Pete Dexter’s The Paperboy was a step in a different direction from my recent reading. A novel about investigative reporting and family dynamics in Florida, The Paperboy mostly smolders, and almost catches fire. You feel the humidity of Florida in Dexter’s writing. The characters feel complete, with the deliberate exception of the narrator, the younger of two sons of a small-town newspaper editor. His floating chronicling of his older brother, a reporter, made me wish he would turn the mirror on himself a bit. It’s been maybe ten days since I finished the book, and I can’t remember the protagonist’s name. (I looked it up… Jack James.) His role is to enable, and watch, and (via reflection) slowly mature — but rarely divulge. This reticence made him more interesting.
I was pleasantly surprised by this book, in part because I had no expectations. I’d pick up a Dexter again, though I’m not going to rush out and buy or borrow one.