Some books have peculiar histories. Peter Robinson migrated from England. In Canada he wrote No Cure For Love, published in 1995. It didn't come out in the UK and US until 2016.
It has a forward by even more popular American crime author Michael Connelly pointing up Robinson's authenticity. Though settled in Canada, Robinson tends to set his stories in Los Angeles. The Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) provides the requisite homicide detectives.
As the author sees it, a good many Americans of both genders are neurotic. Stateside males regard females as anything but equal, while women think men are easy to wrap around their fingers around.
When the cops investigate the deaths of mutilated women, their investigations are by the book. It's clear that they don't believe the suspects, taking for granted that they're being evasive in their answers, trying to hide the truth. The interrogators aren't above lying, pretending they know more than they do.
As for what attracts a man to a certain woman -- there's no clear answer. Driving his car in and around Hollywood, rejecting most of the species, Mitch just knows it's her when he spots her. Then he stalks and makes contact. It's up to the cops to draw the picture to its logical conclusion.
But they can't because Robinson throws them a curveball. Mitch has a brother. Mark is mute, otherwise like Mitch, only more so. He has a genius for getting through police blockades. A knife is his weapon of choice. What brought about their attitude towards women?
Robinson blames it on mom. The saying fits her: "There are women who oughtn't have children. They shouldn't even have pets." The LAPD is slow in getting it right, but nobody's perfect.
Over two decades old, No Cure For Love is still timely. It's by no stretch of the imagination a classic. I'll take Michael Connelly, James Patterson or Clive Cussler over Peter Robinson any day, yet he's worthwhile.
An acquired taste
This reviewer has been an aficionado of short stories since first introduced to Aesop's Fables, so imagine my thrill when one of my dwellings in the Big Apple was opposite O. Henry's, though generations later. (His name is still on the door. Mine isn't.) I also like Boccoccio and de Maupassant, Maugham and Grimm.
Short stories aren't short novels. Their form is different. A number have a lesson to teach. Astute observations of human and animal behaviour. A twisted finis. Deaths, perhaps, but little violence. Most of all, they should grab you early on. Having readers wondering what he or she is getting at is a no-no.
Alas, Yank author Chuck Palahniuk, in Make Something Up, is in no hurry to immerse us in his 21 short stories and a novella. More than once I skipped from one short story to another. Several of his plots are clever, if only he'd minimise the introductions and descriptions and get to them.
In one short story -- there are too many to list -- we are introduced to American slang for food and sex. A slut seduces someone mentally challenged. Did we not know the meanings of slang words, we would think them innocuous, while they are anything but. Suffice to say that they enjoy themselves.
A woman confined to a wheelchair has a massage. In a stream of consciousness she recalls her youth, feeling sorry for herself. We are left with the thought that after she gives away her money, she'll bow out.
A Christmas story -- a bit of fluff about exchanging presents -- is light-years from rivalling Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.
Naughty boys and girls, too much for their families and running afoul of the law, are sent to separate strict schools for reform. It's the same school as in the novella, run by a no-nonsense commander. The inmates want to report the brutality, but have no contact with the outside.
There are pregnancies and deaths. The time comes when it's them or the commander. When the police and media arrive, alerted by the fire alarm, they have a lot of explaining to do and their lies aren't believed by the judge.
Chuck Palahniuk is a competent but not outstanding author. He has 15 novels under his belt, building a following but with a way to go. Make Something Up requires acquired tastes.
