Virgil sings of arms and of a man; over two thousand years later, Le Guin offers the princess of that song her own words. Lavinia, the prize of battle in Virgil’s Aeneid, speaks under the guidance of this award-winning author, revealing details of the struggle between cultures from a perspective unseen in the national epic of the Roman Empire. In this first person account of a woman caught by fate and held by love, Le Guin imagines this minor historical figure as a princess with a mind of her own as well as respect for traditions that may not always serve her best interests.


Lavinia shares her story as a storyteller tells tales around a campfire; the conversational tone is inclusive, welcoming readers to stop and listen. She explains her circumstance as a valued daughter of King Latinus and of his queen, Amata, who is twisted with rage and grief over the death of her young sons, taken by a fever that left Lavinia alive to suffer her mother’s wrath.


Lavinia is genuinely loved by the people of Latinium as she grows into adolescence among a vibrant countryside, where she roams without fear or restraint. Her fifteenth birthday brings her self-absorbed cousin Turnus to light as a suitor for her hand in marriage, a suit he presses for the next three years, but she does not trust him: “Turnus flattered my mother and laughed with my father and looked at me as the butcher looks at the cow.”
To avoid social events that honor Turnus, she finds solace in a sacred place where spirit communications have been revealed to her and her father, which further alienates her mother because she is not similarly blessed. Lavinia waits in the dusky woods alone until the figure of a man appears. Virgil is dying, his body somewhere in the future, consumed with a fever that will take away his chance to finish his great poem. This poem, he explains to her, reveres her husband, Aeneas, but speaks little of her. He is ashamed by this slight and offers a glimpse of her future so that she might be prepared for the best and the worst.


It is easy to forget that Lavinia herself has not written this story; Le Guin adopts a believable and intimate tone with which Lavinia weaves back and forth from the distant past to her present, from her adolescence to marriage and motherhood, and back again, carried between times by common feelings brought about during pivotal events in her life. Lavinia may be a princess, but she does not put on airs. She questions her ability to write at all, for if the great spirit poet of the future did not find her worthy of note, perhaps she is, after all, not. How will she choose to act during the remainder of her life to justify remembrance?


Le Guin’s preparation for Lavinia involved reading the Aeneid in Latin, a time and effort consuming task for any scholar. The incomplete epic, which Virgil hoped would burn at his death, was a ten year project ending with the battle for the princess between Aeneas and Turnus. Le Guin succeeds where no author has before, in an imagining of Lavinia’s perspective on the events of the Aeneid as well as what she calls an “unfolding of a hint,” as close and rich as if she herself had experienced it. It comes as no surprise that this tale of magical realism is a work of art in Le Guin’s hands.

When Tommy Savage is threatened by someone he doesn’t know - a man who calls himself Smith and wears a ski mask – he turns to his brother for help to try to find out who’s blackmailing him for fifty grand. When Smith proves he’s capable of cold-blooded murder, Savage fears for the safety of his sons and is desperate to find out who Smith is and why he has a grudge against him.

And that isn’t even half the story. It isn’t even the tip of the iceberg, but I’m going to avoid specifics as much as possible to avoid spoilers. What will be of more interest to those considering this book is the nature of the content and the themes, particularly in comparison to Guthrie’s previous work.

When I reviewed HARD MAN last year I said:

I wondered how Guthrie was going to top his achievement with HARD MAN. I approached SAVAGE NIGHT with nervous anticipation, unsure of what would be in store for me.

From page one it was clear that Guthrie had grown as a writer. I do not mean to take anything away from this Theakston award-winning debut TWO-WAY SPLIT, his Edgar, Anthony and Gumshoe Nominated novel, KISS HER GOODBYE, or HARD MAN, which won the Spinetingler award for Best Novel-New Voice. However, every author faces the challenge of matching or bettering their prior works. Not content to just nudge the bar higher, with SAVAGE NIGHT Guthrie shows an ability to push himself and rise to the challenge.

Guthrie has moved away from the stream-of-consciousness narrative-intensive style that served HARD MAN so well and has drawn us into the center of the story from the opening lines. Why is a headless dead man in a tub in Fraser’s living room? And who is he? Many books start off grounding the reader with either a character or hooking them with action. In short order, Guthrie effortlessly does both. With an economy of words he skillfully develops character, setting and hooks the reader through the events unfolding on the page.

SAVAGE NIGHT is a layered story that is told from multiple perspectives, and moves back and forth over a short span of time. Time shifts can prove difficult for authors to pull off, but I never felt lost or disoriented with the transitions in SAVAGE NIGHT. Every writer who’s ever used the teaser, “If only I’d known what would happen” at the end of a chapter to tell readers something dramatic is about to happen that they should stick around for, or some variation of it, should read this book. The shifts managed to both leave questions answered and raise new questions. Through the use of the intersecting timelines Guthrie does not always conceal information. In fact, from the first pages we know who some of the characters who will die are, and we know they’re doomed. Instead of building suspense by always leaving readers to wonder what will happen, Guthrie makes us wonder why this is happening. As the story moved back in time a few weeks and began to reveal the background I found my sympathies shifting, and the process continued throughout the book. Ultimately, Guthrie succeeds in painting the characters as flawed and real. At times I loved and at other times I loathed almost all of them. No matter how I felt about them at any given point in the story I was fascinated by their behaviour, and wanted to see what choices they would make next.

The book grabbed my attention from the start and easily maintains the pace throughout, building to a boil by the end. By putting some of the critical events out in the open at the beginning Guthrie has not given us spoilers. Instead, SAVAGE NIGHT is a story that involves watching dominoes fall, but the intricate maze of blocks weaves around so many obstacles you can’t see where it will ultimately end. As a result, the reveals throughout the book have the impact of a punch in the stomach. Even some of the smallest details have significance later on. Guthrie shows his skill by not drawing unnecessary attention to those variables, and trusts in the reader to form the connections later.

The result is a stimulating read that demands your full attention, and it’s easy to give it because the book is packed with action, and plenty of twists and turns to keep you guessing to the end.

No analysis of a work by Guthrie would be complete without discussing violence. It should be noted that I’m actually pretty squeamish and have a low tolerance for pain. I said HARD MAN made me feel as though someone had ripped my heart out of my chest and shoved it down my throat: ultimately, parts of SAVAGE NIGHT had me feeling faint. It’s a good thing I was sitting down when I was reading (as opposed to being on an exercise bike for anyone wondering where else I might be) because there were places I had to close my eyes and put my head between my knees.

There is no doubt that some readers will not be able to get past that part of the content. I will say that initially, I didn’t feel SAVAGE NIGHT was as violent as HARD MAN because in HARD MAN we get the worst content from the victim. Although some of the earlier scenes in SAVAGE NIGHT limit us to the perspective of the one inflicting the pain, that will enable readers with a lower tolerance for pain to get far into the book before they discover Guthrie doesn’t stop there.

One of the reasons it’s important that Guthrie doesn’t shy away from the graphic content is that it is tied to the characters and their development. In the wake of the release of HARD MAN Guthrie was criticized by some who labeled the book as torture porn, an assertion that baffled me. The violence is directly connected to the nature of the characters involved. Those who were content to criticize Guthrie for HARD MAN will probably want to lynch him for SAVAGE NIGHT. It may be a slight spoiler for me to say that as someone who partially severed their foot as a child, there are certain methods of inflicting pain that bother me more than others, and while no feet are severed in SAVAGE NIGHT I have no doubt that anyone who reads the book will understand why I had spasms in my foot while I was reading.

While I have abandoned other books where the violence felt gratuitous, there are multiple reasons why the violence not only works in Guthrie’s novels, but is essential.

Guthrie is not writing police procedurals, and is not writing about average people with average lives. His work tends to feature those on the edges of society, criminals who’ve managed to elude conviction but are no saints and those who are blowing their second or third chance at proving they can rejoin society. These are not the genteel streets of Edinburgh where we will spend our time with polite society. For the most part, these people are not angels, and it would be inappropriate to present them as non-violent and civilized. Most of them understand reasoning by force and the work they do requires demonstration. Steal from the boss, become an example so that nobody else tries to double-cross their employer. Expecting Guthrie to shy away from the use of violence by career criminals would be comparable to suggesting that Omar should never have to shoot the drug dealers he’s robbing on The Wire, and the results would be laughable and unrealistic.

The one thing that every person understands is pain. We may not all understand what it is to love a certain way, or to be prepared to murder someone, even if they’ve done horrific things to you. But is there one of us that can’t recall stubbing a toe in such a way we wondered if we’d broken it, or how it felt to slice your skin so deep you needed stitches or the feeling of slamming your fingers in a door? Guthrie shows the connection we can form to characters we otherwise wouldn’t necessarily sympathize with by sharing their pain with us. In the end, no matter what a person has done they’re still human. By showing us the cruelty that someone can willingly inflict on another person we come closer to understanding what drives some of the violence in our society.

It isn’t pretty, but I’m hard pressed to think of another author who exceeds his skill at depicting violence in such a way that the reader almost feels they’ve experienced what happened to the person in the story. While some authors touted as hardboiled take the label proudly, writers like Guthrie redefine the subgenre. Others allude to terrible events happening off the page that might motivate a character to behave a certain way, but in order for us to truly grasp the reasons behind the choices characters make in SAVAGE NIGHT, Guthrie shows us. It’s an unflinching look at the damage one person can do to another, confronting us with the physical and emotional pain that damage produces.

In SAVAGE NIGHT, an ability to appreciate that pain is required to understand the events that unfold. Ultimately, I felt every scene, every element included, had been carefully measured. There are many places within the story where Guthrie could have been more graphic than he was, but by pulling a few punches where they aren’t needed he makes the ones he includes count, and he shows discernment. He’s willing to step back from the violence by giving the reader some separation when it isn’t necessary to know or experience more first-hand.

In the same way that at times I loved and loathed some of the characters, readers will undoubtedly have mixed opinions about Guthrie’s latest, and I expect those opinions will be strong. This is not the type of story you feel indifferent about. For me, SAVAGE NIGHT was at times mesmerizing, horrifying, shocking, spellbinding and thought-provoking. The question of how far you would go to avenge a loved one is front and center, and there are no easy answers. True to form, Guthrie doesn’t shy away from the complexities of human reasoning, of how we justify horrendous choices and inhumane acts. He probes into the human psyche, showing us how guilt and fear as well as anger and hurt can drive us to do the unthinkable. My only disappointment with SAVAGE NIGHT was reaching the end, knowing that now begins the long wait for his next book.

Discuss this book or the review here.

Pearce, an ex-con and Edinburgh hard man who’s still recovering from the recent loss of his mother, is invited by the dysfunctional Baxter family to protect their pregnant sixteen-year-old daughter from her martial-arts-expert husband, Wallace, a man ten years her senior with a penchant for killing family pets. Having found out that the baby’s not his, Wallace has sworn vengeance. Pearce declines the job: He’s no babysitter. But when Wallace kills Pearce’s dog, he goes too far. Now it’s personal.


Revenge is part of the grieving process. But has Pearce finally met his match?


Time to find out who the real hard man is.


Over the course of 8 blood soaked chapters that all take their names from movies, Hard Man unfolds with a savage intensity. The movie titles used will cleverly act as epigraphs for the chapters.


Hard Man is divided pretty clearly into two parts. It’s during the first part that we will be introduced to the Baxter clan and their situation with Wallace. Their opening gambit to scare Wallace fails miserably and they decide to attempt to enlist the help of Pearce. Pearce, a character from Guthrie’s debut novel Two-Way Split, is as the title suggests a hard man. But he is also a man who is, by his very nature, more reactive then proactive so he refuses the job. The full dysfunctionality of the Baxter's will slowly become evident as we witness their machinations to not only get rid of Wallace but to make further attempts to enlist the aid of Pearce.


It will be one of these further attempts that sets into motion the final full throated berserker yell that is the second part.


But before we get to the second part I think that it’s important to note Hard Man's humor. Dark, gallows humor to be sure but humor none the less. Guthrie is a savvy enough writer to pepper his tale with a healthy dosage of humor so that it offsets the violence. It acts as a counter measure that prevents the book from becoming oppressive. It also heightens the tension of the more serious moments. The result is a potent and heady blend of comedy and violence that will have you laughing out loud at times, even if you feel guilty for doing so.


An early scene from the book provides a good example of the humor in Hard Man.

Now for that second part. At some point the narrative goes right over the edge and it’s this final free-for-all, oh-shit-the-brakes-have-been-cut-and-we're-all-going-to-die section that will go down in history as the classic that it is. It really does have to be read to be believed as it becomes a kind of noir passion play.


I don't think that I've read a sustained conclusion to a book as breathtaking as this one in a long time.


The second half also plants Hard Man firmly in the tradition of Grand Guignol. When the whole of the book is considered it becomes clear that Hard Man and the plays of the Grand Guignol have a number of shared traits.


The Grand Guignol theatre specialized in plays that had a grim outlook of the world, an outlook not entirely dissimilar to the one found in Hard Man. They became world renown for their horror plays which utilized realistic special effects and a close proximity of the audience to produce an effect that horrified and compelled the audience to watch. But horror plays weren't the only type shown; in fact an evening at the theatre would find alternating shows of horror and comedy much like the alternating scenes of comedy and violence in Hard Man. The calling card for the style was the climaxes of the horror plays. They were notorious for being over the top in their bloody, outlandishly gruesome and violent depictions; Hard Man's climax is at times all of these. Lastly plays at the Grand Guignol often dealt with an altered state of consciousness that resulted in a loss of control, extreme panic, hallucinations and even insanity. One character in Hard Man is going to experience all of these and be put through the wringer more then any of the others.


In short I feel comfortable calling Hard Man an outstanding piece of crime fiction and a modern Grand Guignol masterpiece.


A quick mention should also be made that there is no attempt made to Americanize the text of Hard Man. The locale and the language are left intact from the UK edition. It's to the publisher’s credit that this was left unchanged.


--Brian Lindenmuth

So, Marco Polo is entertaining the great Kublai Khan with tales of the many cities he has visited throughout the world. Aside from that basic premise, Invisible Cities (translated from the Italian by William Weaver) is a book with no discernable plot and two main characters who play no major roles. It is also written in the second person, present tense giving the feeling that you, the reader, are included in Marco’s very small, intimate audience.

As Polo comes to this realization while visiting the city of Hypatia, so, too, should the reader leave behind preconceived notions and stereotypes in order to better enjoy the accounts of Polo’s travels. Because Polo’s stories of these bizarre places are not marked so much by descriptions of their natural wonders, famous sites, native products, etc., as he explains here:




A city is more than just its physical presence. It is the society it contains. It is not just its edifices, but the interactions of its people. Everything is connected; everything is related like the proverbial butterfly in the rain forest.


Each city offers some nugget of cultural insight that can be applied universally. Each city offers some observation on the human condition.




A quote which describes my feelings on this book: alternating between unclear and clear but leaving an impression. Invisible Cities is a book best read in very small doses: no more than three or four cities at a time (which is easily done since each city is typically described in four pages or less.) To read more than that in one sitting causes the cities to run together making for rather repetitious and monotonous reading. But perhaps this is intentional?




Perhaps. I think so.

Drive is the story of a Hollywood stunt driver appropriately named Driver. He isn’t just a stunt driver though, he is the best. On the side he also is a top freelance getaway driver. He takes a job which goes very wrong, very quickly. He finds himself in a hotel room surrounded by dead bodies. With a duffel bag filled with money from the botched job he decides to seek revenge on those who turned on him.

Drive is classically bleak noir; think films from the 40's & 50's, but is never oppressive in its telling. It’s interesting to note that when one looks for comparisons to Drive one inevitably gravitates towards film. If ever a book read like a film, this is it.

Drive is told in quick successive chapters that would be equivalent to jump cut edits if it were a movie. All of the moments in the story are told out of order and it is only upon its completion that the final order of events is evident. This isn’t used a trick though to distract from a weak story. It enhances the story and perfectly compliments it in every way. Drive is a stylistic tour de force. Every moment in the story is carefully chosen by Sallis to reveal those parts of the story and of Drivers life that resonate with intensity and insight. Like a poet carefully deliberating then choosing the right word, the one that will have multiple meanings and reveal hidden depths under the guise of perfect clarity, Sallis tells the story of enigmatic Driver with a surgical precision. Despite its length it is a complex and interwoven narrative that bounces across the timeline of Drivers life with startling clarity.

Possibly reflecting Sallis' own dealings with Hollywood Drive is at time a vicious satire of the Hollywood studio system. While waiting for his scenes to be shot Driver has a lot of downtime on set, he spends it with bit actors, assistant directors, script doctors and failed novelists. There are anecdotes traded that act as thinly veiled observations of the ways in which movies are made.

With an economy of words that is closer to poetry then prose Drive exists in the shadows and recesses. Like Miles Davis's classic album Kind of Blue which derived its power not only from the notes that were played but also from the space between the notes, Drive uses a kind of negative space to help define the narrative. What’s not said is as equally important as what is said.


The cover of the trade paperback version is covered with blurbs that exhort one to buy this book. There are times when such praise is unwarranted or hyperbolic in nature, this is not one of those times. Drive is perfect and deserving of all the praise and attention that is heaped at its feet.


-Brian Lindenmuth

Because Shelly Reuben is a licensed private detective and a certified fire investigator, you might guess THE SKIRT MAN’s plot involves fire, in this instance a dubious case of spontaneous human combustion, but it’s primarily a story about a family and the secrets of a small town in upstate New York. In the sequel of this series with the extended Bly family, Killdeer has become a refuge for some of the wealthy and socially influential of Manhattan who share it with the townies as well as various refugees of other places and unhappier circumstances.

Narrator and local newspaper reporter Annie Bly was lured away from her Gotham art gallery by marriage. Her husband, Sebastian, is a Criminal Investigator for the New York State Police and her brother, Billy Nightingale, is a Fire Marshal visiting from NYC. Add the Bly’s nineteen year-old daughter, Meredith, a ballet dancer who’s briefly in town for a charity event, and all hands are on deck for crime. The carnival of surrounding characters is distinctively drawn, idiosyncratic and charming, but most importantly, resists descending into pure caricature. Perhaps surprisingly, so does the victim, the Skirt Man, an old farmer named Morgan Mason who’s known for his terrible stutter and for wearing a skirt on his frequent tractor rides into town. Killdeer is an appealing town, but it isn’t an idyllic utopia trapped in time. It’s dealing with drugs, underage drinking, criminal vandalism, and possible municipal corruption. The author’s affection for small town life is obvious, but also her care for reality and the humanity behind even outrageous personas.

Morgan Mason is a strange enough man that he’s become isolated and unsympathetic. He’s had various disagreements over property rights with at least three neighbors and his estranged sister, too. In what’s almost a joke, two high-school boys have petitioned to put him forward as a mayoral candidate. When Mason dies in a sudden blaze in his armchair, it might seem a fittingly bizarre end for an odd bird. But a closer look by Billy and Sebastian yields plenty of questions, and the locals refuse to exploit the tragedy for the cameras. It was fascinating to learn some of the practices and theories of fire investigation, and Annie compiles them from the investigators’ recap over the kitchen table. She is the amateur sleuth here, but- perhaps because of the author’s background- displays a refreshing respect for crime scenes and the inappropriateness of disturbing or withholding evidence. However, when it comes to churning through gossip for theories, Annie is our expert, and even her ballerina daughter will slouch into the local rave scene to learn more about the recent drug trafficking.

Annie Bly is a winsome narrator, a middle-aged woman who’s cognizant of and comfortable with her limitations. She collects and frames all the characters’ movements by switching POVs and source materials which adds variety, and the ensemble plot is complex enough to branch in lots of directions. The writing is clean with poetic turns of phrase, though the story’s told with a light touch and wit, proving that while eccentricities are found in abundance in Killdeer, quirky doesn’t have to mean two-dimensional, formulaic, or unbelievable. As truths are revealed, so are several characters with startling and poignant results. Some lives will be ruined, others resuscitated by new hope and second chances, but the resolution is satisfying. THE SKIRT MAN is a terrific and human small-town mystery, and I look forward to my next walk through the fire.

There’s something about the way Ursula K. Le Guin writes that makes me feel secure when I read one of her books. She promises me excellent prose, wonderful details, and surprise upon surprise. Most of all, though, she promises me a structured world with laws, rules, heroes, villains, magic, emotions, and everything else that makes a fantasy realm seem real.

With Gifts, she goes even beyond that to create an amazing yet dark tale of what it means to have a deadly magical power and how to live one’s life knowing that that power could kill at any time.

The story is about a family living in the Uplands—a place where magical powers, referred to as gifts, are passed down from father to son or mother to daughter. Those with the strongest of gifts often become the strongest of each family and only by utilizing their gifts wisely can they survive. Orrec’s gift unfortunately did not show until late for his age and when it did, he could not control it. His father had him blindfolded for the rest of his life until he could learn to control his killing gaze. But was that the only reason or was clan diplomacy an issue more important than family?

Le Guin uses every piece of writing craft to demonstrate the highs and lows in those people that live in the Uplands. Some are snobbish, some are cruel, some are afraid to use their gifts for bad—but they are all people, well-defined and real. Gifts has an interesting way of portraying itself as a fable, a bedtime story for youngsters, but deep within it is a dark tale of power and trust.

I enjoyed this story very much. Maybe it was my fascination with the different gifts assigned to each family and how they used them or it could be that I enjoy a dark fantasy tale. Gifts is not very long, but in its short amount of space it manages to ask some heavy moral questions. This, in my opinion, is what makes reading worth it. Gifts has also just been awarded the PEN/USA for children’s literature.

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