Russell H. GreenanReseñas

I my god this is such a great book. The only thing Is can compare it to is The Falls film by Greenaway except the book makes more sense

“Lately I’ve come to feel that the pigeons are spying on me. What other explanation could there be?”
That’s the intriguing opening of this extremely odd book.
Apparently this is a cult classic, although that escaped my notice till recently.
I can see why it achieved that status.
This is one of the strangest books I’ve ever read. Told in the first person by an artist whose skill rivals DaVinci’s, the story unfolds as the artist slowly but relentlessly loses his mind. It’s not any easy book to read, but it becomes compelling quickly.
There are time shifts that are only noticeable after the fact; this is one way the author shows us the slowly growing confusion in the narrator’s mind.
Recommended if you like seriously odd books. CAVEAT: There’s an unpleasant animal death, to say nothing of the numerous humans who meet their demise.

An expertly plotted story of the eccentric descendant of an obsessive Egyptologist and the female academic who insinuates herself into their lives. A splendidly entertaining dark comedy.

Other books have unreliable narrators; in this one even the page numbers have question marks.

It's hard to understand how this book isn't better known. The prevailing "common wisdom" is that Greenan's work isn't better known as a whole because it's hard to put in a genre or describe. If so that's a sad indication of the state of our species.

I'm reluctant to say much more about it, as almost any bit of information might spoil some of the fun of this great novel.

Check it out.

While the pace of the book drags a bit in the beginning, it picks up to a pitch-fever that thoroughly engages. The novel contains numerous plot twists that are unpredictable and at times shocking when they reveal themselves. The main character is an extremely well-developed cross between a brilliant artist and one who's possessed. Do NOT jump to the final chapter and read it without reading the rest of the text because it will destroy your anticipation for the end. Highly recommend this novel.

Six-word review: Oddly gentle, artfully persuasive horror story.

Extended review:

In 1971 I read a gripping and stupidly titled novel called It Happened in Boston? and promptly put it on my "favorites" bookshelf. From this distance I remember that it contained some stunning imagery and a plot that enthralled me, but I've forgotten the specifics. I never read it again, and, more strangely, for me, I never once looked for other works by the same author, Russell H. Greenan.

A week ago I read a review on LT of that novel (here), and it sent me to check my oldest bookcase: yes, the book is still there, several moves and four and a half decades later. I recall that it caught me right from the first line and pulled me in. I also have a recollection of reading a portion of it while sitting in a small, nondescript restaurant in Boston and suddenly feeling very nervous about doing that.

The author apparently has amassed a respectable list of credits since that first novel, but they don't seem to have been widely read. The only one my local library has, besides the one I own, is The Secret Life of Algernon Pendleton. I brought it home and read it in two days. Now I'm going to go looking for the rest.

It's no spoiler to remark that the narrator and title character occupies a reality that's markedly different from that of most of us (not that anyone actually has any idea what reality is). Early on we can see that his actions are guided by a thought process that entitles him to his own personal mental health diagnosis. This does not prevent us from becoming caught up in his vision of the world, not even when it sounds like this:

The house plants on the window sill began to whisper excitedly, though I wasn't able to distinguish what they said. (page 92)

Did it cause me to cast a wary glance toward my houseplants? I hope not, but it might have.

It's just that easy to be drawn into Algernon's head space and begin to take a sympathetic view of his actions. By the time I reached the end--a marvelously deft conclusion--I didn't know how to answer whether Algernon really did what he said he did, but I think I believe him.

I believe him about the murders, the mistakes, and the memories. And the madness. Especially the madness.

By his skillful handling of plot and character details, Greenan both prepares us for the revelations that will unfold and yet still surprises us by them. Could Algernon really have done this? Yes, he could; after all, before this he did that. I don't mind having my perceptions and reactions managed in this way, especially in a psychological novel of this caliber. That's what an author does. The more he lets us into the mind of his character, the more sense the character's actions seem to make--even as we (and he) realize that he is holding two contradictory notions in mind at the same time. Someone defined a first-rate intelligence that way. It's also a kind of insanity.

The allure and mystique of ancient Egypt cast a shadow over this story in much the same way as they do in Arthur Phillips's similarly Boston-based novel The Egyptologist, both with spectacularly unreliable narrators. (Had Phillips read the Greenan novel? I can't help thinking so.) Greenan also owes something to Poe, Lovecraft, and other classic writers of the creepy-horror genre, as well as (in my opinion) the Existentialists and the Russians. But this is not to call him derivative, except insofar as all literate authors reflect something of their literary heritage.

The writing itself is exceptional. Like Dostoevsky, Greenan has the knack of showing us things through the narrator's eyes while at the same time revealing to the reader things that the speaker can't see.

The book is short and the language succinct, but I would not call it a spare prose style; it has lyricism, ornamentation, rumination, and texture. However, there are no false words, no padding, no hesitant strokes. In a way, it's like a piano sonata beautifully executed, with all the notes exposed, no cover from the orchestra, no waste, and a direction and resolution that are honest but not predictable.

At the end--a shiver and a satisfied sigh.

How's this for an opening line:

"LATELY I have come to feel that the pigeons are spying on me."

That's the first sentence zinger from It Happened in Boston? (1968), the debut novel replete with astonishing zinger sentences from one of the most unjustly neglected* writers of the past fifty years, Russell H. Greenan.

Greenan's first published sentence in a book zings for many reasons; allow me to zero in, briefly, on a few. First, the sentence serves as a microcosm, in thirteen lucky words, for the brilliant, intentionally unbalanced, balance of the 273 page novel. If I explained in too much specific details what I meant by "microcosm" it just wouldn't match the captivating kookiness of Greenan's novel on the one hand, and its genre-bending erudition on the other, where the contemporary art world, world history, mystery, mythology, mysticism, and "fantasy" in the old-school, James Branch Cabell or Jorge Luis Borges sense of the word—the fantastic— intermingle in our narrator-artist's transformative "reveries" that propel him, within the span of minutes, to other planets, alternate realities, the Middle Ages, and back to antique galleries and public gardens (when he's not in some psychiatric ward) in the backstreets of a photographically rendered Boston as fully realized as Leopold Blooms' day in Dublin.

Secondly, notice that Greenan used the word "feel" instead of "think" or "believe" in the first sentence. Why "feel"? Why not "perceive" or "observe" or "notice"? Probably because He, our oddball but genius narrator, is an artist. That he is an artist is not a delusion. Like many artists, he feels things deeply—more deeply than most. He also sees things more deeply than most. Things that ordinary souls would call delusions, hallucinations. Not only are the pigeons spying on him (and later haranguing him), but he can travel through time, throughout the eons of recorded history and a myriad of cultures.

"One day I dined with Aristides or with Vespasian, the next I ate with the Yorubas or gnawed a reindeer bone in the Dordogne. In swift succession I looked upon the glory of Cyrus the Great, the savagery of Chaka, the courage of Cortez, the splendor of Sheng-tsu, the folly of Nero, the fury of Timour and the cunning of the Medici. I heard Mozart play and Dr. Johnson talk. . . ."

Clearly, our narrator is as erudite as he is nuts. But, lest I stray further from the first sentence of It Happened in Boston?, let me say lastly that in its amazing microcosm of an even more amazing book, I'm reminded of what Lydia Davis accomplishes less effectively in her short short story-abstracts in which implications billow out from a brevity of words, and interpretations are trusted solely to the reader's knowledge and imagination. Imagine an entire novel of first sentences like that, how artistically twisted (a compliment) that could become—sort of like the off-kilter visual of the apartment building on the front cover of the first edition's dust jacket—and that is, without question, the exciting experience of reading It Happened in Boston?

* Russell H. Greenan's most recent novel, his fourteenth, Nether Netherland, was published in England in 2014, when he was eighty-eight. He's ninety now. Visit him at his excellent website that chronicles the entirety of his unique career.½

It Happened in Boston?
By Russell H. Greenan
Introduction by Jonathan Letham
Narrated by Robert Fass
Ⓟ 2014, Blackstone Audio
11.00 hours
PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER

By many accounts, the story of what happened in Boston falls into the genre of Speculative Fiction. After all, very early on in the book, it is revealed that the protagonist of the narrative is a time traveler! Yet, it is equally apparent as the story unfolds that time travel is not the main thrust of the story; nor are the crime, horror, or philosophical elements, so the book is disqualified from being catalogued into those genres as well. Why not just label it as “Fiction” and leave it at that? Because it is much more than an imagined story of what happens to a painter as he rises in his career arc before he is shattered by a tragic event. It is the story about his acute perceptions as an artist as he shifts his focus to the surreal even as his corporeal world falls apart.

The unnamed artist tells his story from the first person POV, luring the listener into his tale: How his DaVinci-like skills brought him lucrative commissions, and how his best friends from the academy fared as well; How a tragic event started to unravel his reality as he searched out God Himself for a showdown; and the occult things he did in this quest…

The style of the narrative has its precedents in Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and in Patricia Highsmith’s short story collection, Eleven. The narrator, absolute in his convictions and reasonable in tone, starts becoming unreliable in credibility; and the things he does become a matter of morbid fascination. The listener is swept up into the intimacy of the artist’s world as it narrows in scope down to a park bench in the Commons or his now-seedy apartment with its menacing pigeons on the window ledge.

Written in 1968 and contemporary to its time, the listener might expect it to feel dated. While there is a decided old-fashioned sense to the scenes, like diners with sugar bowls, and a lack of twenty-first century technology like smartphones, the story is so richly and realistically depicted that the listener is “present” as much as the artist.

Robert Fass is the audiobook narrator for “Boston.” HIs style is very mannered, but not affected and serves the language intelligently. The book warrants no less. It is not a slapdash adventure with vocabulary of middle grade complexity; but a rich and sophisticated feast of words that paints pictures, even as the artist in the story paints his portraits. Fass’ style is complimentary to the novel’s voice, clear and direct even as the protag’s vision becomes less so.

Final notes about the overall production: There is an Introduction written by Jonathan Letham extolling Greenan’s ability to conjure the beauty of a fictional painting; but which also includes a major spoiler to the story. I would highly recommend skipping the Introduction (the first 7 minutes, 13 seconds of the audio after the opening credits) and listening to it after the story is over. There is also an Afterword by the author which talks about the difficulty in classifying the novel, and how it came to be written and received. Between the end of the story and the Afterword, I really wished there had been more of a pause, or an indication that the narrative was at an end so I could have savored the listening experience. The ending is powerful and deserves a moment or two to soak it all in before being hurled back into the real world.

It Happened in Boston? deserves more than to be relegated to the obscurity of a backlist. It’s a classic in its own right.

OTHER: I dnloaded a digital copy of It Happened in Boston? (by Robert H. Greenan, with an Introduction by Jonathan Letham; narrated by Robert Fass) from Blackstone Audio/downpour.com. I receive no monies, goods or services in exchange for reviewing the product and/or mentioning any of the persons or companies that are or may be implied in this post.

1976. Great book about antiques dealers in Boston in the seventies. They fake things, making them look older than they are; burgle houses; and float checks to buy more stuff they have to sell fast in order to get the money back in the bank on time. Greenan always has characters who seem to be mad or afraid they're going mad, and it's hard to tell which. Bodies pile up and the narrator eventually takes the identity of one of the dead characters to escape his creditors and steal the guy's antique shop. Horrible fire scene with two people killed. The narrator also sells his souls to the devil for $2,000.00. Pretty cheap, I'd say, but money went farther back then. The Devil says he doesn't really need any more atheists, he's looking for virgins or choir boys, rarer commodities in hell. He's also looking for an antique Jonathan Wild tea towel. The descriptions of antiques are amazing if you know what they are. Salt spoons to NYC as coke spoons, etc.

1973. This is a good, creepy book. It deals with a lot of egyptian antiquities, pharoah's tombs and whatnot. The anti-hero is crazy or the universe works very differently than I thought it did. He can talk to inanimate objects and plants. He believes this is real. There are some murders, but it is not a who-done-it, more of a thriller. The thrill is in Greenan's writing and black humour. Also features Brookline and Boston occasionally. Especially Hall's Pond in Brookline, a favorite spot of mine. A quote:

"At Kenmore Square I slowed my pace, the better to appraise and appreciate the many young college girls who stand about there, wiggling and giggling. Each summer I've noticed they wear less clothing. It makes one wish for a long life.

"As sure as a parsnip is not a persimmon
So it is certain, old men crave young women"

That's from Engenar's 'Leonidas the King.' Engenar was sagacious."½

Truly awesome book about an artist who wants to meet God. The art world of galleries and openings and forgery and theft. Boston shines through on practically every page in all its 1960s glory. The main character is nuts in a mostly likeable way. Tragedy can be so funny.

Simply put, The Secret Life of Algernon Pendleton is a small masterpiece. It left me a little frightened ! Why? Why, I'll tell you.

Mr. Pendleton (imagine the voice of Rod Serling intoning here) "is an aging white male, of independent but dwindling means, living alone, near Boston, in the gothic family homestead. His principal source of pin money is the occasional sale of an Egyptian antiquity from a collection amassed decades ago by his long deceased "great grampy", a semi-famous tomb raider cut from the Sir Richard Burton mold."

"Algernon had the honor to serve his country in WWII, in the South Pacific, for which he received in recompense a concussion with lingering effects. This accounts, perhaps, for his bickering relationship with Eulalia, his intimate, sole companion and prized china pitcher. Aural hallucinations, you say? Don't press the point with Algernon."

"Our action begins when an old war buddy shows up one day with a suitcase full of cash and a tale of marital failure. Throw confused compassion, a shrewd immigrant Arab antiques dealer, and a voluptuous treasure hunting Egyptologist into this mix, and you have the elements of ...the twilight zone."

What sets this novel apart is the delicious first person narrative. Algernon is pensive, philosophical, randy, henpecked, bold at times then timid, corny, a genius, and charmingly silly. And able to kill at the blink of an eye. You get the same sense of unease, as you come to know him, that the late comedian Andy Kaufman and present day Sacha Baron Cohen are famous for invoking. What's next you wonder... an offer of a plate of cookies...a challenge to a nude wrestling match?

At the last, I ended by cringing a bit - mon semblable, mon frere - at just how closely Algernon resembled...well, your humble reviewer! And therein lies the mastery. Like Henry James "The Turn of The Screw", or a moebius strip, at the end of the novel, you're back again assessing a really strange character: the phantom in the mirror, that voice in your head, you, y'all. You!

Pfalling in love with a vase, what sort of nonsense will I get up to next.

Russell Greenan is not for the faint of heart. I'm not sure that Greenan gets the recgnition he deserves. I would love nothing more than to introduce RG to new readers.

The excellence starts with the title and doesn't let up until the shocking last sentence. Dreamy, lush, and utterly devastating, it's my favorite book in ages.

The absolute best story that I have ever had the pleasure of reading.

A highly peculiar and disturbing read. The protagonist is by turns witty or intriguing, and then appalling- not in an un-pc way, but in a sociopathic insanity kind of way. There were moments during this book that I actually cringed. That said, it is well-written and certainly compelling.