ROBERT SIEGEL, HOST:
Greek literature is full of depraved characters. They lie. They cheat. They steal. And sometimes they kill. Author Bruce Machart can't get enough of these bad seeds and their tales of destruction. He's picked three of his favorites for us, as part of our series Three Books.
BRUCE MACHART: In 1985, my friend Johnny suffered a tragic loss in a crime that went unsolved until this year. While reporters tell us that justice has finally brought closure, the story endures, and it raises an unsettling question: What compels us toward tales about violence, about murder?
Perhaps the answer lies in the fact that all artful stories humanize us as surely as they humanize their characters. Take the 1927 case of a New York love triangle, a real-life story that sold millions of newspapers. In the hands of Ron Hansen, tabloid fodder becomes the book "A Wild Surge of Guilty Passion." When Judd Gray, model citizen and corset salesman, meets Ruth Snyder, a woman of alluring appearance and lurid motives, the murder of Ruth's husband is set in motion.
The resulting downward spiral culminates in a horrifying scene. But what distinguishes the novel is Hansen's alternating use of objective journalistic distance and the more subjective, humanizing perspectives that allow the reader access to the characters. As surely as Hansen's fictionalization makes true crime feel more real, Donald Ray Pollock stretches the fabric of realism into an Appalachian Grotesque. Set in Ohio and West Virginia but steeped in the gothic tradition of Faulkner, "The Devil All the Time" explodes at the crossroads of penitence and perversion.
First, Arvin Russell's father forces him into a gruesome, hopeless prayer vigil. Then there are Sandy and Carl Henderson, husband-and-wife serial killers who will keep you checking your locks the next time you drive alone down a rural highway. Add to the mix a pair of fetishistic cousins and a sadistic minister, and you've got a taste of what's potent and bubbling in the backwoods still of Pollock's imagination.
Whether or not murder can ever be the perfect crime, William Maxwell's "So Long, See You Tomorrow" is made up of unassailably gorgeous prose. The late, beloved fiction editor for The New Yorker, Maxwell somehow found the time to pen this lean masterwork about fallible memory and fleeting chances. The novel twines stories of rural infidelity, desperate vengeance and the indelible stains of childhood heartbreak. Decades after a murder, the narrator remains beset by the guilt of having forsaken his former playmate, the perpetrator's son. The regret haunts him always. I've spoken only once to my friend Johnny since the jury returned its verdict.
I bear the guilt of a writer who rarely knows what to say, yet my insufficiencies often leave me breathing hard. And isn't that what great novels can do, no matter how appalling the subject? Don't we want to be slain by stories? Doesn't it make us feel all the more alive?
SIEGEL: Bruce Machart's newest book is called "Men in the Making."
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