The Dogs of Babel [Audiobook, Ungekürzte Ausgabe] [Englisch] [Hörkassette]

I finished this book three days ago, and I still have strong feelings floating around because of it. The Dogs of Babel is an emotionally painful reading experience, and for me, one of the most intensely sad books I've ever encountered (but that's a good thing -- genuine emotion is hard to come by in this post-modern meta-fiction riddled contemporary literary period).

You've probably read how this book is about a man, Paul Iverson, who is trying to teach his dog to tell him why his wife died in a fall ... but it's not a gimmicky book. It's about grieving, self-examination, love, and how complicated people and relationships can be. People complain that there are plot events that are unrealistic or far-fetched, but I'd contend that they are missing the point: this is the most emotionally honest book I've come across recently. As the reader learns more about Paul and his wife, he becomes more invested in Paul's plight, so much so that the pain is real and raw. If you want to feel for a character in a novel, then this book is certainly for you.

The caveat, though, is that The Dogs of Babel is an intense experience, which may not be for you depending on your current circumstances. If I had recently experienced a loss, I doubt I could've gotten through it at all (at least without a breakdown). I'd also be careful if you're feeling emotionally fragile since I can't get it out of my head three days later with no end in sight for me (when was the last time a book hung around with you for some time after you finished it?).

5 stars
"The Dogs of Babel" is about Paul Iverson, a linguist at a local university who meets and quickly marries a young artist named Lexy Ransome. She is everything to him- she brings light and color to his dull, academic life. The two have a seemingly happy and passionate marriage until one day Lexy mysteriously falls from a tree and is mortally injured. The only witness to the incident is the couple's dog, Lorelai and Paul, in his grief and desperation, decides he is going to make Lorelai communicate in order to reveal the secrets of his wife's last day. He abandons his friends, family, and career in order to work with Lorelai, and in doing so finds out much more (both about himself, Lexy, and the nature of desperate people) than he bargained for.

When I read the premise for "Dogs of Babel" I had no idea how Carolyn Parkhurst was going to make it come together. But she did, and did so beautifully and tragically. Although the concept sounds bizarre, what it really does is provide a meaningful way for Paul to retell all the events and emotions of his marriage to Lexy.

This is a wonderfully written book. The narrative weaves in and out of the past and present with no effort at all. Normally, I can't take stories of grief and loss too often because they make me fear for the fate of my own loves ones. But this was different- it's not a book about grief, or sadness, it's a book about the thing we do in desperation to move on from the pain. It's an honest story about the cruel secrets of human nature.

Note: I must warn you- there are some situations dealing with animal abuse in the book. While Paul is doing research on the ability of animals to communicate, he runs into a bizarre underground group that is determined- in any way possible- to get dogs to speak. I am *very* sensitive to issues of animal neglect and abuse, and while it was hard for me to get through some of the brief passages in the book dealing with these topics, it was not enough to get me to put the book down or turn me off from it. But if you are sensitive to it, you should be aware it comes up in the book.

Carolyn Parkhurst has a wonderful way of evoking scenes from the merest whispers of words. This may be by necessity, as the novel is framed as alternating chapters of approximately five pages each in which she follows her character Paul Iverson through flashbacks of his life with his wife, Lexy, and the sad present that finds Paul piecing together the mystery of how and why Lexy died. The brisk pacing and Parkhurst's faculty for creating vignettes that your mind fleshes out make this a quick and not altogether unsatisfying read.

Lexy's character is certainly the most compelling, not the least because of her having died in the opening sentence. Lexy is complex in the most satisfying way, both laughter and sorrow, sunshine and darkness. Her appeal drives the novel, and we as readers wnat to know more about her. We, like Paul, want to unravel the mystery not only of her death, but of Lexy herself.

Unfortunately, Paul himself seems more alive (and believeable) in the flashbacks with Lexy. Alone with their dog, Lorelei, in the absence of Lexy, Paul is not just a figure of grief, but a character who seems too much an inhabitant of the page. That is, the flashbacks seem to be a part of a world, a fictive reality where we believe the characters continue on after we stop reading about them. But the Paul of the present seems too much a writer's sketch, and the second half of the book is fraught with worse sins of writing.

The passages about Wendell Hollis and the Cerberus Society are very nearly unreadable, and don't bear explanation here. The psychic, Lady Arabelle, is likewise an uncomfortable and ill-considered plot device. Not only do these two plot "twists" defy the reality Parkhurst so carefully crafted earlier in the novel, they threaten to highjack our interest in the story altogether. That they do not is perhaps partly due to the fact that we keep getting a glimpse of the past, of Lexy, and we forgive the author her indiscretions to work our way to the end with Paul.

The end, ultimately, does not redeem these clunky plot contrivances, but it does offer a beautiful summation of Parkhurst's talents as author. The final paragraph is wondrous, and pulls together the the colorful metaphors of Lexy in a jewel of a moment.

I wish Ms. Parkhurst would eschew the too obvious: Paul, a linguist, is married to Lexy (punning of the Greek "lexikos," pertaining to words, as well as the library of Alexandria of antiquity); Lorelei, the siren of Germanic myth, is the mute witness of Lexy's death that Paul is obsessed with; Lexy's rearrangement of books, we know well in advance, will be some sort of code; even the apple tree itself, with overtones of Eden.

The idea that Lexy fell from an apple tree at once sets the reader on notice that he must put aside credulity to a certain degree; this is both liberating for the author and a dangerous high-wire act to attempt. Likewise, the idea that Lorelei might "speak" to Paul is a trail of breadcrumbs that could lead to some dark woods. But the reader can embrace those parameters. Had the novel not over-reached its plot in the second half, this could have been a 4- or 5-star book. Paul's life as an academic, too, seems stitched-on, as if to compensate for his never having been as well sketched as Lexy.

But I can forgive the author these shortcomings. There is enough in Lexy, and in Parkhurst's evocation of her with a wink of fable, to make me hope her second novel does not fall prety to the sophomore slump, but rather reverses it. She has a powerful sense of human inter-relation, but drifts when her characters are alone. But most tellingly are those moments when this novel does sing, as it does in the second chapter when Parkhurst evokes the Homeric muse to write: "I sing of a woman with ink on her hands and pictures hidden beneath her hair." Parkhurst's gift is that she can sing, when she is not foisting chunks of plot upon us that feel like they belong in forgettable novels rather than flashes of a brilliant other world.