Here are some signs that a book is going to suck:
- Pages 1-6 are the usual title pages and fawning quotes from reviewers.
- Page 7 is a dedication, followed by a quotation (in Greek).
- Page 8 is an illustration.
- Page 9 has two more quotations.
- Page 10 is a list of maps found in the text, with page numbers.
- Page 11 is a note “To My American Readers”
- Pages 12-13 contain a glossary.
- Page 14 is the Preface, which mentions that some of the characters in this work of fiction are actually the author’s friends.
- Page 19, finally, is the first page of the first chapter, except they are not called chapters, they’re Fits.
This is from The Plague Dogs, by Richard Adams, author of Watership Down. I am about to completely spoil it.
The novel concerns two dogs who escape from an animal research lab in northern England. The purpose of the lab is to torture animals for no obvious medical reason. The researchers themselves do not seem to especially remember the ostensible purpose of each experiment, and so frequently have conversations like this:
“Oh, but what about the guinea-pigs, chief?” said Mr. Powell, returning his note-pad to the ready.
“The ones receiving tobacco tar condensates, you mean?” said Dr. Boycott.
Adams uses this transparent rhetorical device constantly. “Those dogfish–the ones you wanted for experiments on how they’re able to change their coloration to match their backgrounds, remember?” Who the hell talks like this? He wants to pack in so many crimes against animals in a single conversation that he barely leaves room for the sadistic sniveling:
“The first one’s that humane trap for grey squirrels that Ag. and Fish. sent us for trial.”
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s not turning out all that humane, really,” said Mr. Powell, with a giggle of embarrassment.
But the real zinger for the bad guys is this casual gem:
“Do we ever use anaethestics?”
“Good God, no,” said Dr. Boycott. “D’you know what they cost?”
Get it?? Dr. Boycott?? And the name of the research facility gets abbreviated to A.R.S.E. This guy just kills me.
Like in Watership Down, there are animals and they talk to each other. The device doesn’t work as well with dogs. It’s interesting to imagine docile rabbits as militaristic, savage beings with superstitions and societies. Dogs are already understood to be social and to exhibit complex behaviors. Communicative dogs, though, start to fall into an uncanny valley where they remain too dog-like to be believably alien but become too human-like to be believably normal dogs. An author needs to make his or her talking animals recognizably animals, as in We3, or just go all the way into the animal’s world, as in Watership Down or Mrs Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. Speaking of which, the latter is a way better novel about animal research.
Just when I thought I’d seen it all — illustrations, chapters in rhyme, characters musing “for no reason” about the Holocaust — we come to the last chapter (which ought to be “Fit 11″ but is instead, ominously, “Envoy”). Two characters (who are among the real people mentioned in the preface) are having an idle conversation during a day of boating:
“Well-intentioned amateurs like that chap Richard Adams — fond of the country — reasonably good observer — knows next to nothing about rabbits –”
Following which they happen upon the two dogs in the sea, nearly drowned but desperately paddling out to an imaginary island where humans are nice to animals. The men effect a last-minute rescue, bring them to shore where the fox terrier’s (thought-deceased) owner is waiting to greet them. Our heroes force back paratroopers sent to shoot the dogs. The government that sponsored the lab is humiliated. The giggling Mr. Powell has a change of heart and liberates a monkey. One of the paratroopers opines, “These experimental animals are just sentient objects.” A sleazy tabloid reporter finally finds a story that he cares about. The owner adopts both animals and they live happily ever after. And I, the reader, have never been so disgusted with a book that made me sob so pathetically in relief.