Tracy Chevalier is a good story-teller.  She is the master of her readers, myself included, manipulating our heartbeats, tweaking our gut reactions, and activating our tear ducts through richly one-dimensional characters, absurd sex scenes, waves of melodrama, and always fast-paced, uncluttered, forward motion.  Her book, Falling Angels, is the least of all her novels because she does the least bit of work here.  She relies on her skills in the trade of story-telling to weave a story we read quickly, one which causes us to feel waves of empathy, relief, and sorrow, but provides only a skeletal (no pun intended, given that much of the book, including most of the sex, takes place in a cemetery) framework of characters, plot, and background.  As much as I enjoyed the read, I felt cheated — I felt used — by the end.  Where was the meat?

Chevalier flits back and forth between narrators, giving us a taste of all the characters but leaving us to fill in the blanks on the whys and wherefores of their actions.  I wanted either more from all the characters or one extremely omniscient or wise character (Simon could have done it, or Mr. Jackson), to tie it all together.  Instead we have a jumble of actions and reactions and assorted and incoherent  details of the post-Victorian era (it seemed as if Chevalier did a spot of research, then threw in facts and trivia) that do not provide the firm brace of history that Chevalier provided in The Girl With The Pearl Earring.  The history here seemed to act as a beard, an excuse for the bizarre and/or unreasonable behavior of the characters, and not as a strong landscape from which a solid plot and genuine characters could develop.

This novel is silly and unbelievable, and despite Chevalier’s story-telling dexterity, it was ultimately unsatisfying.  It was a dodge on her part, a half-effort, and throwing in the murder of an innocent, an untimely death, and an icky graveyard accident (only a stone wouldn’t shed a tear) does not make up for the dodge. This book is like a cupcake with overdone frosting but no filling in the middle. And as much as I love frosting, I want something inside, too.

Falling Angels will not stay with me, it did not move me to think or feel profoundly about anything, and it does not bear witness to the real world, real emotions, or the human spirit. It was a shallow good read, not a helluva great one.