Review of Mr. X

I must confess that I picked up this book with high expectations, misled by the rave blurb reviews and the Bram Stoker Award it received. Perhaps I set my standards too high, because Peter Straub’s Mr. X falls horribly short of the mark in the end.

The story Peter Straub sets out to tell focuses (sometimes tentatively) on Ned Dunstan, a man who is seized by paralysis on every one of his birthdays and forced to watch the heartless crimes perpetrated by a mysterious entity known only as Mr. X. And with another birthday looming near, Ned is on a trip to his hometown in Illinois after getting a premonition of his mother’s death. Before passing away, the woman imparts Ned a revelation, a revelation which will in the end lead him to his family’s darkest, strangest secrets, and the identity of Mr. X.

While the book shows some promise in the beginning, alternating between scenes from Ned Dunstan’s life (which tend to drag a little) and the deliciously vile exploits of Mr. X, it eventually wanders off into a very disappointing sequence of clichés that Peter Straub doesn’t bother to revitalize. The ending felt inadequate as well, rambling for too long, hoping to deliver a final twist that had already packed up and left for holidays.

Mr. X is also very far from being a sterling example of Peter Straub’s best work. His writing is delightful, and he clearly knows how to conjure words and images that stick to a person’s mind for a long time, but sadly the reader will only get a fleeting glimpse of that dark brilliance in here.

Despite Mr. X’s multiple shortcomings, it does boast a few rare passages that no true horror aficionado should miss. Doubly so if you are a fan of H. P. Lovecraft, since Straub pays the man a big homage in this book. However, be prepared to wade through the whole 600-plus pages of uninspiring plot, characters and mood if you want a glimpse of such tasty morsels. Not worth it if you don’t have the time, though.

In final analysis, it is beyond me how this book got a Bram Stoker Award for best novel. It’s not a dreadfully bad book, but it’s still miles away from Peter Straub’s best writing. A disappointment.