Man Crazy

As usual, Joyce Carol Oates is as creepy and disturbing as hell. Ah. Creepy.

This book follows the story of Ingrid from a five year old to a 21 year old, as her life goes from bad to heartbreakingly worse. Her father came back from Nam broken and angry and is running from policy custody, but not before dropping off his 23 year old wife and 5 year old daughter in a hell hole of a barn to wait it out. Yes, 23 and 5. Ingrid's mother (Chloe) is a year older than I am, not ready to be a mother, really.

So, Ingrid grows up wanting and anxious and not certain of herself in the slightest and turns to sex as a form of approval. Being young and incredibly vulnerable, she gets picked up by the worst kind of male predator, and of course, things get worse from there.

I'm not doing Joyce Carol Oates justice here. She has a way of weaving narrative, remembering and retelling stories in the disjointed, frightening way of someone who's not stable. She makes you believe that the person is real and that they might just slash their wrists in front of you to see if they'll bleed.

But on the whole, the holes in this narrative (no pun intended) aren't filled the way they should be. Oates isn't a linear writer, and it's extremely obvious. She'll give you a moment and then a moment before and then a moment later and gradually the pieces of the puzzle come together in a startlingly beautiful and haunting image.

But in this book, there's a piece or two missing. The ending is satisfying, but there were a few jumps that confused me.

This is not a happy book. Oates is not a happy writer. But she hooks you in, and keeps you there.