What if the Rapture came and All the Wrong People Left?

Tom Perrotta
St. Martin’s 978-031235034
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What if the Rapture occurred, but it was nothing at all like the End-of-Times evangelical Christians—called dispensationalists, if you care—said it would be? What if millions of people suddenly disappeared but there was no discernible rhyme, reason, or pattern? What if way more children, reprobates, animists, Buddhists, Muslims, Jews, non-devout Christians, and everyday sinners disappeared than Born-Again fundamentalists? How would the world react? This is the intriguing question novelist Tom Perrotta poses in Leftovers, a book clearly aimed at the smug certainty of Tim LaHaye and Apocalypse-worshipping devotees of his Left Behind novels. (Perrotta also had the good fortune to have this book hit the shelves when Christian radio loose cannon Howard Camping predicted the world would end on May 21, 2011.)

Much like cartoonist Matt Groening (The Simpsons), Perrotta chooses a white-bread suburbia to play out the drama of the post-disappearance world. His Springfield is called Mapleton, a place that feels like one of those fixated on 50s-style family values ‘burbs in the Bible Belt (think Greater Atlanta). As one might expect, what was dubbed the Sudden Departure caused range of responses in Mapleton. The Rev. Matt Jamison is among those men of the cloth who insisted that the event was not The Rapture. His unique proof of that assertion is to become a one-man smut-and-truth exposé squad who reveals the affairs, substance abuse, and general unworthiness of those who vanished, which he duly broadcasts to Mapletonians. Learning that her husband was a philanderer is not helpful to Nora, an attractive young woman who lost her spouse and two children to the Sudden Departure and is so depressed that she spends her days watching the Spongebob Squarepants reruns she once shared with her offspring. Even those families left intact are confused. Perrotta focuses on the Garveys. Paterfamilias Kevin has just been elected mayor of his shocked town, while his wife, Laurie, becomes unglued and joins the Guilty Remnants, one of the many cults that emerged. The Garveys’ son, Tom, is also in a cult—one run by Holy Wayne, a former UPS driver with a harem of young Asian women. Too young …  as it turns out. When Wayne is carted off to jail for pedophilia, Tom loses most of his faith, though he accepts the task of ushering one of Wayne’s wives to a safe house as she is alleged to be bearing a son who will be the new messiah. Daughter Jill chooses a live-for-today route; she befriends bad girl Aimee, who moves in with the Garveys about the time Laurie moves out, and assists Jill’s transformation from honor student to angry low-life.

The book is provocative and, as one might expect, has been widely denounced by those who believe in The Rapture. The Guilty Remnants are especially controversial, as their level of fanaticism suggests all manner of unsavory things about those who live beyond reason. The GR—as they refer to themselves—dress in white, take vows of silence, and make it their mission to become worthy of being raptured by shaming the rest of Mapleton. Their presence is generally heralded by their smell; they chain-smoke, a thoroughly modern mortification of the flesh that’s easier to accommodate as cigarettes are more attainable than hair shirts.  Many of their mannerisms reminded me of the Ellen Jamesians in John Irving’s The World According to Garp.

Perrotta also dares to ask what would happen if years passed with no more disappearances and no explanation for the ones that did occur. Is it possible to move on? Can, for example, Kevin and Nora ease their individual sorrows in each other’s company? This is the sort of question Kevin Brockmeier raised in a different context in his own The Illumination, though he handled it better than Perrotta. I reveal nothing by telling you that many readers will be unsatisfied by how Perrotta’s novel ends. Don’t let that deter you; Leftovers is the kind of book that sparks spirited and needed debates over the presumptions of faith, public morality, private guilt, and collective healing. Sometimes the book’s ideas outclass its style and plot, but there’s nothing wrong with that.  --Rob Weir


Ewan McLennan a true Emerging Artist

Rags & Robes
Fellside 235
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This review originally ran in SingOut! Magazine issue 54:4

“Emerging artist” is an overused phrase, but I’m happy to make an exception for the stunning debut release of Ewan McLennan. With songs such as “Arthur McBride,” “A Man’s a Man,” and “I’m a Rover,” the Edinburgh-raised McLennan covers familiar ground, but he does so with a gentleness and a freshness of voice that makes the old new. It’s a quiet album reminiscent of Andy M. Stewart’s post-Silly Wizard solo work in mood. And, like Stewart, McLennan’s tenor voice is unique. It has the timbre of a contemporary such as Paul McKenna, but with more vibrato and with a hint of a rasp. If that sounds gritty, the effect is quite the opposite; McLennan keeps all the ornaments under control and croons with a soothing smoothness. Thus he transforms the feel of a rough roustabout song such as “Tramps and Hawkers” into something that sounds like carefree lads at sport. Equally affecting his velvet-gloved version of “Jack Stewart,” which emerges as less of a drinking song than fellowship with an elderly friend. Each of the fourteen tracks pleases, and each leaves you wanting to hear what McLennan will do next. 
Rob Weir


The Tiger's Wife Way Better than Recent Pulitzer Winners

Téa Obreht
The Tiger’s Wife (2011)
Random House 978038543831
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Count me among the stunned when this year’s Pulitzer committee declined to name a winner for fiction–virtually every novel I’ve read this year is superior to last year’s honoree, Jennifer Egan, and her mediocre A Visit from the Goon Squad. [See review.] Any list of superb novels for 2011 should certainly include Téa Obreht’s stunning debut, The Tiger’s Wife.

The blood-soaked Balkans forms the backdrop for the novel, and a curious incident from World War II provided the inspiration for the title. In 1941, the Germans bombed Belgrade; a misguided missile hit the local zoo and liberated animals it didn’t kill. This included, briefly, a tiger. Obreht uses this incident as entrée into looking at a more recent Balkan tragedy: the terrible civil wars that ensued as Yugoslavia disintegrated between 1990 and 1995. She introduces this through the eyes of a young girl, Natalia Stefanovic, whose prewar ritual accompanying her beloved grandfather, a local physician, on his periodic visits to the zoo to view the resident tiger. The kindly doctor always carried a copy of The Jungle Book with him, an appropriate prop for a man whose later life was consumed by storytelling. Flash forward to the early 21st century and we find Natalia as a young adult who has followed her grandfather into the medical profession, though she’s come to think of him as a compulsive oddity and appears to have been less shaped by his stories than by 1960s-style folk music, 70s/80s rock and roll, and the ennui tempered by cynicism emblematic of a generation trying to pick up the pieces left by years of war. We meet Natalia and a colleague, Zóra, in a neighboring breakaway nation, where they try to administer help in a Balkans-style Physicians Without Borders program, but are met with stares, suspicion, and resistance that serve to deepen divisions rather than heal them. To make matters worse, Natalia has just received word that her grandfather has died on a trip to visit her, a sojourn about which she was unaware, but needs to explain.  

Phew! That’s a lot of claws scratching at the plot and plenty more unfurl in the pages to come. Luckily, this is not a conventional novel and Obreht can play loose with facts, chronological sequencing, and objective reality. The book isn’t about the Balkans or Natalia per se; it’s about regional identity, antagonisms, family, and those transcendent moments in which shared humanity dissolves individual and cultural differences. Obreht writes in a magical realism style that brings to life folk tales, fables, and incredulities. Do not think of this is a single, coherent story–it is actually a collection of short stories, each of which provides threads from which a larger truth can be spun. The stories intersect, but you’ll need to be on your toes. Don’t look for objective history either; Obreht deliberately elides historical detail, falsifies geography, infers ethnicities, and obliterates judgments so that we concentrate on the individual human dramas that would otherwise be lost amidst the larger tragedies.

Her grandfather’s native village, for instance, is rendered as Galina. (I seem to be the only reviewer to have noticed that this is Russian for Galen, the name of a famed Roman physician.) The 1941 zoo bombing has been moved to this city, which is patterned on Mostar. (The allusion to the bombing of a famed bridge gives it away.) The tale that gives the book its title involves a deaf-mute woman, who is also Muslim, who has been badly abused. Her husband, Luka, was tricked into marrying her, the latest disappointment in his life. He is the local butcher, but he had dreamed of becoming a poet and gusle player. (The gusle is a one-stringed instrument favored by poets and troubadours.) When Luka meets his demise while trying to hunt the tiger, his wife is assumed to be in league with the animal and villagers whisper that she has bedded the beast. (The tiger, in this sense, appears as a Satanic symbol for superstitious and Islamaphobic Christians–another metaphor for the Balkans wars.)  

Another tale that makes numerous appearances is that of the Deathless Man. It does not matter how badly he’s abused or disfigured, he survives his horrors with little more to show from his traumas than scars and a voracious thirst. This one intersects with a 21st century story of a villager hell-bent on finding the bones of a relative he hastily buried during the recent war. One could easily see both as metaphors for the indomitable human spirit–perhaps even as symbols of how humanity survives despite its best efforts at self-annihilation. Those who wish can probably find symbolism in just about everything. The tiger, for instance, could be a play on TIGR, the acronym of a Slovene anti-Nazi resistance group during World War II. Who knows? As I said, Obreht does not name or point fingers. Want to complicate things more? She’s actually of Croat descent, but her family left Yugoslavia before the Balkan wars and she grew up in the United States.

The beauty of this book is that you can play detective and try to connect all the dots and match the fictional scenes to real places and events. Or you could just surrender to the mystery and magic. I won’t pretend that The Tiger’s Wife is an easy read, but it’s moving, thoughtful, and uplifting in very unexpected ways. And it sure is better than anything that’s won a Pulitzer lately.--Rob Weir