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Summary
Summary
The Fourth Handasks an interesting question: "How can anyone identify a dream of the future?" The answer: "Destiny is not imaginable, except in dreams or to those in love." While reporting a story from India, a New York television journalist has his left hand eaten by a lion; millions of TV viewers witness the accident. In Boston, a renowned hand surgeon awaits the opportunity to perform the nation's first hand transplant; meanwhile, in the distracting aftermath of an acrimonious divorce, the surgeon is seduced by his housekeeper. A married woman in Wisconsin wants to give the one-handed reporter her husband's left hand-that is, after her husband dies. But the husband is alive, relatively young, and healthy. This is how John Irving's tenth novel begins; it seems, at first, to be a comedy, perhaps a satire, almost certainly a sexual farce. Yet, in the end,The Fourth Handis as realistic and emotionally moving as any of Mr. Irving's previous novels-includingThe World According to Garp, A Prayer for Owen Meany, andA Widow for One Year-or his Oscar-winning screenplay ofThe Cider House Rules. The Fourth Handis characteristic of John Irving's seamless storytelling and further explores some of the author's recurring themes-loss, grief, love as redemption. But this novel also breaks new ground; it offers a penetrating look at the power of second chances and the will to change.
Author Notes
John Irving published his first novel at the age of twenty-six. He has received awards from the Rockefeller Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Guggenheim Foundation; he has won an O. Henry Award, a National Book Award, and an Academy Award.
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Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
A touch of the bizarre has always enlivened Irving's novels, and here he outdoes himself in spinning a grotesque incident into a dramatic story brimming with humor, sexual shenanigans and unexpected poignancy. While reporting on a trapeze artist who fell to his death in India (shades of Irving's A Son of the Circus), handsome TV anchorman Patrick Wallingford experiences a freak accident his left hand is chewed off by a lion. Wallingford's network, a low-rent pseudo-CNN, promotes the video of the accident, making Wallingford notorious world-wide as "the lion guy." Five years after the accident, Wallingford is made whole via the second hand-transplant ever. The hand comes with a strange condition, however. It belonged to Otto Clausen, who willed it to Wallingford at wife Doris's instigation, and Doris wants visiting rights. On her first meeting with Wallingford, they have sex, Wallingford recognizing Doris's voice as one he heard in a vision in India while recovering from his accident. Doris, desperate to get pregnant, has her own agenda. Soon, in a sort of reversal of Taming of the Shrew, she is teaching the normally satyric Wallingford to domesticate his libido. Irving is not aiming for a grand statement in this novel, but something closer to the lovers-chasing-lovers structure of farce. As in all good comedy, there are some fabulous villains, chief among them Wallingford's sexually Machiavellian boss, Mary, who also wants to conceive his baby. Irving's set pieces are on that high level of American gothic comedy he has made uniquely his own the scene in which Wallingford goes to bed with a gum-chewing makeup girl is particularly irresistible. Refreshingly slim in comparison with Irving's previous works, and written with a new crispness, this fast-paced novel will do more than please Irving's numerous fans it will garner him new ones. (July 10) Forecast: An arresting cover, 300,00 first printing and Irving's perennial popularity will launch this book, a BOMC main selection, onto the charts with brio. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Irving is compulsively readable in spite of his pedestrian social commentary and his bossy habit of telling the reader what his characters are all about rather than letting them reveal their inner selves. His hapless hero, the overly handsome Patrick Wallingford, a New York television reporter for an all-news station specializing in bizarre disasters, beds any woman who flirts with him and doesn't care if his wife knows or not. Such fecklessness begs for retribution, and Patrick's is as surreal as it is brutal. Irving revisits the setting he so enjoyed in A Son of the Circus (1994) by sending Patrick to India to cover a story about a trapeze artist whose husband died trying to catch her as she plunged to the earth, the first and most literal of a series of man-crushing females. A woman even causes the confusion that results in Patrick losing his left hand to a cageful of hungry circus lions. Much subdued, he decides to get a hand transplant. Enter a very peculiar surgeon named Sajac, who is obsessed with dog poop, his son, and E. B. White's children's books, Stuart Little and Charlotte's Web. These become the guiding texts for Patrick's slow acquisition of a soul, a process stimulated by a Green Bay Packers fanatic, Doris Clausen, who offers a deal: she'll give Patrick her dead husband's left hand if he'll give her a baby. This is classic Irving: extreme medical procedures, missing body parts, and a surfeit of sex. But his condemnation of the media for such excesses as the shameless orgy over the death of JFK Jr. is right-on, and for all its machismo and conflicted feelings about women, this is one crazy but sweet little love story. Donna Seaman
Guardian Review
Some years ago, I was living in Italy near Gore Vidal, working on a novel in which two characters discussed the existential theology of Kierkegaard over a passage of 20 or so pages. Feeling uncertain, I asked Vidal if I could get away with such a scene. He replied, "Only if your characters are sitting in a railway car, and the reader knows there is a bomb under the seat." Good novelists plant their bombs carefully, and the reader cannot help reading on, waiting for the explosion. I consider John Irving among the best of contemporary bomb-planters, and I've found his 10 novels irresistible. They have that elusive quality that cannot be faked, called narrative momentum. But Irving's novels are not just page-turners. Time and again, he forces his readers to consider important social issues - war, rape, incest, the fragmentation of the family, feminism, the culture of celebrity - in a way reminiscent of Dickens. Always, he celebrates human love in unlikely settings, delighting in its least expected manifestations. Irving's novels tend to be sprawling affairs, with multiple plotlines zigging and zagging through the deranged landscape of American life. His characters are frequently maimed, physically or psychologically, and considerable effort is made by the author to rescue them from their own worst impulses. Irving's huge international audience expects mutilations and violent disruptions, bizarre coincidences, rollicking good humour and a sense of release at the end, as the hero - usually a young man in search of meaning in a world not prone to it - achieves equilibrium, if not sanity. The Fourth Hand is not a sprawling affair, and the plot is relatively simple: in this, it seems a departure for Irving. On the other hand, nobody would mistake this for a novel by anyone else. In the Irving tradition, it concerns a fairly likeable if hapless young man. Like the eponymous Garp of Irving's most famous novel, Patrick Wallingford stumbles into incongruous, funny, grotesque situations, in which his character is tested and forged. As he reels from one fix to another, he attempts to understand himself and his unlikely fate, and - with a simple beauty of design - finally arrives at that point of understanding. In the opening line of the novel, Irving plants his narrative bomb in plain view: "Imagine a young man on his way to a less-than-30- second event - the loss of his left hand, long before he reached middle age." With this in place, he allows himself the luxury of a slowly unfolding scene, in which the complicated circumstances of his hero's life are laid down. He is a television journalist, recently divorced, intelligent, good with women, somewhat lacking in confidence. His 24-hour all-news channel tends to focus on disasters. He is in Gujarat, India, to report on a travelling circus, standing beside a lion cage and extending the microphone close to the bars to catch the beastly growling when suddenly, the expected happens: "A paw flicked out; a claw caught Wallingford's left wrist. He dropped the microphone. In less than two seconds, his left arm, up to his elbow, had been snatched inside the cage. His left shoulder was slammed against the bars; his left hand, including an inch or more above his wrist, was in a lion's mouth." We knew it was coming, but it still somehow stuns. As ever, Irving is peerless at presenting action, writing without a wasted second. His tableaux are precisely calculated for effects, and these effects tumble through the novel. This horrific scene is replayed endlessly on television stations throughout the world. Thus Wallingford, through no fault or virtue of his own, becomes famous; he will be forever known as The Lion Guy. And the consequences of this fame follow him to the end of the novel. Irving often writes about doctors, and here he creates a memorable character in hand surgeon Dr Nicholas M Zajac. The humour is fairly broad, with Zajac a man of extremes whose addictions to exercise and diet would be considered hyperbolic were they not so evident in American life. He also despises filth of any kind; as he jogs beside the river, he flings lumps of dog poop towards the passing rowers with a lacrosse stick. Dr Zajac hopes to perform the world's first successful hand transplant operation, and his path and Wallingford's quite logically intersect. What's missing is a hand donor, who magically appears when one Otto Clausen accidentally shoots himself. The bizarre circumstances of his death are - well - Irvingesque. Suffice it to say that "Otto was a gun guy, as many of the good people of Wisconsin are." Otto's sweet, sexy wife had the ingenious idea, even before her husband's death, of donating his hand; suddenly, it is available. Thus the plot engines begin to whir. Wallingford is brought together with Mrs Clausen in Dr Zajac's office, where they are left alone to get acquainted. The scene that follows is one of the funniest in all Irving. Mrs Clausen has been desperate to have a child and sees an appropriate father in the man who will provide a home for Otto's hand. She mounts him there and then, not even asking his permission. "Mrs Clausen seemed sexually inexperienced to an embarrassing degree," writes Irving. "Then [he] heard her voice; something had changed in it, and not just the volume. To his surprise, he had an erection, not because Mrs Clausen was half naked but because of her new tone of voice." Mrs Clausen demands visitation rights with her ex-husband's hand. And it all follows from there - a long and winding trail that leads, ultimately, to a kind of redemption for them both. In the course of the novel, the lives of Dr Zajac and miscellaneous other characters play out in unexpected ways. Readers will learn a good deal about hand surgery, office politics, the sex lives of those caught in a cable network's corporate jungle and - not incidentally - the vagaries of the human heart in its search for love. The Fourth Hand glides to a soft landing in Wisconsin, and readers will be left smiling. Jay Parini's sixth novel, The Apprentice Lover , will be published in America next spring by HarperCollins. To order The Fourth Hand for pounds 13.99 plus p&p call Guardian book service on 0870 066 7979. Caption: article-parini.1 [John Irving]'s novels tend to be sprawling affairs, with multiple plotlines zigging and zagging through the deranged landscape of American life. His characters are frequently maimed, physically or psychologically, and considerable effort is made by the author to rescue them from their own worst impulses. Irving's huge international audience expects mutilations and violent disruptions, bizarre coincidences, rollicking good humour and a sense of release at the end, as the hero - usually a young man in search of meaning in a world not prone to it - achieves equilibrium, if not sanity. The Fourth Hand is not a sprawling affair, and the plot is relatively simple: in this, it seems a departure for Irving. On the other hand, nobody would mistake this for a novel by anyone else. In the Irving tradition, it concerns a fairly likeable if hapless young man. Like the eponymous Garp of Irving's most famous novel, Patrick Wallingford stumbles into incongruous, funny, grotesque situations, in which his character is tested and forged. As he reels from one fix to another, he attempts to understand himself and his unlikely fate, and - with a simple beauty of design - finally arrives at that point of understanding. [Otto Clausen]'s sweet, sexy wife had the ingenious idea, even before her husband's death, of donating his hand; suddenly, it is available. Thus the plot engines begin to whir. Wallingford is brought together with Mrs Clausen in Dr [Nicholas M Zajac]'s office, where they are left alone to get acquainted. The scene that follows is one of the funniest in all Irving. Mrs Clausen has been desperate to have a child and sees an appropriate father in the man who will provide a home for Otto's hand. She mounts him there and then, not even asking his permission. "Mrs Clausen seemed sexually inexperienced to an embarrassing degree," writes Irving. "Then [he] heard her voice; something had changed in it, and not just the volume. To his surprise, he had an erection, not because Mrs Clausen was half naked but because of her new tone of voice." - Jay Parini.
Kirkus Review
A handsome TV newsman has his left hand chomped off by a hungry lion, and a former lacrosse star stays in game shape by hurling dog turds into the Charles River . . . hmmm, probably not the new Eudora Welty novel, you say? Right you are. It's Irving, up to his old tricks again (and are they ever getting old), aiming for the savage comic irony of his best novel (The World According to Garp, 1978) and instead recycling the arbitrary whimsy that produced his worst (The Hotel New Hampshire, 1981). This one begins when Patrick Warrington, who's covering the Great Ganesh Circus in India for a thrills-oriented media operation reviled throughout the industry as "the calamity channel," stands too close to the lions' cage, and suffers the mutilation that will elicit gasps around the world from the many women who have loved (and will love) him. Among the latter is Doris Clausen of Green Bay, Wisconsin, who impulsively offers a donor hand from her husband Otto (inconveniently, still alive). Otto complies by killing himself (whether he's despairing over a Packers' loss is unclear), and all seems well-though Doris is demanding "visitation rights" with Otto's hand. Eminent Boston hand surgeon Nicholas Zajac (the former lacrosse player, whose own problems with women are threaded intermittently throughout the narrative) attaches Otto's mitt, whose imperfect functioning is prelude to the experiences of fatherhood and real love (as opposed to lots and lots of gratuitous sex), which finally make a man of Patrick, despite his disability. Irving presumably means all this to be a Dickensian fable of renunciation and healing, but it's a self-indulgent mishmash of let's-see-what-weird-things-I-can-come-up-with-next plotting and complacent commentary laid on by a very heavy, omniscient authorial, uh, hand. Recently Irving has been alternating his usual doorstoppers with slighter books like the miscellany Trying to Save Piggy Sneed (1996) and the memoir My Movie Business (1999). Don't be fooled by The Fourth Hand. He's still between novels.
Library Journal Review
The author's tenth novel charts events and emotions in the life of a newscaster whose fame skyrockets when his left hand is eaten by a lion on camera. When the "widow" of a transplant hand accompanies the appendage to meet the handsome amputee, the determined woman more or less coerces him into sex and conceives the child she's longed for. What follows is a mostly enjoyable trip, abundant in the quirks and themes familiar to Irving's legion of fans: scatological humor, women's rights activism, the rewarding stress of fatherhood, sports metaphors, circuses, and the chronic normality of eccentricities. Irving's worlds are ludicrous in the most appealing way and expertly sentimental at the same time, and his approachable language can be both musical and magical. But here, the promising fiction takes a sharp right turn to autopsy the real-life tragedies of the JFK Jr. and Egypt Air plane crashes Tom Wolfe-type reportage that we certainly don't look for from Irving. Perhaps more disappointing is that the protagonist is motivated primarily by shockingly unoriginal doubts about and eventual disdain for the news media's morbid coverage of world events. Irving's fiction is often moral in its own way, but the moral has never come so close to obscuring the narrative as in this book. The author's magic rules the day, but recent history plays too large a role here to make this the fiction for which he'll be remembered. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 3/1/01.] Doug McClemont, New York (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter one The Lion Guy Imagine a young man on his way to a less-than-thirty-second event--the loss of his left hand, long before he reached middle age. As a schoolboy, he was a promising student, a fair-minded and likable kid, without being terribly original. Those classmates who could remember the future hand recipient from his elementary-school days would never have described him as daring. Later, in high school, his success with girls notwithstanding, he was rarely a bold boy, certainly not a reckless one. While he was irrefutably good-looking, what his former girlfriends would recall as most appealing about him was that he deferred to them. Throughout college, no one would have predicted that fame was his destiny. "He was so unchallenging," an ex-girlfriend said. Another young woman, who'd known him briefly in graduate school, agreed. "He didn't have the confidence of someone who was going to do anything special" was how she put it. He wore a perpetual but dismaying smile--the look of someone who knows he's met you before but can't recall the exact occasion. He might have been in the act of guessing whether the previous meeting was at a funeral or in a brothel, which would explain why, in his smile, there was an unsettling combination of grief and embarrassment. He'd had an affair with his thesis adviser; she was either a reflection of or a reason for his lack of direction as a graduate student. Later--she was a divorcée with a nearly grown daughter--she would assert: "You could never rely on someone that good-looking. He was also a classic underachiever--he wasn't as hopeless as you first thought. You wanted to help him. You wanted to change him. You definitely wanted to have sex with him." In her eyes, there would suddenly be a kind of light that hadn't been there; it arrived and departed like a change of color at the day's end, as if there were no distance too great for this light to travel. In noting "his vulnerability to scorn," she emphasized "how touching that was." But what about his decision to undergo hand-transplant surgery? Wouldn't only an adventurer or an idealist run the risk necessary to acquire a new hand? No one who knew him would ever say he was an adventurer or an idealist, but surely he'd been idealistic once. When he was a boy, he must have had dreams; even if his goals were private, unexpressed, he'd had goals. His thesis adviser, who was comfortable in the role of expert, attached some significance to the loss of his parents when he was still a college student. But his parents had amply provided for him; in spite of their deaths, he was financially secure. He could have stayed in college until he had tenure--he could have gone to graduate school for the rest of his life. Yet, although he'd always been a successful student, he never struck any of his teachers as exceptionally motivated. He was not an initiator--he just took what was offered. He had all the earmarks of someone who would come to terms with the loss of a hand by making the best of his limitations. Everyone who knew him had him pegged as a guy who would eventually be content one-handed. Besides, he was a television journalist. For what he did, wasn't one hand enough? But he believed a new hand was what he wanted, and he'd alertly understood everything that could go medically wrong with the transplant. What he failed to realize explained why he had never before been much of an experimenter; he lacked the imagination to entertain the disquieting idea that the new hand would not be entirely his. After all, it had been someone else's hand to begin with. How fitting that he was a television journalist. Most television journalists are pretty smart--in the sense of being mentally quick, of having an instinct to cut to the chase. There's no procrastination on TV. A guy who decides to have hand-transplant surgery doesn't dither around, does he? Anyway, his name was Patrick Wallingford and he would, without hesitation, have traded his fame for a new left hand. At the time of the accident, Patrick was moving up in the world of television journalism. He'd worked for two of the three major networks, where he repeatedly complained about the evil influence of ratings on the news. How many times had it happened that some CEO more familiar with the men's room than the control room made a "marketing decision" that compromised a story? (In Wallingford's opinion, the news executives had completely caved in to the marketing mavens.) To put it plainly, Patrick believed that the networks' financial expectations of their news divisions were killing the news. Why should news shows be expected to make as much money as what the networks called entertainment? Why should there be any pressure on a news division even to make a profit? News wasn't what happened in Hollywood; news wasn't the World Series or the Super Bowl. News (by which Wallingford meant real news--that is, in-depth coverage) shouldn't have to compete for ratings with comedies or so-called dramas. Patrick Wallingford was still working for one of the major networks when the Berlin Wall fell in November 1989. Patrick was thrilled to be in Germany on such a historic occasion, but the pieces he filed from Berlin were continually edited down--sometimes to half the length he felt they deserved. A CEO in the New York newsroom said to Wallingford: "Any news in the foreign-policy category is worth shit." When this same network's overseas bureaus began closing, Patrick made the move that other TV journalists have made. He went to work for an all-news network; it was not a very good network, but at least it was a twenty-four-hour international news channel. Was Wallingford naïve enough to think that an all-news network wouldn't keep an eye on its ratings? In fact, the international channel was overfond of minute-by-minute ratings that could pinpoint when the attention of the television audience waxed or waned. Yet there was cautious consensus among Wallingford's colleagues in the media that he seemed destined to be an anchor. He was inarguably handsome--the sharp features of his face were perfect for television--and he'd paid his dues as a field reporter. Funnily enough, the enmity of Wallingford's wife was chief among his costs. She was his ex-wife now. He blamed the travel, but his then-wife's assertion was that other women were the problem. In truth, Patrick was drawn to first-time sexual encounters, and he would remain drawn to them, whether he traveled or not. Just prior to Patrick's accident, there'd been a paternity suit against him. Although the case was dismissed--a DNA test was negative--the mere allegation of his paternity raised the rancor of Wallingford's wife. Beyond her then-husband's flagrant infidelity, she had an additional reason to be upset. Although she'd long wanted to have children, Patrick had steadfastly refused. (Again he blamed the travel.) Now Wallingford's ex-wife--her name was Marilyn--was wont to say that she wished her ex-husband had lost more than his left hand. She'd quickly remarried, had got pregnant, had had a child; then she'd divorced again. Marilyn would also say that the pain of childbirth--notwithstanding how long she'd looked forward to having a child--was greater than the pain Patrick had experienced in losing his left hand. Patrick Wallingford was not an angry man; a usually even-tempered disposition was as much his trademark as his drop-dead good looks. Yet the pain of losing his left hand was Wallingford's most fiercely guarded possession. It infuriated him that his ex-wife trivialized his pain by declaring it less than hers in "merely," as he was wont to say, giving birth. Nor was Wallingford always even-tempered in response to his ex-wife's proclamation that he was an addicted womanizer. In Patrick's opinion, he had never womanized. This meant that Wallingford didn't seduce women; he simply allowed himself to be seduced. He never called them--they called him. He was the boy equivalent of the girl who couldn't say no--emphasis, his ex-wife would say, on boy. (Patrick had been in his late twenties, going on thirty, when his then-wife divorced him, but, according to Marilyn, he was permanently a boy.) The anchor chair, for which he'd seemed destined, still eluded him. And after the accident, Wallingford's prospects dimmed. Some CEO cited "the squeamish factor." Who wants to watch their morning or their evening news telecast by some loser-victim type who's had his hand chomped off by a hungry lion? It may have been a less-than-thirty-second event--the entire story ran only three minutes--but no one with a television set had missed it. For a couple of weeks, it was on the tube repeatedly, worldwide. Wallingford was in India. His all-news network, which, because of its penchant for the catastrophic, was often referred to by the snobs in the media elite as "Disaster International," or the "calamity channel," had sent him to the site of an Indian circus in Gujarat. (No sensible news network would have sent a field reporter from New York to a circus in India.) The Great Ganesh Circus was performing in Junagadh, and one of their trapeze artists, a young woman, had fallen. She was renowned for "flying"--as the work of such aerialists is called--without a safety net, and while she was not killed in the fall, which was from a height of eighty feet, her husband/trainer had been killed when he attempted to catch her. Although her plummeting body killed him, he managed to break her fall. The Indian government instantly declared no more flying without a net, and the Great Ganesh, among other small circuses in India, protested the ruling. For years, a certain government minister--an overzealous animal-rights activist--had been trying to ban the use of animals in Indian circuses, and for this reason the circuses were sensitive to government interference of any kind. Besides--as the excitable ringmaster of the Great Ganesh Circus told Patrick Wallingford, on-camera--the audiences packed the tent every afternoon and night because the trapeze artists didn't use a net. What Wallingford had noticed was that the nets themselves were in shocking disrepair. From where Patrick stood on the dry, hard-packed earth--on the "floor" of the tent, looking up--he saw that the pattern of holes was ragged and torn. The damaged net resembled a colossal spiderweb that had been wrecked by a panicked bird. It was doubtful that the net could support the weight of a falling child, much less that of an adult. Many of the performers were children, and these mostly girls. Their parents had sold them to the circus so they could have a better (meaning a safer) life. Yet the element of risk in the Great Ganesh was huge. The excitable ringmaster had told the truth: the audiences packed the tent every afternoon and night to see accidents happen. And often the victims of these accidents were children. As performers, they were talented amateurs--good little athletes--but they were spottily trained. Why most of the children were girls was a subject any good journalist would have been interested in, and Wallingford--whether or not one believed his ex-wife's assessment of his character--was a good journalist. His intelligence lay chiefly in his powers of observation, and television had taught him the importance of quickly jumping ahead to what might go wrong. The jumping-ahead part was both what was brilliant about and what was wrong with television. TV was driven by crises, not causes. What chiefly disappointed Patrick about his field assignments for the all-news network was how common it was to miss or ignore a more important story. For example, the majority of the child performers in an Indian circus were girls because their parents had not wanted them to become prostitutes; at worst, the boys not sold to a circus would become beggars. (Or they would starve.) But that wasn't the story Patrick Wallingford had been sent to India to report. A trapeze artist, a grown woman hurtling downward from eighty feet, had landed in her husband's arms and killed him. The Indian government had intervened--the result being that every circus in India was protesting the ruling that their aerialists now had to use a net. Even the recently widowed trapeze artist, the woman who'd fallen, joined in the protest. Wallingford had interviewed her in the hospital, where she was recovering from a broken hip and some nonspecific damage to her spleen; she told him that flying without a safety net was what made the flying special. Certainly she would mourn her late husband, but her husband had been an aerialist, too--he'd also fallen and had survived his fall. Yet possibly, his widow implied, he'd not really escaped that first mistake; her falling on him had conceivably signified the true conclusion of the earlier, unfinished episode. Now that was interesting, Wallingford thought, but his news editor, who was cordially despised by everyone, was disappointed in the interview. And all the people in the newsroom in New York thought that the widowed trapeze artist had seemed "too calm"; they preferred their disaster victims to be hysterical. Excerpted from The Fourth Hand by John Irving All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
