2013 read #145: The Doubleman by C. J. Koch.

The Doubleman by C. J. Koch
326 pages
Published 1985
Read from November 24 to November 27
Rating: ★★★ out of 5

One of the justified criticisms of fantasy as a genre is how unoriginal and formulaic it can be. However, middle of the road literary fiction, to my mind, can be every bit as repetitive and paint-by-numbers as the most egregious Campbellian hero's journey in an elf-beset kingdom. Parts of this book felt like some kind of mainstream fiction mad-lib:

Unusual, exotic setting: TASMANIA
Scarring childhood trauma: POLIO / PARALYSIS (LEFT LEG)
Scarring childhood trauma #2 (optional): STRICT, ABUSIVE CATHOLIC SCHOOL
Substitute father figure ("good"): GRANDFATHER
Substitute father figure ("bad"): VAGUELY SATANIC GUITAR TUTOR
Symbolic childhood eccentricity: TOY THEATER
"Bad influence" childhood friend who returns to narrator's life later on: COUSIN AT BOARDING SCHOOL
Unusual sexual coming of age and ongoing fixation: OLDER, MARRIED WOMAN AT BOARDING HOUSE
Frustrated artistic ambition: ACTING / DIRECTING
Ongoing allegorical motif: FAERY / GNOSTIC DUALITY / "DOUBLE WORLD"

More worthy literary authors (like, say, Peter Carey, if we're sticking with the Australian milieu) disguise such a framework with concise, bedazzling prose, but Koch's composition is merely adequate, never stirring or surprising with its beauty or economy. "Average" literary prose, of course, ranks about equal to "very good" genre prose, which is another (justified) reason fantasy tends to get knocked. Also, the observational and descriptive skills of even an average lit author obliterate those of most fantasy scribblers. But personally, I start to get bored with verisimilitude if it isn't delivered in a voice that leaves my mouth wide open.

All of this is a long way from what I expected from this book. The introduction to The Year's Best Fantasy: First Annual Collection clued me in to The Doubleman, describing it as "a Steeleye Span-type band battling magic and touring Australia." My mind went to Fairport Convention for character models -- Sandy Denny and Richard Thompson tooling around in a groovy van and solving spooky mysteries in the Outback -- but the gist was the same, and it still sounded incredible. The reality is a letdown. For one thing, the narrator is the goddamn producer, not even a member of the band. For another, "magic" here consists of some Tarot cards, some seances, and some vague Gnostic flimflam. The only "battling" is the petty emotional strife you'd find in any slice of middle class realism. And the band doesn't even go on tour. Nothing in that description proved accurate, which is a goddamn shame, because the book I invented in my head was frigging glorious.

I try not to let my expectations sink my appreciation for what I get, and really, this is a solid if unremarkable (and somewhat formulaic) bit of literary fiction, adequate but no forgotten classic. But I don't think I've been this disappointed in a book since January, when I couldn't force myself through even two pages of Tad Williams' The Dirty Streets of Heaven.