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192 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1960
The quest to answer this question becomes momentarily more compelling when, about three-quarters of the way through the novel, in a conversation with his child-self, John asks the boy about a mysterious voice that he has apparently been hearing all his life, which sounds almost like his father but not quite, and which he dubs “the frightener.” Unfortunately, since this is the first time he’s really talked about it, it feels a bit random, and in any case, the novel’s concluding chapter is disappointingly trite, as John suddenly realizes a) that life was better when he was a kid, before he started analyzing things rather than just exploring them, and b) that it’s himself he’s uncomfortable with, his father’s image and the voice of the frightener troubling him because they are reminders of the anxiety he feels about the man he is (or is not) to become. If you’ve read your Freud or Jung, though, you will have already worked out this particular epiphany long before John himself stumbles into it (there is even an explicit reference to Oedipus, in case you missed the psychoanalytic undertones). And though the prose is sometimes poetic, it often feels more like the writing of a man who has read Hemingway and Faulkner and is trying, only occasionally successfully, to marry their style to Frank Norris’s sensibilities. Maybe I just wasn’t in the headspace for it, but The Waters of Kronos is a book that should feel lyrical and weighty and mysterious but is instead only the shadow of those things. It’s missing the deep, alchemical essence of true American mythmaking particular to writers like Cormac McCarthy and Denis Johnson.