Of the books I’ve had on my radar for the last couple of months, this has been the one I’ve been most excited to read. Partly for what I knew of the story–it takes place on one Saturday night in Las Vegas, and centers around the disappearance of a 12 year old boy–but also to see just what all the fuss was about. The book was reviewed twice in the New York times (here and here) and the author was the subject of a lengthy profile in the Sunday magazine. All this press for a first book? I think it might be deserved.
Bock’s prose has a precision that doesn’t lose any of it’s poingancy for it’s surgical exactness. At points (and there are many of them) the prose actually hums. The story is told from the point of view of 7 different characters, each one with a voice as different and engaging as their individual back stories. Las Vegas itself might be the 8th character of this book, and, perhaps, one of the most important. And we get all of the seediness, despair, and degradation that we might expect from a story set there. But on every page Bock shows us the humanity that arises from our failings, and how preciously precarious a thing hope is. And, from a craft perspective, I made many many marginal notes here of things I liked.
There are probably things wrong with this book, and if I thought about it I could probably come up with some. (I’m wondering what people will think of the ending, for instance, or how integral Bing’s story really is to the larger narrative.) But, I actually enjoyed this book well enough that I don’t really want to think about it all that hard. I’m sure that will change with future readings of it, and that the next time through I will be taking things apart, reading with a sharper eye. But that is a testament to two things: 1), there’s enough going on here to merit such scrutiny, and 2) I know I will be reading this book again.