A High Wind in Jamaica, Richard Hughes. It's safe to say that we consume culture for any number of reasons, and it might be interesting at some point to map that somehow. For instance, Gilmore Girls might look like this: good cry + fashion + cultural capital + funny. Jens Lekman is funny + dance to it + Euro. Or something. The problem with this kind of map is that it's so subjective.
Anyway, this book taught me something about what I want from culture: and it turns out that I really, really enjoy being appalled. I'm not kidding. This is the best and most appalling thing I've read since . . . since . . . I think it's that horrifying The Book of Lost Things, the odd, disturbing fairytale pastiche I read last summer. Like that book, A High Wind in Jamaica is about children in serious trouble. This novel also has bad things happening to animals, weird sex, and a series of increasingly startling and puzzling deaths.
One of the problems with reading a book like this is trying to figure out with whom you could really share it. Something like Me Talk Pretty One Day or The Fountain Overflows or A Simple Plan, you know that everyone you've ever met is going to like that. Something as crazy as A High Wind in Jamaica is harder to sell, and maybe more precious because of that. It makes me think of the first time I read The Monk and thinking, "This shit is exactly the kind of crazy Jenny would eat up," or the few people we've made watch Center Stage or The Day After Tomorrow who really got them: most people don't appreciate how something that bananas can be art, and it's exciting when you connect with those people.
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