Norman Rush has slimmed down. At 256 pages, his latest novel is significantly shorter than the previous two. Subtle Bodies places four old college friends (and the wife of one of them) in an enormous living complex belonging to Douglas, the friend and public intellectual whose funeral they must arrange. The book is full of literary references, all dropped as soon as made. A woman's brocade tunic leaves characters with no thoughts but "Klimt!" A cabinet has them thinking of Caligari; a long wait of Godot. Much less than a critical engagement with these figures or even a satirical take on the educated middle class, Subtle Bodies feels like a cynical attempt to flatter the intelligence of its readers. No jokes get passed without being pointed to: "the joke of course being". Together these gestures constitute a one-man laughter track: it is the author, laughing at you.
