Lancelot by Walker Percy

A novel doesn't require the reader to love the protagonist in order for it to be a successful work of fiction. Crime and Punishment, A Clockwork Orange, and An American Tragedy all have hateful main characters that are still so well-developed we can't help but identify with them in some way. Not so with Lancelot. Walker Percy's fourth novel ends up being nothing but a bitter, melodramatic rant that leaves the reader cold, without any connection to the characters or plot excepts for perhaps a vague sense of nausea.

Lancelot Andrewes Lamar, a relic of a Southern gentleman in the brash 1970s, carries the sole burden of narrating this tale. His is the only voice, which is unfortunate because, like a crusty old man at a dinner party, one tends to tune out his rants against the decadence of his era.

"I won't have it," he says. "The great whorehouse and fagdom of America....I do not propose to live in Sodom or to raise my son and daughters in Sodom."

The book is a string of similar invectives against blacks, women, and just about everything else. Though the viewpoints are provocative, they become tedious with repetition.

This wouldn't be the end of the world -- I don't have to agree with Lancelot to enjoy the book and the fact that I don't might actually make it more interesting -- but Percy offers his reader no way to connect to this man or his world. The voice is inconsistent and wandering and the character himself is entirely one-dimensional. There's no sense of warmth, no humanity. You can imagine a well-developed character walking off the page and living an independent life; these characters can barely survive the work they're already in.

Plot, you ask? Oh, yeah. There is one: some tiresome melodrama involving infidelity and revenge. No plot, though, no matter how thrilling, can save a novel from lack of character development.

And then there's the utter failure of Percy's Arthurian gimmick. In addition to Lancelot, there's also Percival and Merlin. Is there a parallel with the Arthurian legend that will enhance and enlighten both tales? I'm afraid not. The farthest Percy gets with this tack is an excuse for Lancelot to call his obsession over his wife's cheating a "quest...for the Unholy Grail." But she is no Guinevere and he is certainly no Knight of the Round Table, so the metaphor is entirely lost.

I try not to be too harsh with my criticisms; it's too easy to fall into the trap of constantly writing bad reviews because they're more interesting to read and write than good ones. But I have to take off the kid gloves here. If I could take back the two hours I spent reading Lancelot to spend on another, quality piece of fiction, I certainly would.