I just finished Charles Bock’s first novel, “Beautiful Children.” In short, it was an amazing book. Flawed, but amazing. It’s still bothering me. The characters keep rising up in my mind at strange times, especially the street kids. I’m trying to sort through it all and definitely will need to re-read the last few chapters. A lot happens there. Too much to absorb in one read.
I guess I should expect nothing less from a novel that lists the bizarre guitar virtuoso Buckethead atop the acknowledgments section.
In short, the book is about Kenny, a Las Vegas kid who disappears. It chronicles the impact of the incident on his parents’ marriage. It staggers through the Las Vegas Strip following mangy runaways. It slinks through the slime and silicone of the porn industry.
I guess my main complaint is Bock’s tendency to layer detail in a way reminiscent of Updike. While it can breath life and truth into a scene, it also can short circuit the narrative. It’s a balancing act. At times, I just wanted to navigate around all the detail, staying with the narrative thread, that swift cool stream of words cutting through the descriptive silt Bock was accreting.
But I’d rate that a minor flaw, one born of an 11-year birthing process for the novel. That amazes me. What tenacity, to stay with it that long and finally get published with considerable fanfare.
The New York Times Magazine did a decent profile of Bock a few weeks back. Worth a look …