I was intrigued when a friend suggested I read Joy Nicholson's new novel "The Road To Esmerelda" since she said it called to mind Robert Stone, a writer I greatly admire. In the interest of full disclosure, she was hoping I would write about it, Joy being a pal of hers. Since the Huffington Post's guiding principle often seems to be answering the question "What hell hath Bush wrought?" why, one might ask, would I want to blog about any novel, much less one I didn't write? Because Joy Nicholson has written that rare thing, a book that is personal, political, and imbued with the Bush-abetted madness afoot in the world today. Oh, and it's drolly funny.
The story concerns a young American couple traveling in Mexico on the eve of the Iraq invasion. The reception they receive is unpleasant. They come to regret not booking at Club Med. I was thrilled they didn't.
Take some Graham Greene, add a dash of Malcolm Lowry, and serve chilled. Joy Nicholson is not writing chick lit.
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