<p>Tauwhare was offered a ride on the vehicle taking Carver to jail. It’s not spelled out exactly how he accomplished it, but Tauwhare was quite a warrior, and he somehow managed to open the latch on the back of the vehicle and get in and swiftly and silently bash Carver’s head in with the greenstone club he always carried.</p>
<p>That’s what I figured, but my husband is convinced it was magic. I think the author is playing games with us by having it both ways.</p>
<p>The more I think about this novel, the less I like it. I actually liked the book more towards the beginning and it started losing me towards the end. I thought it was tedious and disappointing in it’s conclusion. With so many characters and story lines, I’m sure I would need to reread the book to appreciate it all, but as I mentioned up thread, I have no desire to reread. I like this description by mathmom -
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<p>I also wasn’t sold on the magical realism of the story. I agree with Mary that any belief I should have in Emery and Anna’s relationship wasn’t earned by Catton.</p>
<p>Tauwhare studies the lock and knows the island well. He feels guilt over his inadvertent part in Crosbie’s death. The reader may not know exactly “how” but has enough to figure out the “who.” (Though I would not rule out mathmom’s husband thoughts of magic, as long as he figured Tauwhare into it somehow.)</p>
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Different opinions make the book club fun. Mary allows book-bashing … just not member-bashing. ;)</p>
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True enough … but it makes me think of a game of Clue rather than chess. Instead of Colonel Mustard in the library, we have Ah Sook in the opium den; Ben Lowenthal in the newspaper office; and so forth.</p>
<p>While the lack of depth of character bothers MommaJ, I like that it keeps the pieces (oops, characters) moving. I like that I know just enough about each man to glimpse his motivations but no more, really. My interest stemmed from watching those pieces move across the board - staying distant from each other or forming alliances (sometimes involuntarily); revealing secrets or withholding pertinent information; wanting mostly to do the right thing, but wanting it to benefit them at the same time. </p>
<p>I had a hard time with the first half of the book, but I very much enjoyed how the pieces came together…the author really did not leave loose ends, and I appreciate that! In the beginning, I felt that the descriptive language was over the top and distracting. I kept thinking to myself, “How is this helping? Get to the point! Not another sentence that lasts a paragraph. Help!!” For all of the wordiness, I wasn’t feeling drawn in to the characters, partly because I was trying to keep them all straight in my mind, but mainly because I felt I wasn’t getting enough background information.</p>
<p>What ended up helping (besides not wanting to give up on a CC book) was reframing the writing style as sort of a parody of Victorian literature–I imagined that the author was having fun with me, playing with my head by the use of those flowery sentences. Rather than feeling irritated, I started to become amused by the writing. Regarding character development, I am glad she added more back stories in the second half, particularly Anna’s, which provided a sense of connection. I ended up liking the way Emery and Anna crossed paths, and even tolerated the mystical elements of their romance.</p>
<p>All too often, a book starts out strongly, only to fizzle out, so I was glad this one worked in reverse (for me).</p>
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<p>You made me laugh because we have a thing in our house about Bernard Malamud’s The Natural, which my daughter flung across the room in despair after she turned the last page. Some books are just asking to be thrown.</p>
<p>Speaking of which…MommaJ, ignatius is right! Keep on posting even if you wanted to throw the book. It’s great to have viewpoints at both ends of the spectrum.</p>
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<p>That’s a great way to approach the writing. I think Catton was, indeed, having fun with us. I read several reviews of The Luminaries which mentioned the author’s wry sense of humor. I tended to lose sight of that because I was so busy trying to keep the characters straight and follow the plot. I became more aware of the humor near the end of the book, as the chapters got shorter but the italicized intros got longer. The intro to the last chapter (p. 831) is delightfully silly – a single sentence composed of hundreds of words.</p>
<p>I think Catton’s humor can also be seen in Emery Staines, who, quite late in the game, brings a much-needed light touch to the story. If I had to pick one character in the novel to meet, it would be Emery. I liked his whimsical way of thinking and of expressing himself. His eccentricity and his love of the absurd made him seem more like a Dickens character than any of the others.</p>
<p>I thought the Victorian language was fun; I got a kick out of it. </p>
<p>Interesting observation about the humor, Mary. I never noticed humor per se, but on my second reading of the book I perceived a greater warmth and depth in it, somehow.</p>
<p>As scary as Lydia was, I also thought she was rather amusing. I enjoyed the way she dithered around preparing for the seance and the “nautical evening.”</p>
<p>Mary, Your comment about picking Emery Staines being the character you would most like to meet, started me thinking about which character I would like to meet. Emery would also be number 1 on my list, after that I would like to meet Anna. I never really figured her out. Did I miss her background? Who was she? Why did she follow Lydia so easily? Did Crosbie rape her the first time they were together or did she submit willingly? I want to know more about her.</p>
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<p>As far as I can recall, we know virtually nothing about her. She doesn’t seem like the sharpest knife in the drawer. When she arrives, she is incredibly naïve (“Anna was not worldly” [p. 690]), making her an easy mark for Lydia the Madam. And she’s not too bright as regards her own wardrobe—hard to believe she wore those incredibly heavy, gold-laden dresses for so long, thinking them to be merely “very fortified, tokens by which she presumed them to be relics of an older, more rigid age” (p.785). </p>
<p>I don’t think Crosbie raped her. Their relationship seemed mutually warm. He may have carefully and deliberately seduced her – in a way, for her own benefit, knowing that she was going to be “marketed” very soon as a complete innocent. In any case, she succumbed pretty quickly to his advances.</p>
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<p>and from an interview with Eleanor Catton:</p>
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<p>I thought of Lydia as a charlatan (which she is, of course) so found it interesting that she divines the connection (astral soul-mates) between Emery and Anna. To me, it became a glimpse (a first clue) into figuring out the mystery. I did not expect any true interest in astrology on Lydia’s part … and I think it was there. </p>
<p>I enjoy the subtle humor in the book. I like Emery and Anna and Walter Moody and Cowell Devlin (chaplain). I like how the chaplain takes the stand and tells the whole truth and nothing but the truth. In doing so, he protects Anna. I feel nothing but pity for Ah Quee and Ah Sook: as Mannering says at one point, “Can’t get a bit of luck, can you?” </p>
<p>Neither Anna nor Emory seemed to be the brightest bulbs around, but they did seem sweet.</p>
<p>I enjoyed the fake Victorianism’s the d___'s were a giveaway. I felt like they greatly diminished by the end of the book. </p>
<p>My husband is not big into reading the chapter heads, so he didn’t get that by the end of the book, all the plot was in the italics and the scenes just provided the mood or emotional content.</p>
<p>I don’t think Crosbie raped her, but he did seduce her and take advantage of her - pretty d___ed close to what we’d call date rape now.</p>
<p>Regarding the humor in the book -</p>
<p>from the same interview linked ^^^ with Catton:</p>
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<p>^^Emery was first the sun, and then the moon?? Ay yi yi! I need to start going back and looking more closely at the the astrological symbolism in the book.</p>
<p>^^^ It has to do with the connection between the two … the twinship, as it were. Catton hints at the switch in the character chart.</p>
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<p>:)) and I agree. </p>
<p>From the interview ignatius posted:</p>
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<p>I think JF and I read different books. I gradually got comfortable enough with the story to feel the humor, but “totally funny”?…nah. I can tell you that I “chortled” only once, when Francis Carver said to Emery, “What would you say to a gold sovereign?” and Emery answered, “I don’t believe I’ve ever addressed one before.” (Francis Carver, however, definitely did not chortle at that.)</p>
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<p>So did I. Actually, Devlin chooses to tell nothing but the truth instead of the whole truth. This is set up early in the book when Moody explains to the 12 gathered men:</p>
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<p>Moody goes on to say that the whole truth includes all the impressions that are pertinent to the matter at hand. Cowell Devlin deliberately withholds his impressions (that Anna forged the signature a few steps away from him) and goes instead with nothing but the truth, without expounding (“Did you see Miss Wetherell sign this deed of gift?” “No, I did not.” [p. 652]).</p>
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<p>The men retell their parts of the story to show themselves in a favorable light. There is definite self interest in their versions and it is a good peek at the different personalities. They are all afraid that somehow they will be guilty of something. They want to protect themselves. I enjoyed the retelling of the story of the 12. It’s like playing telephone. The end of a story can be very different from the beginning, and because so many people have shared it, it becomes truth. There was also a lot of lying and half truths being shared around their stories by the characters who were not part of the 12. It was a clever puzzle. </p>
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<p>Exactly. At the end of the evening, Moody says to the men: “I do not believe that any one of you has perjured himself in any way tonight. I trust that you have given me the truth, and nothing but the truth. But your perspectives are very many, and you will forgive me if I do not take your tale for something whole” (p. 282).</p>
<p>Moody brings up the whole truth and nothing but the truth in one more scene in the novel–near the end, on the walk where he meets Paddy Ryan. I wondered why Catton included the scene, since it introduces a new character for only a moment and to (seemingly) no purpose. Moody doesn’t reveal anything we don’t already know and his comments to Paddy about the truth are just a reiteration of what we’ve already heard from him. </p>
<p>But I had one thought: That the story Walter Moody tells Paddy Ryan is The Luminaries. Moody is the omniscient narrator that we can’t quite place, and Paddy Ryan represents each one of us readers, saying, in effect, to the author, “Give us a tale, and spin it out, so we forget about our feet, and we don’t notice that we’re walking” (p. 713).</p>
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<p>Oh, I like that Mary!</p>
<p>At one point towards the end of all the storytelling Moody thinks to himself that is funny that he is hearing this story from all the people who clearly are only peripherally involved. Who he really wanted to hear from was Anna, Staines, and Lauderback. I got a bit of a chuckle out of that. Reminded me we were getting a version of Rashomon.</p>
<p>I didn’t not think of the book as particularly humorous.</p>
<p>I’m new and impressed by all these insightful comments and careful reading. “Too clever by half” and the chess metaphor are great comments and reflect my feelings. I was influenced years ago by Wayne Booth’s concept of the “implied author,” who is distinct from the narrator. It’s the person whose sensibility you encounter within the fiction. You like to read certain authors because you enjoy spending time with the “implied author” you encounter in the novel. I felt annoyed at the sensibility I encountered here, cold, calculating, moving pieces on a board (without the passion of Hardy). Like some others, I felt manipulated by Catton, felt she lives much more in her intellect than in her heart. I never got engaged in figuring out the “puzzle(s)” because I just didn’t really care much about what happened to these characters. </p>