Wednesday, 27 February 2019

Robert Olen Butler - The Hot Country


Rating: 2/5

Review:
Dull

The Hot Country is set during the American occupation of Veracruz, Mexico in the months preceding the First World War. Christopher Marlowe Cobb is a US journalist who becomes involved in trying to uncover some sinister German activity among Mexican revolutionaries. This is a very interesting time of which I was keen to learn more and the book is written with an obvious (sometimes a little over-obvious) depth of knowledge. Robert Olen Butler creates a fine sense of the time and place, but I’m afraid I became very bored and eventually gave up after about 200 pages.

The problem is that the whole thing reads rather like a history book set as an exercise in Fine Writing. It is very, very slow; I don’t mind that of itself, but there is an air of self-indulgence in the long, crafted descriptions and the digressions, which are many. The first part of the book is heavily laced with a lot of irrelevant, tedious and sometimes downright pretentious stuff about his mother and his childhood, for example. The story develops very slowly among this and a wealth of very lengthy description and exposition. Just as a tiny example, when Cobb is on a Mexican train:
“I slept, fitfully, awaking to undifferentiated blackness out the window and to the sound of snoring and dream murmurings in Spanish and to the smell of cigarette smoke and pulque and to the smell of old sweat and the Mexicans’ heavy cover-up of soap and perfume, manufactured smells of lilac and rose and jasmine, and I woke to an ache in the side of my neck from the sleeping angle of my head and the ache in my butt and in my back from the rush-work seat.”
This is very good in its way, but when every tiny thing like dozing and waking up on a train is given this wealth of description it really does get a bit much. The final straw for me was when Cobb was drinking with a mercenary in bandit country, trying to determine what is going on and as he takes a sip we get several pages of Proustian recollections of the childhood smell of liquorice. Enough.

This was not for me, in the end. It’s beautifully written but I found it self-indulgent and dull.

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