Geraldine Brooks’ People of the Book is a good story, full of everything I like: history and mystery, religion and bravery, and a good dose of female heroism. But the chapters read unevenly, with fast-paced and engaging passages followed by leaden and clichéd portrayals, especially the chapter devoted to the Jewish Partisans fighting under Tito and the absolutely ridiculously written chapter set in turn of the century Vienna (the dialog alone, both the interior words of the narrator and the words he exchanges with others, had me hooting in disbelief).
Not that any of Brooks’ writing is entirely free of clichés or hackneyed phrasing and pacing. Her writing is suitable to the telling of a story but not for sketching a genuine moment in time or expressing an original vision of the past. She does not open anything up to her readers that is particularly new or beautifully acute and accurate. Nor is Brooks much good at character development: her figures tend to be just that, figures meant to represent a certain type of person or a certain place in time. Even her narrator is a flat and unbelievable structure (common to best sellers) and the narrator’s mother and recently discovered father, even worse. Everything is in superlatives: uber-successful surgeon, famous and fabulous artist, most determined restorer of books with a PhD from Harvard (of course) willing to spend months and months learning how to make parchment (or grind berries or whatever), and yet the world’s meanest mom (and youngest chair of the neurosurgery department) gives her not one damn iota of respect. Etc., etc. Subtlety is not one of Brooks’ virtues: she likes to slam us over the head with her characters and the situations they find themselves in.
But Brooks is a fine historian and she gathers together a lot of good facts; she is a good story teller, capable of wrapping those acts in a drapery of fun and froth, or blood and gore. I would guess that the best chapters — the ones most true and moving and fresh — are based on her favorite, if not best, areas of research. She herself admits it is hard to tell again the story of Jewish persecution under the Nazis and she does not do a good job of it. In contrast, the initial chapter set in Sarajevo in 1996 was very real and alive, and I loved the chapter set in Seville in 1480 (although should not the setting have been Granada? That is were the Emir lived, and I believe Brooks is referring to the beautiful Alhambra which is in Granada and not in Seville, as the place where the slave girl is sent to paint the Emir’s lover). Despite the gaff in location, that chapter was rendered with a lighter touch, and a richer emotional range (if we ignore the rape scene and the totally unbelievable lesbian interlude) than any of the other historical chapters. In addition, the heroine of that chapter actually seemed like a living and breathing person, not some Madame Tussaud wax figure.
Brooks’ book has a good story. I wish she could have trusted all of us more to tell the story without telling us what we should think; I wish she could have given us more complex and real characters we could have identified with and cheered on; and I wish she had offered a fresh and meaningful observation into why we should not be burning books, but reading them. Her main characters profess to love books — to be People of the Book — but we never find out why.
