1 out of 4 stars
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The Caitiff by J.W. Carey is a novel about a depressed writer, Cedric Healy. The novel is centered on his internal battle with the omnipresent Money-God. I give this book 1 out of 4 stars.
The novel doesn’t offer much in the way of action or plot. The main conflict is Cedric’s unwilling participation and rebellion against the Money-God he imagines. He hates the way modern society sells its soul for advertising of material possessions and money. He wants to be a writer and is depressed at his perceived failure in taking a job in an office spying on people through their webcams. He despises just about everyone and every mundane thing that crosses his path. Eventually he begins a relationship with an Artist, but this seems to be the only positive relationship he is capable of enduring.
This book was difficult to read through because of the long-windedness of nearly every sentence. The book does not contain any action or even much conflict but very minute details of Cedric’s days are greatly elaborated. A description of a pigeon he saw in the street could take a whole paragraph. Nearly every observation of mundane, everyday occurrences contains similes and metaphors as well. The author likely means these to be thoughtful and philosophical, but often they come across as overdone. For example in chapter two: “I drank my tea intermittently, enjoying the burn of it against my lips and feeling it cling to my stubble like an ancient lover fleeing her husband.” All the boring aspects of a person’s life is filtered through a poetic lens and made to be significant.
Another aspect of the book that put me off is the way the narrator refers to people as “colored.” Maybe this is the accepted term in England; nothing else about the book gave any hint at all of racism, even in the narrators own observations. But to me the term “colored” seemed archaic and off-putting.
I give The Caitiff only 1 out of 4 stars because it seems to me to have been written as a rebellion against mindless society but misses the mark of uniqueness. I normally enjoy reading dramas or thoughtful internal monologues but this was an overused story concept written pretentiously. The overdone metaphors and similes in overdrawn accounts of a daily life without action seem to me like it’s trying too hard to be artistic and to see the everyday things in a new, gloomy light. This book might appeal to readers who like to see inside the mind of a depressed man, who relate to poets and nonconforming artists, or who like to read about antiheroes.
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The Caitiff
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