RaveThe RumpusIn a world where we heap praises on writers who focus on middle-class people with middle-class problems—Jennifer Egan, Donna Tartt, Jonathan Franzen, Michael Chabon, et al.—writers such as D. Foy, and novels such as Patricide, are rare, welcome, and refreshing. Tragedy and despair lurk beneath the surface of Patricide. Told in snapshots, the book chronicles the relationship between a boy and his parents. They’re thrust into poverty at birth, creating, and dealing with, destructive distractions. Their interfamilial relationship is complex, filled with hardships and turmoil, abuse and addiction—and D. Foy doesn’t flinch in telling it ... The tone is notable in its unflinching and unsentimental attitude. There are no sweeping moments here, no picaresque shots or moments of epiphany. Instead, Foy thrusts us into a raw and detached world, one free of ornamentation and contrived emotions. It’s a tone you’ll only encounter in writers who dominate their craft, writers confident and certain of their ability to create, and delve into, a bleak world. D. Foy’s characters feel like people you could meet in the real world. His prose is understated yet profound. Simple sentences and vocabulary call to mind Hemingway or McCarthy ... Told in concise, deceptively brilliant prose, Patricide is a breathtaking study of poverty, familial abuse, and the scars we pass along like defective genes. Patricide will get under your skin: it will haunt you, frustrate you, and, weirdly, inspire you. It’s less a novel and more of an experience. It’s a brilliantly conceived and executed book.
