Who is Timothy Schaffert? Does he even exist? Maybe he's just a figment of his parents' imagination and is fraudulently appearing here and there, (like Kilroy on tour) and collecting accolades and kudos under the guise of a mild-mannered, be-spectacled, slightly balding man of a certain age. Maybe he was kidnapped by aliens. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he's still on the mother ship ... ah, yes, that's it. He's travelling, still ... and not on this plane of existence.
The Coffins of Little Hope seemed to offer every element that I look for in a good book: a fascinating, intriguing mystery, a plot line that pulls you in inexorably and excellent writing. If I give this author nothing else, I concede that he is an accomplished, talented and inventive writer.
But ... BUT ... really, what a waste of paper. Like Vanessa, Muscatine's daughter in the novel, I beg Schaffert to stop writing. After all, "eight million trees! ... have been sacrificed." And for what?
The reader is duped into beginning a tale about an octogenarian obituary-writer who promises to reveal some interesting facts about her life, growing up in small town Nebraska. Quite rapidly, we are pulled into a mystery of a young girl who has disappeared, but find out even more quickly that she may not even have existed, except as a figment of her mother's imagination. The novel is actually full of "peep show" qualities, wherein people enter and disappear, at will. Characters enter, mysteriously, and disappear into a fog, lickety-split. We follow, cautiously, into the fog and are left wandering in a miasma, the thickness of pea soup.
I am angry with myself, the way I haven't been in a very, very long time that I fell for the book, and read it through to the end. (I only kept hoping there was "more" that would eventually redeem it. More fool me!) I knew, about a third of the way through reading this book that this was not going to deliver anything worthwhile. I knew it. And still, I kept reading, subconsciously pulled forward most probably by the niggling thoughts that said, "But he's such a good writer, that surely he will give me something.
I like to be challenged, shaken up, moved, angered, stimulated, confronted, provoked, enlightened by literature, by art. Any one of those things, among many others, and I am in! But I never like to feel that it was all a waste of time.
Pointless. The reading of this was so pointless that it's pointless to discuss it further. It actually re-invents the meaning for pointlessness.