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Netherland: A Novel | 
 enlarge | Author: Joseph O'neill
Publisher: Pantheon
Category: Book
List Price: $23.95
Buy New: $13.96
You Save: $9.99 (42%)
New (45) Used (18) Collectible (11) from $12.37
Rating:  59 reviews
Sales Rank: 2470
Media: Hardcover
Edition: 1
Number Of Items: 1
Pages: 272
Shipping Weight (lbs): 1
Dimensions (in): 9.1 x 6 x 1.2
ISBN: 0307377040
Dewey Decimal Number: 823.914
EAN: 9780307377043
ASIN: 0307377040
Publication Date: May 20, 2008
Availability: Usually ships in 1-2 business days
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Product Description
In a New York City made phantasmagorical by the events of 9/11, Hans--a banker originally from the Netherlands--finds himself marooned among the strange occupants of the Chelsea Hotel after his English wife and son return to London. Alone and untethered, feeling lost in the country he had come to regard as home, Hans stumbles upon the vibrant New York subculture of cricket, where he revisits his lost childhood and, thanks to a friendship with a charismatic and charming Trinidadian named Chuck Ramkissoon, begins to reconnect with his life and his adopted country. Ramkissoon, a Gatsby-like figure who is part idealist and part operator, introduces Hans to an “other” New York populated by immigrants and strivers of every race and nationality. Hans is alternately seduced and instructed by Chuck’s particular brand of naivete and chutzpah--by his ability to a hold fast to a sense of American and human possibility in which Hans has come to lose faith.
Netherland gives us both a flawlessly drawn picture of a little-known New York and a story of much larger, and brilliantly achieved ambition: the grand strangeness and fading promise of 21st century America from an outsider’s vantage point, and the complicated relationship between the American dream and the particular dreamers. Most immediately, though, it is the story of one man--of a marriage foundering and recuperating in its mystery and ordinariness, of the shallows and depths of male friendship, of mourning and memory. Joseph O’Neill’s prose, in its conscientiousness and beauty, involves us utterly in the struggle for meaning that governs any single life.
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| Customer Reviews: Read 54 more reviews...
 Awful November 21, 2008
I tried and tried to like this book. It is a book that is written to show off the authors use of the Enlish language. The characters are unlikable. All of them. He even managed to make a colorful guy like Chuck boring. The narrator, yes we understand the Dutch are stereotyped as unemotional, is a zombie and floats through 9/11, separation from his wife and son and the death of his closest friend in NY with no believable reaction. The author claims that Hans is angry, upset and hurt, but the jumble of vocabulary words and drawn out paragraphs that hop back and forth between time and space make you forget that the character is experiencing something and gets you lost in the maze of prose. The descriptions of New York are the most interesting part of this book. I was not aware that cricket was played in Staten Island, but then does there really need to be a 260 page book written just to tell us that?
Not good November 5, 2008
0 out of 1 found this review helpful
I couldn't even finish this book. I found it hard to stay engaged and REALLY found it hard to pretend that I even liked (or understood) the game of cricket. I am glad that this was a library book instead of a purchase.
 Amazingly sublime November 4, 2008
0 out of 1 found this review helpful
Joe O'Neill captures the angst that pervaded the city post 9/11 by channeling a collection of fascinating characters and genres.
Even if you're not a cricket fan you'll get this!
Lyrical and flexible prose captures relationships and sports October 30, 2008
1 out of 1 found this review helpful
Netherland is the story of a couple (Hans and Rachel) living in New York City with their young son. After the September 11th terrorist attacks, Rachel moves back to England where she's from with their son, claiming she can't raise a child in such a "diseased" country. After being left behind in NYC by his family, Hans immerses himself in the city's cricket subculture and befriends Chuck Ramkissoon, a Trinidadian entrepreneur who dabbles in shady enterprises and referees cricket matches on the side.
O'Neill's lyrical and flexible prose captures the nuanced complexity of intimate relationships with as much success as it describes the various strokes available to a batter in a cricket game ("the glance, the hook, the cut, the sweep, the cover drive, the pull and all those other offspring of technique conceived to send the cricket ball rolling and rolling, as if by magic, to the far-off edge of the playing field"). O'Neill's prose is the best part of this book.
The vivid character of Ramkissoon is the second best part of this book. Ramkissoon dreams of building a world-class cricket arena in Brooklyn and thinks cricket has the power to save the world. Despite his sentimental ideas, or maybe because of them, Ramkissoon is wholly authentic and believable. The character of Rachel, however, is not quite so well conceived. Although O'Neill accurately describes the unsettled feeling felt by many New Yorkers after September 11th, Rachel's abandonment of her marriage and escape back to England feels more like a plot device than a credible response.
This slim novel tackles many big themes, including marriage (its failure and its resurrection), happiness, September 11th and its aftereffects, sports (literally and as an analogy for human fellowship), and friendship. There's even an unsolved murder mystery. This unique and sensitive melding of stories offers something for everyone, but the book occasionally attempts too much. Certain underdeveloped threads and loose ends cause Netherland to fall short of a masterpiece.
There are books and there are books... October 21, 2008
5 out of 10 found this review helpful
I was excited to read this book. So excited, in fact, that I went from bookstore to bookstore until I found a store that had a copy. And when I did! The feeling was not unlike a hunter stumbling upon the one sickly beast among a wild herd. There it was. My safari, success.
Proud, as I was, I took my trophy home. I waited until I had some time. Free time. Time in which I would not be bothered by anyone; no friends, no expectations. Nothing. The reputation of this book was that great. Life-changing, one particular review had said. Voice of a the post-9/11 Generation, said yet another.
So there I sat. My bed. My quiet. The night was warm. Was it warmer than usual? I don't know. But the night was mine and I was free to read as many pages as I could get through until my tired eyes finally closed. Though, realistically, I had expected to keep reading on through until the wee hours.
Thus, I began.
And reading through those first few sentences, then paragraphs, then pages something in me turned over. A knot, perhaps, a tying up of some sinew somewhere in my gut. Something was off. But what? What was causing the twitching, that nausea invading my stomach? Something was not right. But what was it?
Gasp! Could it be? I looked down at my hands and sure enough, there was my answer. It was the book. Well, not so much the book itself as the writing. The author, it seems, has come from a school of thought in which to get to a point, you must write in a hazy cloud of talk and backtalk. Where a point expressed isn't expressed until it is, thought about, and then, perhaps, expressed again. It is ugly writing. Aesthetically unpleasing, to say the least.
If you try to read the book, instantly you'll know what I mean.
I don't care how good a story is. I don't care if the author mentions 9/11 in passing or fully exploits the tragic events of that horrific day. If the writing is poor the work suffers and the readers (like me) return the book. Which I did. At Borders. Because for as much as I would have liked to read a highly-recommended story having to do with our beautiful post-9/11 world, I, for the life of me, could not get through all the commas. Actually, I counted them and told the number to my girlfriend. Who put down the book she was reading and said, "that's a lot."
It was a lot. In fact, too much.
Perhaps I missed something, but when a writer does something like that, constantly mending and shaping a sentence until the he thinks point is reached, by then the point is lost (see what I mean?). So much for clear and direct, eh? Add in some big words and over-described descriptions, and only then does the message become clear. The writer is reaching for something that is, perhaps, not there.
One star.
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