"Cool Hand Luke" meets "The Devil All The Time."
There is so much that I loved and appreciated about Half of Paradise. A lot of my admiration comes from Burke's prowess as a writer. Even though this is his first novel, he excels in his descriptions and tone setting. His experimentations of shifting between third and first person whenever a character is high, hallucinating, dreaming, or feverish is genuinely really cool to read. He's a master at writing between the lines, in both the minutiae of intimate scenes and the novel's overarching themes of class keeping the little guy down. Burke takes the scenic route in his storytelling, and his novel is better off for it. Burke understands so much about poverty it's frightening. He knows that in a capitalistic, hegemonic, postbellum society, it doesn't matter if you're black or white. If you're poor and you try to get ahead, whether by musical talent, criminal enterprise, or honest hard work, you'll be knocked down a peg by the pitfalls baked into the system: drug abuse, lack of parents, alcoholism, legal maneuvering, and just plain bad luck. While at first Half of Paradise feels like a good ol' boy's long-winded yarn, it eventually transforms into a precise portrait belying a depth of soul rarely found in artists, let alone writers.
As much as I loved Half of Paradise, I wanted to love it more. I think Burke struggles to give his characters unique voices. Everyone sounds the same, and it can be hard to differentiate who is speaking. The characters fates and story arcs are barely intertwined as well, and this feels like three different novels smooshed into one. Half of Paradise can feel like a scrapbook of ideas more than a polished narrative, but at the same time it is absolutely deserving of the awards it received.
This novel is a relic of a bygone age, for worse, and for better.