The Diviner’s Tale by Bradford Morrow
For Bradford Morrow, the founding editor of the seminal literary magazine Conjunctions, this divination took place sometime in the mid-90’s, long before Twilight, Kindle, and his own interest in the dying art of divining. Then he was the 45-year-old author of three acclaimed but poor-selling literary novels. He was ill, suffering from peritonitis and facing a costly fifth surgery. Worrying that his next book might be his last, he began work on a plot-driven novel whose publication process was chronicled in New York Magazine’s February 1997 cover article titled, “How to Make a Best Seller.” That novel, Giovanni’s Gift (1997) was to be his “breakout book”—what White Noise was for Don Dellilo, or The Corrections would be for Jonathan Franzen—a novel with enough mainstream appeal to be a bestseller and enough literary prowess to secure Morrow’s place amongst the heavyweights of US letters. Viking published the book and believed in it enough to put all of their weight—and a hefty sum—behind its marketing. “It was a gamble,” said Laurie Rippon, Viking’s Director of Marketing, in an interview for the New York article, “but a gamble we can respect ourselves for taking.” It was not, however, a gamble that paid off. In a New York Times book review Walter Kirn called it “a thin romantic melodrama insulated in operatic twaddle. . . . Not merely a falling off from his previous work, it seems like a kind of semiconscious death leap.” The review was so unabashedly negative—vitriolic even—that it sparked a controversy, detailed in a Salon.com piece, about whether or not the New York profile had affected Kirn’s view of the book. Morrow himself wrote a lengthy email published on Salon, defending his novel’s literary intentions and trying to distance himself from the New York article. Giovanni’s Gift never made the bestseller list and remains one of the many breakout books that never broke. Nearly 15 years and one novel later, Morrow has made another go at the genre-bending novel with his new release, The Diviner’s Tale. The dust jacket’s lead blurb, courtesy of horror novelist Peter Straub, calls it a “seamless breathing [sic] breathtaking unity of the literary and the suspense novel.” Though Morrow is clearly capable of the former, it’s a lackluster example of the latter that best describes The Diviner’s Tale. Cassandra Brooks, the novel’s narrator and heroine, is a 37-year old diviner (i.e., practitioner of dowsing – the act of using a rod and a sense of the land to locate water underground), part-time school teacher and single mother of twin boys. She and her sons live in upstate New York, in the small town where she grew up divining the land with her father. The book begins with Cass explaining how her ability to perceive what’s under the surface isn’t always confined to water. She recalls her first forevision, at age seven, when she saw tragedy awaiting her older brother if he took his planned trip to the movies. She begged him not to go, but he ignored her and was killed in a car accident later that night. After this confession, Cass leads us through a desolate stretch of forest where, instead of locating the water she’s looking for, she finds a dead girl hanging from a tree. When she returns with her long-time best friend, the town’s sheriff, the girl is gone and there’s no sign of anyone having been in the woods. Was it another forevision? A hallucination? Soon a different girl is found in the woods—this one alive, traumatized and filthy—and the mystery begins to take shape. Though written in the first person, the narrative unravels in a very deliberate fashion; as soon as Cass reaches or reveals a critical plot point, she tends to abandon the action in favor of a personal or familial back-story. This narrative trope, used to build tension, and familiar to most suspense writing, is only effective when utilized for reasons which are internally consistent: e.g., there are things the narrator doesn’t yet know, or other stories that must come first because they’re essential toward understanding future occurrences. Cassandra’s pauses, however, often seem excursive and inconsequential, contrived solely for the purpose of teasing the reader. When stepping aside from the plot, Cass also likes to wax poetic about Greek mythology, nature, parenting—whatever comes to mind. Here, both the writer and narrator seem to be free-associating possible metaphors for divining: “Words, I thought. The word divine, in particular. It seemed my life had been locked in a chess match with that one. Nothing about the diviner Cassandra was divine, not when she had access to such private hells. Except for being part of nature. Nature’s the only divinity.” With the discovery of the second girl, the townsfolk become suspicious of Cassandra and her divinations. A traditional witch-as-pariah theme is established as town gossip costs Cass her teaching job, her children are bullied at school and her attempt to temper her outsider status by attending church is met with “the turned heads, the mild grimaces, the shallow smirks.” Much of the narration feels overwrought, as if a literary voice is being forced upon a narrator who doesn’t know how to use it. The colloquial and scholarly take to each other like oil and water, creating an awkward, often abrasive prose. “I breathed in and out, tasting the sweet briny ocean air, trying to slow my pounding heart. Hearing no one astir, I figured the twins were sleeping in after yesterday’s long drive, which was just as well.” While the plot is padded with more setting description and character development than one expects from a genre novel, the efforts rarely pay off. The town is supposed to be upstate New York, but really exists somewhere in the idyllic fantasy of Americana. It’s a world of little league games, peanut butter sandwiches, and 4th of July barbeques; a world under threat as more and more city folk seek to “Thoreau for themselves a haven upstate.” Likewise, many of the characters spend the novel struggling—and failing—to break out of the realm of stereotype and caricature. We meet the wise, stoic father, suffering gracefully through his Alzheimer’s; the childhood best friend who becomes the town’s evenhanded sheriff; the twins, one brain, one brawn, both ridiculously precocious and quick-witted for 11-year olds. When shopping for a car with her sons, the unemployed Cass considers buying a Hummer:
“The total wheels,” Morgan agreed, running his hand along its grille, which made my heart sink. “A hummin’ Hummer.” I said, “I don’t like it.” “But Cass, this here’s the ultimate road jockey.” “Hold on. You guys don’t think this thing is ugly?” “Work of art. Terminator’s got ten of these suckers in his garage.”
As Cass continues to try “to recast (her)self so as to negotiate everyday life the same as anybody,” she decides to give up divining and focus on teaching, parenting, and normalcy. But her efforts are stymied as the plot heats up with a missing girl, a potential stalker and the stirrings of romance. If the reader is shocked by anything that happens in this thriller, it will be by the absolutely predictable yet improbable ways in which these strands are resolved. What might one take from this book? Some interesting knowledge about dowsing, the enjoyment of a mildly entertaining supernatural crime story, and a moral—that it’s OK to be an outsider. In an era where literary fiction doggedly continues its long exodus toward the cultural margins, maybe Bradford Morrow should take some of his own advice. It’s OK to write literary fiction. No need to “thrillerize” it to fit in. Like the book nerd trying to dress like a popular kid. It just doesn’t work.
Corey Eastwood is a writer and bookseller (www.bookthugnation.com) from Brooklyn, NY. His writing has appeared in a number of literary journals including Pear Noir!, Assembly Journal (online) and Filling Station Magazine.
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