newcritics

Sebastian Faulks has made a name for himself in the UK as a best-selling writer of historical sagas (Birdsong, Charlotte Gray). But his reputation is mixed: He doesn’t have the cachet of an Ian McEwen, Julian Barnes, or Martin Amis, and some critics sniff that his work verges toward sentimentality, or worse: his Charlotte Gray won the 1998 Literary Review’s annual “Bad Sex” award. Small wonder that this serious writer, a former journalist, would want to try something completely different.

Engleby, released in the UK this year and due for US release in September, is a simple story of a supremely creepy guy, who during the early 1970s may or may not have been responsible for the disappearance of a university classmate, Jennifer, with whom he was infatuated.

Mike Engleby is the ultimate untrustworthy narrator. The story is told as his memoir, and he has a razor sharp mind for irrelevant details (mostly of popular bands from the time: Anyone remember Focus? Robin Trower?), yet his narrative has disconcerting lapses when it comes to the question of Jennifer.

Engleby is not a great book, but it’s a fun read. Like so many of the best U.K. writers, Faulks has the ability to write an intelligent story, free of genre, that simply entertains. And by the way, Engleby has no sex scenes.