One day, with nothing better to read, I
grabbed a copy of Clive Cussler’s Lost
City from my girlfriend’s bookshelf.
She said she’d bought it to improve her English, and after having a look
at the cover and reading the blurb on the back, I thought that might be the
book’s only use. I held hope for something
better, but was disappointed: my first impression rang truer than true.
Lost
City
is exactly the kind of novel Ursula Le Guin discusses in her book Language of the Night as having
disconnected itself from the mythic mode of storytelling it so desperately
wants to be a part of. Its premise of an
aging but tough hero fighting against an aristocracy trying to win both the
arms race and find immortality has all the right parts and symbols, but yet
completely lacks storytelling depth to bind them cohesively. The description of the hero, Kurt Austin,
runs as follows and serves as a good introduction to the verve of the book:
The
man was husky in build, with shoulders like twin battering rams. Exposure to sun and sea had bronzed the
rugged features that were bathed in the soft orange light from the instrument
panel, and bleached the pale, steely gray hair almost to the color of
platinum. With his chiseled profile and
intense expression, Kurt Austin had the face of a warrior carved on a Roman
victory column. But the flinty hardness
that lay under the burnished features was softened by an easy smile, and the
piercing coral blue eyes sparkled with good humor. (46)
Stereotype rather than archetype seeming
to play a stronger role (I unintentionally envision an aging Conan), this
description of the main character leaves the reader laughing at his supposed
perfection rather than in awe of his “chiseled” looks.
