THE WOODEN SEA by Jonathan Carroll/ $23.95/Tor Books
Something is definitely rotten in the town of Crane's View. It could be the dead dog in chief of police Frannie McCabe's old Ford, or maybe the cop's just lost in a dream where the scent of his own broccoli-induced passings are being registered and incorporated into his REM state. Or maybe the dead dog is dreaming it all. The reader's dilemma is never knowing if McCabe's adventure is a dream, a drug trip (there are dancing lizards) or a mystical story of wonder.
Carroll's latest novel is humorous and intriguing, but at no point does reality ever seem possible. Carroll addresses this doubt through his cynical protagonist's own disbelief. Anything this phenomenal could never, never be believed by simply hearing about it. But yet I read on, intrigued not only by the indistinguishable motif, but wet-lipped anxious for Carroll to unfold the blanket of confusion in the theme of a middle-aged man learning to like himself. The self that emerges after 27 adult years of learning, reflecting, contemplating and evolving. The self that looks back upon its past selves at various stages and wonders how they could have been that person, or thought that thought. When faced with an 18-year-old version of his now 47-year-old self, the respected Chief thinks, " was that strutting punk back at the house really me, or had we only lived in the same body, like an apartment at different times?"
Whether the tale's a dream or reality remains a mystery. Though things develop that attempt to give proof of reality, the sporadic interruptions of words such as "dream" and "dreampilot" sneak in through the cracks, soaking your mind with doubt. Frustrating, yes, but Dante never came right out and told us the Inferno was a dream, and he's been chillin' in the VIP room of the Literature Hall of Fame for centuries.
—Jenn Wilson
This article appears in May 3-9, 2001.