody's headed West to try and find a better deal, but there's no guarantee they will. Bennett's prose quickly lays out an atmosphere of grim hopelessness and looming dread that never really lets up for the whole book; there's a very real sense that the whole country is sliding towards some kind of slow apocalypse that might not only be inevitable, but could even be what it deserves. Call it McCarthyesque. Heavy, but instantly compelling if you're into this sort of thing.
Our man Connelly thinks he's in a simple story, too: a man murdered his daughter, apparently for no reason. Hunt him, find him, kill him. But almost immediately, things get more complicated. Connelly finds he's far from the only one chasing Mr. Shivers, who it seems has been spilling blood and making enemies all over America, and even with help, finding the man turns out to be more harder than he bargained for. The chase becomes a brutal odyssey into the West across a dying land, mined with new obstacles and ugly compromises with every step, and Connelly and his companions have to ask themselves: is revenge worth this? Is anything?
This is a dark book that goes to some darker places, and if the atmosphere doesn't appeal to you early on then it honestly might be time to stop reading. Hope is teased but rarely delivered on, and Connelly and his people go through some genuinely frightening transformations as their hunt takes its toll and they stray further and further from civilisation. It's not the kind of revenge story that leads to redemption, which is kind of strange trend when I think about it. Instead blood begets blood, over and over, building to a hideous final confrontation deep in the wilderness where the book finally succumbs to the undercurrent of insanity that's been throbbing quietly away for the last three hundred pages, and even though a lot of the closing stuff is left open to interpretation, it feels like this could never have ended in any other way.
It's not a perfect story by any means; a lot of the supernatural stuff in the latter half goes largely unexplained and not everybody digs that. Characters are a mixed bag. Connelly's crew gets pretty large at points and while the core group are consistently interesting, it becomes obvious that most of these characters are just fodder for an ugly world to chew on. Others are weirdly half-developed then discarded from the narrative, and books like these can always do with more female characters.
Shivers himself is more of a malevolent presence hovering on the Western horizon than a real character for most of the book, so it falls to Connelly to hold things together. He's a winner of a protagonist; appealing in a reserved, Eastwoody sort of way, we're allowed just far enough into his thoughts to get the measure of him but never far enough that he becomes predictable, and that's how Bennett deals us some of the more shocking and violent turns of events. The real joy of the book comes from Connelly's slow epiphany that revenge is more complicated and destructive and will ask more of him than he ever thought at the beginning.
Anyway, get past the extraneous characters and there's really not much to complain about here. Sinister, haunting, bloody but surprisingly accessible for its historical setting; it's not Steinbeck's West, but it'll stick with you. Put on some Tom Waits or something and read it, then read Bennett's other books if you haven't.
All that lives kills. All that breathes murders. Prays for it, even. It is simplistic, yes, but so is life and death. All living things are friends of death, whether they know it or not.
They say the sun kisses the land out there, like a lover. That may be so. I been out there. For years, I been out there. And if that’s so then the sun’s love is a terrible, harsh thing. Where it’s placed its kiss nothing grows, all is burned away, everything is scorched and nothing lives and your heart is the only one of its kind that beats for miles and miles. And all is red. Where the sun and the horizon and the sands meet, all is red.
“He has a thousand names and each one catches but a part of him,” Dexy said. “He is the Harvester, the Sickle Man,” said Nina. “The Night Walker and That Which Devours.” “The Skullsie Man, the Star Reaper, the Grinning Bone Dancer.” “He is the Black Rider, the great beast below all and beyond all.”