Skippy Dies by Paul Murray (an unfinished read)

I abandoned a book club read; I read enough to get the gist of the book, I skimmed the rest. And I'm so sad, because I had been looking forward to reading Skippy Dies for quite some time.

The novel is artfully constructed, and beautiful, tragic, and despairing, and haunting, and strangely, inspiring. I had to put it down, though, because I just couldn't handle the darkness (and this comes from a girl who considers The Road one of her all-time favorites). The darkness in this novel comes from the true loss of innocence among a group of British school boys attending one of the great last Catholic boarding schools in England. The novel, at times hysterical (I did laugh out loud), but mostly, at times downright disturbing, is an evolution of about five major characters on various journeys in understanding what we see as life. The boys become drug dealers, there's numerous accounts of rape, sex, and of course, scandal--mainly, the priestly abuse of a few of the more innocent characters. Our adult characters are few and reek of thoughts of "what could've been", accurate portrayals of middle age with no hope. The teacher of focus, a 30-something whiff of a man, struggles between the realities of his life (shacking up with an American dreamer) and the romanticism of the unknown (substitute female teacher and obvious flirt), and while this is a typical struggle (the old versus the new, the loss of dreams and the corresponding middle age) it seems to be re-birthed in a unique way in Howard the Coward. I think it's Howard's sections that drew me in the most as a reader, but then again, I'm the demographic he represents (but, just an FYI--I have an insane amount of hope where he has none) The novel, though, revolves around the death of dear Skippy and the prelude and consequent actions from this one moment.

The reason I put it down is because I couldn't bear to finish it. I tend to bear things differently now as a mother when I read; I no longer have the innocence of my non-parent heart protecting me. And it's that kind of depth in a novel that sometimes becomes too much. And I was sad, too, to put it down--because it's some of the most beautiful writing I've read since Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer--it had that artful, poignant tonality that I value and treasure in writing of the "real world". But for me, this one just was probably the wrong book at the wrong time.

So, I encourage you to try the book--especially if you're up for an existential journey through the plight of humanity--but I warn you that this novel is not for the faint at heart.