The jacket to "Cheap Ticket" makes allusions to tow of Hollywood's contributions to the genre of 'criminal lovers on the run'. Do not be fooled. This plodding, uninsightful, dreary mess of a novel lacks the finely tuned characterizations and lyrical brutality of Arthur Penn's "Bonnie and Clyde", and doesn't come close to the gut-wrenching visceral overtones of Oliver Stone's "Natural Born Killers". What Charlie Smith gives us, instead, is as banal a piece of writing on the subject of criminals and love as has ever been put to paper. Instead of beginning to care for these lovers, despite their horrendous killing spree, you discover that, not only to you not care, you can't wait for the eventual bloody finale that will bring the whole soggy mess to a close.

Smith's 'poetic language' is boring, repetitive, and pretentious. Instead of finding the poetry that may exist under the circumstances, he forces his brand of poetry onto a framework that simply cannot support it.

There is only one scene that stands out. In it, an elderly man describes how, after hearing his wife urinate on their wedding night, he is unable to touch her. Why? Because she has ceased to be the idol of perfecttion he believed. She is merely human, and he cannot come to grips with it. In this one small aside, Smith creates an unexpected pocket of joy that has haunted me ever since. He should have concentrated on this individual, instead of continuing to torture the reader.

Charles Smith has given us a moren day version of Bonnie and Clyde. His often poetic prose tells the story with such clearity and newness it is a hard book to put down. Yet with all the beautiful language the message that out lover-killers are outlaws. Lovers, yes, but also unrepentient mutiple murderes. Smiths story makes for interesting reading. The way he has crafted his words make it a pleasure to reed

Like the neon vacancy signs now glowing in a hundred different small town motels, this novel resonates with its steady, sinful relentlessness.

Tracking two criminals married in crime and love, Jack and Clare, the novel offers Jack's introspective last look at his life of sin, one given over to a long line of bank robberies and prison sentences and beatings. Still, Jack spares little in his survey of a life so different it shines and horrifies its owner, even in the telling. Smith skillfully interrupts his story with (italicized) snatches of Jack's interview with a reporter, offering attempted objectivity at a criminal life often justified by pure desire - whether murderous anger or impulsive armed robbery.

Like remembered hymns lifted in a childhood sanctuary, this novel resonates with its relentless familiarity. Readers will recognize these odd characters, scarred and scared, whose inexorable descent into violence and death charges the novel not with doom but with an unexpected hope. We witness with something akin to belief as Jack lately realizes (courtesy of an elderly, wasted woman) that heaven can descend for those unable to rise.

This novel pierces many old myths even as it distinguishes itself with a voice and theme as familiar as it is unique. What appears effortless in fact is the opposite: a craftsman here toils over each word so that each phrase or line of dialogue seems inevitable.

While the obvious comparisons to other Southern authors such as McCarthy or Faulkner will surface as the academic world discovers this novel, as it will, Smith here displays a talent as disarming and unexpected as his first name. No other living American author, not one, offers us a fictional world with such tragic and beautiful sights.

I have not read any of Charlie Smith's other work, so I can't compare this to previous efforts. His writing is poetic, and truly impressive in short bursts. But over the long haul, the poetry interferes with the prose. Words and phrases seem to be chosen more for their sounds and rhythms than for their contributions to plot, and dialogue can be stilted. Imagery is vivid but occasionally self-indulgent. The storyline is interesting at first but eventually grows gaudy and distasteful. The power of Smith's language is his greatest strength, but it is a strength better suited to poetry than novels.

Charlie Smith is a master wordsmith. With mere words on a page, he is able to do what so many other respected, talented, and successful writers are unable to do: teleport you not just into another place filled with other people, but into an idea. Fifty percent of any Smith book is theme. Just as we spend so much of our day feeling things abstractly, taking in smells that conjure up long lost memories, and existing in what feels sometimes like a void; Charlie Smith unleashes this part of his characters. Will Blake is a Hollywood actor birthing himself out of his existential crisis and can see and finally accept, distantly, the beautiful in the terrible. The end result is sweet, dark, scary, and insightful. I found myself rereading passages just because I wanted to. I began to dream about the people and the cities and the colors of all the flowers that populate Chimney Rock. Its the kind of book that reveals the true power of a gifted writer.

On the other hand, Charlie Smith is not for everyone. Inexperienced readers need not apply. If a good yarn is all your after, have a friend tell you the story. Charlie's prose is difficult. His sentences are long and crooked. They sometimes form into chains that lead to dramatically different places than they began. A man may walk into a restaraunt and say hello to a woman, but her response could occur three pages later with this type of writing. Its lyrical but indirect. Or, direct spiritually, but not narratively. Nonetheless, its the difficult roads that lead to the grandest rewards.

This book is a supplement to the Call of Cthulhu role-playing game set in the 1920's world of H.P. Lovecraft. It contains the very first campaign designed for the game, Shadows of Yog-Sothoth and a handful, (maybe 4 or 5) other adventures. The Shadows of Yog-Sothoth campaign is great fun. Not nearly as mature of workmanship as the later campaigns Chaosium has put out (e.g. Masks of Nyarlathotep). Nonetheless, it's a load of fun.

The title is very interesting and you open the book hoping to find heroic tales of rebellion and persecution. Unfortunately, the pages between the covers do not live up to the title. It comes across as a poor attempt at glorifying the mission work in India.

The narrative concerns the author's travels through India, where he meets some interesting people. Most of them are converts to Christianity, who are leading fairly comfortable lives as heads of Christian missions or working in other Christian-supported organisations. They offer their view of the Christians in India -- which the author accepts uncritically. he makes no attempts at meeting people from the 'other side' who could offer a different perspective. He also makes typically naive remarks, such as why the monkeys in Shimla should not be neutered to control their population.

The narrative does make an attempt at being even-handed, but this is mostly cosmetic. For instance, when talking of the mission's villification of Hinduism and Arun Shourie's defense of Hinduism, the author conveniently dismisses both as 'belligerents of both sides'. Even so, the real missionary keeps popping up throughout the narrative, as for instance when writing about the Assembly of God School in Kolkata: '...students do have to attend morning prayers, but these are broadly spiritual in nature, rather than explicitly Christian....They never try to convert, although some Hindus do become Christians.' This kind of apologia is a hallmark of the book. It almost makes it seem as if the book was sponsored by the mission.

The book also suffers from two key problems: Firstly, in an attempt to make the narrative racy, key facts are missed and important arguments left incomplete. The second is the pining for Raj days. The readers get an impression that India was largely an uncivilzed country, occupied by barabrians, when the British came here, and the British departure after 250 years was the most unfortuante thing for India.

The book also provides some useful information. For example, few know that one of Rabindranath Tagore's relatives (Gyanendra Mohan Tagore) was converted to Christianity on 10 July 1851. Or that during the British days, local converts were not allowed to attend service at Christchurh, Shimla, which was reserved for the whites.

All in all, a book marred by fatal flaws. However, you could buy it for amusement.