The accident is a book for those who enjoy literature that makes you think. It reminded me of a Hemingway novel, and I highly recommend it.

Annunciation: A Novel by David Plante Review by A. L. Wilson Quietly stunning. Plante is at his deepest when writing of the experience of grief. In Annunciation, grief -- and its existential twin, anxiety -- are so free-floating and enveloping as to be palpable in the texture of the prose. Some critics have thought that in this, his most recent effort, Plante neglects those deft strokes by which great novelists make characters come to life and breathe on the page. But to my mind such critics take a too limited view of the possibilities for extending the reach of literary art. It is not all about creating "convincing characters" to distract readers from their private concerns. There are many ways for a novel to lift us out of ourselves, but somehow the best novels also find ways to put us back into ourselves, into our lives, with renewed and clarified sense of being. Plante's novels, which almost always portray characters or narrators confronting life in the mode of existential crisis, have always tended to empty out pscyhological or subjective "depth" in order to focus our attention, finally, upon the eventfulness of the day to day. It is really in Plante's descriptions -- of a wine bottle label, of a clump of shovelled snow falling from a roof to the street, of a moment in which two characters eyes, gazing through the glass of a framed picture, suddenly meet in the reflection -- that we experience the greatness and the purity of his vision. In Annunciation, however, he takes an unusual step for a modern writer, in that he very explicitly and deliberately frames his narrative in religious terms. The characters of Annuciation -- the sensual yet bewildered Claire, who is both drawn toward and repulsed by the "darkness" of her art thesis subject, Pietro Testa (a suicide, like her husband); her daughter, the calmly opaque schoolgirl Rachel, who declares her intention to bring to term a child fathered by a rapist; and the anxiety-ridden, despairing Claude, who finds a kind of redemption in committing himself both to the search for a lost painting and, finally, to Rachel and her child -- become, in Plante's hands, vehicles for exploring the meaning and limits of "faith" in our time. The character triad Grief-Acceptance-Anxiety is completed by one of Plante's most exhilarating creations -- Joy, in the person of Maurice, an old emigre who, acting as Claude's guide on the trip to find the lost picture, manages to infuse fervor into their lives and to make the trip a real spiritual quest. Plante has taught in Moscow, and the many precise details of chaotic life in that city in the immediate aftermath of Communism are among the greatest gifts the novel has to offer its readers. It is a disconcerting, rarified, somewhat heartbreaking journey which concludes, perhaps too vaguely for some readers, not in any pat "vision of grace" but the image of a glass of water shining in a dark room, and in Claude's thought that the "darkness" around such an image is ultimately the only way that he is capable of imagining God.

I don't feel useful to type 1000 words here, anyone reading this book will understand all the passion than enameled ware can arouse, and all the work produced by the authors to show so numerous and beautiful pictures. These everyday utensils has been used during decades in so many worlwide houses, but how many housekeepers did realize as much it was difficult to produce ? Who knows the differences between circa 1800's and 1900's items, how to recognize an entirely handpainted pattern from a silk-screen printing just enhanced by hand, or how to get sure than this is a complete coffee jug or unfortunately a coffee biggin without its lid ? A good advice : just read this book, then keep it where you're sure to find it again immediately

To date, this is Plante's worst novel. Having said that, one must realise that his worst novel is usually better than someone else's best. The action is normally in disarray, but it seems intended. The dialouge is wonderful, yet somehow too much a part of this book. There are moments of his standard setting tight, lyrical writing, but in no way does it ever match the continuity of his novels Annuncition or The Accident, to name his most recent. Overall, it is a good read, but left me thirsting for the older days. Perhaps his signing with St. Martins press has made a difference for the worst, but I have faith that the next book will be better.

David Plante may very well be America's most underrated novelist. Age of Terror is a triumph. It will grab you from the very first page and hold you till the end while it challenges, provokes and surprises even the most well-read readers. Especially those who enjoy books in the tradtions of Dostoevsky, Melville, Goethe or Kazantsakis will feel rewarded and nourished by this book. A spiritual ride through human sexuality, crudeness and search for truth and meaning. The book is courageous and overwhelmingly real, but hopeful and full of love for the human soul.

I sat out most of 1998 reading hundreds of novels and non-fiction entries, and the only one I can vividly recall is David Plante's mesmerizing AGE OF TERROR. Yes, it is utterly depressing and bleak, but the beautiful aspects of the human soul shine through in its gorgeous poetry and vaguely - though craftily - skteched imagery. The story of a young American who journeys to post-Communist Russia to encounter love - and the most grim aspects of capitalism - gently snakes to a climax that is just... shattering.

This is not a book to cheer you up. It purports to be a family story, the occasional gatherings of seven brothers at the home of their aging parents. But there's no glow, no real sense of understanding. Instead it has all the pettiness of family squabbling, too many tears in general, and all the dreariness of old age. It's written in short, choppy, irresolute sentences. It's not a book you quit in the middle, anymore than you would leave the room when a somewhat tiresome neighbor comes to call, but - as with the neighbor - you can't help but be glad when it's over.