PERFORMATIVE SPEECH: Very short book reviews. In the order in which I read them.

The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, RL Stevenson: OK, you already know what this is about. So the question is, given that you know the monster, do you need the book?

I’m not sure you “need” it really. The idea behind it is the striking thing. But there are really lovely descriptions of fogbound Victorian London; and Jekyll’s final testimony, which closes the novel, has all the twisty, muttering self-deceptions you could hope for. I enjoyed this a lot.

Till We Have Faces, CS Lewis: Reshaping of the story of Cupid and Psyche. I’m pretty sure I would have loved this, or at least liked it very much, if I’d read it somewhere between fourth and eighth grade. The mythos is powerful, Lewis’s changes are dramatically compelling, the characters are well-done stock fantasy (that isn’t a criticism–stock characters often become stock for a reason), and the emotions have the potential to be ferocious and raw. I think Lewis’s style is too direct and repetitive, though. I felt that I was being led by the hand, and that muffled the novel’s passionate depictions of broken faith, anger at the gods (/God), possessive jealousy, and discolored love.

I’m glad that I finally read this, primarily because I loved the new light shone on the Psyche myth, even though the work itself isn’t quite right. I really do wish I’d read it earlier, so if you know a middle-school fantasy reader, you might drop it in her lap.

Nocturnes for the King of Naples, Edmund White: I think John Heard is to blame for this one–think I spotted it in one of his posts and thought it sounded possible.

It’s amazing. Grows in retrospect, too. A very short, drifting book, written in a sensual, associational style–all the metaphors go on longer than you think they should, and then shift into something else–basically about, I guess, the pointillist self; whether that self can love or only misremember; and the way both love and loss remake the world in the beloved’s image, so that everything you see or touch seems to be calling the name of the person you’ll always mean when you say, You.

Or: Judah Halevi’s gay brother gets drunk under the iron bridge from “Still Ill,” and writes the way Derek Jarman wished he could.

The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton: I’m leery talking about this much, since I only finished it this evening. For now I’ll say only: 1. I thought it managed its difficult balance of light satire and genuine tragedy. 2. It seemed to be centrally concerned with which kind of life is a “real” life, which kind of life is cramped, which is free, which is possible and which is fantasy–more so than specifically which kind is right or wrong, although that division also comes up. 3. I liked the way Newland himself could recognize some of the symbolism in the events and objects around him, while missing so many other cues to morality and meaning. It’s a subtler way of showing his severe lack of self-overhearing than I would have expected.

Anyway, I was very much struck by this book, and would welcome any comments from you all.