By the strength of writing alone, awesome. By the frustration of characters and over delivered message, not quite. I'm such a fan of Ruth Rendell's work, but under the Barbara Vine pseudonym the stories are often less enchanting, albeit it just as strongly written. And with this story of a family who discovers a long buried secret about its patriarch, the characters ended up ultimately too frustrating and unlikeable, enough to distract from the enjoyment of the book. Rendell under her own name has often employed amoral bastards to do her stories' bidding, but it suited the crime fiction, the murder mysteries so much more. In a serious dramatic venture though the characters likeability is much more crucial to the endeavor of storytelling. Here there is the aforementioned patriarch, an author of some renown, who marries with specific purpose of begetting children. and once his goal achieved, proceeds to devote his life to them, while being absolutely appalling to his wife. The woman, who stays with him for 35 years, at first for the sake of children and then presumably for the sake of devil you know comfort. She's the main character in the book, the story is mostly told from her perspective, she's engaging and sympathetic, but after a while just an essentially passive person. Their daughters raised in such a strikingly misbalanced family total daddy's girls, of course, and both somewhat dysfunctional in their respective relationships, although to a dramatically different degree. The girls (young women now) literally loved to a fault and essentially serve to show that a parental dynamics affect the children no matter how much one sided affection may be lavished upon them. It is one of the daughters who sets out to uncover their father's mysterious past, past, of course, being a thing best left alone. The secrets she uncovers though can be seen, predicted and surmised by even a semi perceptible reader a mile away. No real surprises here, sadly, not from an expert of the subject. And now we come to my main qualm with the book and it may be best not to read the next paragraph if you haven't finished it yet, although I shall try to be discreet and not give away too much.
Rendell was a forward thinking lady, which is utterly commendable. She wrote quite progressively for the time about social matters such as homosexual rights or, until 1967 lack thereof, in England. And yes, any intelligent compassionate person can agree that those were brutal and terrible injustices and that's probably the main message of the book, but how many times in how many ways must the reader be told that, whatever happened to literary subtlety for crying out loud. And frankly, if this is the main message, maybe it would have been best served by not creating such unlikeable and/or stereotypical gay characters. Apparently with nowhere to turn to but the lewdness of public baths or forced heterosexual lifestyle, there is a man who becomes a promiscuous boytoy or a man who married under pretenses and becomes exceedingly cruel. Not exactly role models eliciting sympathy. Not to mention all the peripheral gays in the book are lascivious youth craving lechers. Everyone wearing precisely the stereotypes the public opinion at the time (and let's face it now too, legalities change, albeit much too slowly, but small mindedness prevails) would use to justify their prejudices.
Ok, we're back to the facts. There is also the matter of a well known well reviewed (even Booker shortlisted) author who apparently lacks imagination to such a startling degree that he creates book after book regurgitating his personal life with just a dusting of changes so it passes for fiction. I don't like this as an avid reader who wants to believe authors actually make stories up more or less, the magic of stories and all that. I don't buy it because this author is suppose to be a man who has abandoned his past and went to some lengths for get as far away from it as he managed. Maybe it prays on his guilty mind or it's the sort of thing that brings criminals back to the scene of their crimes. Or maybe one should watch themselves around writers, lest they be immortalized in the most unflattering ways.
I'm going to go back pretending fiction is primarily make believe. After all, look how many stories Ruth Rendell has made up...presuming they were made up. Otherwise what sort of a life...
Anyway, this review has gone on long enough. Time to read.