I wasn't going to write a review of this but I feel like I want to get back into the "swing" of Goodreads.
This is my first Ruth Rendell book but I know a fair bit about her. I know that her corpus is divided into two camps--the detective mystery series starring a recurring police inspector (my mom loves these books but they sound boring to me; all whodunits are boring to me unless they were written by hard-drinking badasses in the mid-20th century), and the non-series crime novels which are more psychological thrillers than whodunits. This novel, later made (loosely, I understand) into a movie by Pedro Almodovar, of all people, is of course one of the latter. It's about a serial rapist who gets out of prison and embarks on a weird relationship with the policeman he crippled via gunshot during a standoff 10 years earlier.
As much as any book can be while still being marketed as a thriller, Live Flesh is plotless. It's all inside-the-mind-of-a-psycho, baby. Psycho runs errands. Psycho visits his aunt (and steals cash from her house). Psycho flashbacks to earlier episodes of his life as a rapist. And we are privy to all the minutiae of his psycho thought-processes throughout his mundane existence.
Sounds maybe kinda boring? Well, here's something that'll make it sound even boringer: this rapist dude, Victor, has got to be the single most mild-mannered psycho in the history of literature. He is so polite and quiet. At first I was like, is this what all British rapists are like? And there is a sense of that, of this being the tea-cozy Merchant-Ivory version of The Killer Inside Me or whatever. But then I figured that Rendell was just sidestepping sensationalism and trying to provide a more realistic psychological portrait of a pathological violent criminal. In fact the tone is closer to Greek tragedy than to crime thriller, almost. Rendell paints Victor as a lonely man, prone to panic attacks, who never developed social skills and suffered at the hands of seemingly neglectful parents. He's not violent except in isolated moments when he loses control, he can't figure out why he did what he did, and his waking hours are consumed with plans and hopes for redemption--most of which involve befriending aforementioned wheelchair-cop...and his sexy girlfriend. UH-OH!!!
I said this played like Greek tragedy so you can guess that things don't go as planned for Victor. There's never much doubt about that. But what makes the book work is that Rendell doesn't allow us to escape from Victor's head. All his rationalizations and delusions keep mounting to a point where they accumulate a tragic weight. The forced identification means that it's always jarring when Victor reminds us that he is, in fact, a rapist (and worse...of course there's a murder at some point). Like the policeman and his girlfriend, who gradually come to like Victor and want to help him, the reader would have to be a truly heartless bastard not to root for this pathetic creature, even as we know how undeserving he is of our sympathy. Don't criticize someone until you walk a mile in his shoes, goes the old aphorism of childhood? Indeed: after several miles in those shoes, you may well start defending rapists. Rendell really breaks in those shoes. The heels are frayed, the soles worn.
It's not a great book. That same virtue of relentless psychological immersion inside the protagonist can also make the book feel suffocatingly monochromatic. It's really dry. And I think Rendell could have eliminated some of the repetitive, mundane details. Honestly the book is boring about half the time. But I think what Rendell's trying is interesting and I'd like to read more of her psychological thrillers.