Other book reviewers have emphasised the financial cost of health care as being the main theme of this novel. I disagree.

The true theme of this novel is whether it’s worth prolonging life for the terminally ill when the treatment itself will make the patient feel even worse.

There’s no doubt that Glynis Knacker is dying. She has terminal cancer. But because there are treatments available which may or may not prolong life for a short time, her husband feels compelled by the medical establishment to
go along with the relentless treatment. All this time the doctors use euphemistic terminology to maintain the delusion that there is a cure.

Glynis’s husband, Shep, feels unable to question the medical profession. He is a nice guy and according to Shriver, nice guys are what keep doctors in business. Shep won’t question the doctor. He’ll keep on paying as long as his health insurance supports it. Once the money is gone, then he’ll be confronted by the doctor’s accusation that he obviously doesn’t care about his wife. So why not take out a loan for her sake?

All this, of course, without revealing that there is no hope of recovery. How grossly manipulative is the medical profession which depends on the self-sacrifice and false hopes of patients and their loved ones!

On the other hand, of course, miracles do happen and sometimes terminal diseases go into remission. Not very often, however. And certainly not often enough to warrant the torment of chemo which makes prolonged life such a misery.

I have personally known some people lately whose health has been shattered, not by the cancer but by the treatment. There has to be something better than this and until there is perhaps prolonging life at all costs is not worth it, especially if the costs are intolerable. I think that’s what So Much for That is really about. Thus the play on words in the title of the novel.

Some reviewers have found that there is dark humour in this novel. I saw none at all even though I enjoy a good laugh when there is one to be found. Perhaps I just don’t think that there’s anything funny about other people suffering needlessly. And neither does Shriver herself or she would not have ended her novel in that way.

I invite you to read the fable of the Ant and the Grasshopper as written by Aesop and then put into verse by Jean de La Fontaine. Here are both versions:-

The Ants and the Grasshopper by Aesop

The ants were spending a fine winter’s day drying grain collected in the summertime. A Grasshopper, perishing with famine, passed by and earnestly begged for a little food. The Ants inquired of him, “Why did you not treasure up food during the summer?’ He replied, “I had not leisure enough. I passed the days in singing.” They then said in derision: “If you were foolish enough to sing all the summer, you must dance supperless to bed in the winter.”

The Grasshopper And The Ant

by Jean de La Fontaine

A grasshopper gay
Sang the summer away,
And found herself poor
By the winter’s first roar.
Of meat or of bread,
Not a morsel she had!
So a begging she went,
To her neighbour the ant,
For the loan of some wheat,
Which would serve her to eat,
Till the season came round.
“I will pay you,” she saith,
“On an animal’s faith,
Double weight in the pound
Ere the harvest be bound.”
The ant is a friend
(And here she might mend)
Little giver to lend.
“How spent you the summer?”
Quoth she, looking shame
At the borrowing dame.
“Night and day to each comer
I sang, if you please.”
“You sang! I ‘m at ease;
For ‘t is plain at a glance,
Now, ma’am, you must dance.”

I have to ask what incentive is there for a person to insure his home or even save for a rainy day if he is going to be bailed out financially anyway? Why should the hard workers of the world support those who couldn’t be bothered thinking ahead?

I’m not referring here to the poor who can’t afford homes. They have to be helped in a caring society. There will always be the ill, the disabled and the unable who will rightly depend on social aid.

The people I’m accusing are the grasshoppers of the world who bought a house and did not insure it—those “She’ll be right, mate” types who think that the world owes them. Well, it’s time that the grasshoppers of the world pulled their weight.

I think that if every homeowner insured his home and contents then insurance would be cheaper for all of us. I also think that from now on it should be compulsory, the way that stamp duty is or Third Party Insurance for cars. I bet that those uninsured homeowners had TV sets, went on holidays and even drank and partied occasionally. Had they sacrificed some of those pleasures to protect themselves from disasters, we, who are the ants of the world, would feel more charitable towards them should tragedy strike.

What I’m pleading for is a sense of responsibility. Stop the singing, you grasshoppers and face reality!

“I didn’t know that lobsters could live for 140 years.”

“Can’t be true,” says husband. “What they mean is that 140 lobsters who were one year old were released.”

“How could 140 lobsters fit into a tank in a New York restaurant? Must have been some big tank, don’t you think? Besides, why would that make it into the news amidst Gaza conflict, earthquake in Costa Rica and quarrels over halted Gas supplies from Russia through the Ukraine?”

Further discussions along the lines of what I thought I had read and husband being adamant that I had got it wrong.

“OK then, let’s wait until the ticker tape comes around again and we’ll read it together this time.”

But you know how things are in life. Just as it was the turn of the lobster story again, some commercial break interrupted the news. So my husband got out of bed and looked up the BBC news site on the internet.

“Well?”

“Yep,” the husband confirmed. “Apparently, a restaurant in New York had this 140 year old lobster in its tank for two weeks and some animal rights activists petitioned to liberate it.”

“Good for them,” I beamed.

I never did like any animals to be in cages. I even hate the idea of circuses and zoos and don’t get me started on pet canaries in cages and dogs and cats in the confines of apartment buildings.

“So how did they know it was 140 years old?”

“They can tell by its weight.”

Husband tried to get back to reading his newspaper. Not for long though…

” Hmmm. Must be a guesstimation. Cause it can’t be like telling how old a tree is on account of the number of rings. Couldn’t this particular lobster be obese rather than old? I wonder why human beings shrink as they get very old then? And another thing, why do ticker tape announcements disappear just when you want to read them again?”

In the same way that Bryson could not do his usual acerbic shtick in “Downunder”, I’m having trouble writing about “Notes on a Scandal”. I liked it too much to pick it to bits.

It’s a book that is absorbing to read and after you have finished it you keep thinking about it. The theme is complex and yet the author has such a brilliant method of delivery that the reader is carried along the many twists and turns of the plot inexorably to a conclusion that makes sense. So many novels are left up in the air because the author was promising in the beginning but did not know what to do about the characters at the end. It’s as if the end came when the ideas ran out. I find that happens in the novels by Nick Earls. They simply fizzle out. Not very satisfactory.

Heller’s novel knows exactly where it is going. The style is compact and yet eloquent. She knows how to write well.

“Notes on a Scandal” is about the relationship between two very different women, one young and the other, middle-aged. They are both teachers at a ghastly English comprehensive school. Sheba is the younger one who arrives at the school believing that she can make a difference and actually teach something to pupils who, in reality, couldn’t care less.

Barbara is the mature history teacher who is utterly fed up with the school and with trying to teach those monsters anything of use. I have met many such teachers in my teaching career and I always reflect on what D.H Lawrence said about his pupils and how he couldn’t wait for the lesson to be over.

A sort of friendship develops between these two women. Actually, Barbara is much more interested in Sheba than Sheba is in her. You see, Sheba is interested in one of her young male pupils and she commits a terrible misdemeanour by having an affair with him. Did I mention that Sheba is a bit of a twit?

It is no mere coincidence that the temptress in “Notes on a Scandal” is called Sheba after the Biblical Bathsheba who led King David astray. The author likes to amuse herself with names, hence, Sheba’s surname, Hart, a defenceless deer pierced by a hunter’s arrow. And then there’s the other player, the senior teacher in this drama and her name is Barbara Covett. She will covet Sheba. That’s the nub of the novel. I saw the film a while back but the novel has so much more to offer.

The story is told by Barbara in flashbacks. Not one word is wasted as the plot develops at a steady pace. No long descriptions of weather or scenery, no padding. We are swept along as Barbara tells a harrowing story of illicit love between teacher and pupil and teacher and teacher.

The novel is a psychologist’s dream. We observe Sheba falling headlong into a dangerous relationship and yet we cannot completely rebuke her for it. Our empathy for Sheba is due to Heller’s special skill in making us understand Sheba’s descent into a living Hell. Even though she perpetrates a crime Heller presents her as a victim. A teacher guilty of having sex with a fifteen year old pupil and yet after having been discovered and condemned by everyone she still cannot give him up. It is a tragedy on a mythological level with lust as the catalyst in the two main characters.

Aware of this affair and contriving to take advantage of Sheba’s plight, Barbara becomes obsessed with the younger woman. She keeps a written diary of their friendship and becomes Sheba’s confidante.

Oddly enough, there are no genuinely innocent characters in the novel which makes for a more interesting view of the world. Sheba’s husband is not a pleasant guy, nor is he loyal to her. Her children are pretty disappointing and she even has to care for her frustrating Down’s Syndrome son. Surprisingly, we never hear her complain about him. She drifts along in a sort of naive manner, failing as an art teacher and with very little satisfaction in her family life. Thus, Sheba is an easy target for some sexual dalliance.

Barbara is similarly miserable. She hates her job, the other teachers and the pupils. All she has in life is her cat to whom she is devoted.

In a way, the palpable loneliness of the characters reminds me of novels by Anita Brookner in which the characters wander through life trying to find a connection usually with an unworthy person just for the sake of human contact. But Heller has more action in her work. The pace is fast for a psychological and character-based work. It keeps one turning the pages, something that Brookner could not achieve.

The best compliment that I can give to “Notes on a Scandal” is that I could read it over again. It’s the kind of novel that promises even more from a second reading.

Pardon my French, but what a lot of hypocritical “merde” so to speak. Anyone who was in France during the war knows how untrue many of the “author’s” claims are. How can anyone believe that a daughter could cart around her dead mother’s ‘diary’ for half a century and never be tempted to have a peek at it?

I believe that the suite was “discovered” at a time when many biographies about the Holocaust were surfacing and were being lapped up by book publishers who were only too eager to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the end of World War II . Nothing wrong with that if the work were authentic and a true account, but I simply doubt her daughter’s claims.

To regard this work as being of Jewish origin is an insult to genuine victims of the Holocaust. Irene had converted from Judaism, did not write favourably about Jews and should not be regarded as a Jewish author. The fact that she perished in a concentration camp is an ironic twist to a life that was marred by hypocrisy

In a publication by Jonathan Weiss which is called “Irene Nemirovsky: Her Life and Works” (Stanford University Press), there are questions being asked about whether Nemirovsky deserves all the kudos that she received posthumously for being some sort of champion of the Jewish people. Weiss is a Professor of French Language and Literature at Colby College and met her two daughters in 1996.

According to Weiss she was anything but a champion of the Jews. When she described Jews in her writing, she made sure that they were portrayed with hooked noses and bad manners. She thought she was far superior to the rest of the Jewish folk and she even allied herself to far right causes until they decided that she was an unsuitable writer to be published. She had even converted in an attempt to distance herself from the Jewish fate.

According to Weiss, Nemirosky made her name by trafficking in the most sordid anti-Semitic stereotypes. She was that interesting phenomenon, a Jew-hating Jew, e.g take her novel, “David Golder” which insulted Jews and made them an object of ridicule. So much so that when she sensed personal danger she actually wrote to Marshal Petain in order to distance herself from those awful Jews with whom she had nothing in common, she said.

Not surprisingly, that letter was omitted from the Suite. Petain did not reply to her and so she was very offended. That’s why she decided to write a critical piece about France during the war. In her words, “so mustn’t hold back, must strike with a vengeance wherever I want.” This is the complaint of a woman scorned, a woman who held herself above the ” undesirable foreigners (the Jews).

This new critique by Weiss describes the Suite as a work of fiction. This was my objection to it also. Its provenance did not sound plausible as I stated in my original review and I believe that the editor added much too much to the substance of the work. My other objection to this “work” is that it is now being hailed as a novel about the Holocaust. Now this really offends me since I lost most of my family in the Holocaust and I protest at having her work mentioned in the same category as that of Eli Weisel and Primo Levi.

Whenever I fail to be impressed by something Australian it makes me feel bad. Australia is my adopted country and it has been good to me. In fact, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

But reading Winton is a chore which strains my patriotism to the core because he’s so slow and revels in churning out metaphors that milk the Aussie myth. The one about laconic men who suffer in silence and women who are worn down by the harshness of the land. Pioneer stuff from a century ago.

International readers can’t be blamed for thinking that we all live in tin sheds, fish or hunt for our food, wander around aimlessly in the inland desert and befriend an aboriginal who’s wise and sarcastic.

Too many Aussie films and novels have done that theme to death in the past.

In reality, while some Aussies live in the outback, Australia is much more urbanised than the U.S.A. We live along the coastline in very large cities and the interior is a huge void. Ours is a metropolitan way of life. We shop in malls and in supermarkets, drink coffee at Starbucks and order pizzas “with the lot”. I have never met a full blood aboriginal in my life, nor have I tripped over a kangaroo in the street.

Winton’s characters are as foreign to me as Laplanders. Perhaps they live next door to Winton in Western Australia. They certainly remind me of those early cowboys in American Westerns. Tortured by some terrible ordeal in the past, trying to escape the angst by riding the trail and then being redeemed by a good (or bad) woman. Those cowboys stories were an appealing part of American mythology but they were an invention as well.

In “Dirt Music” we have a trio of caricatures. Georgie, who’s been everywhere and done everything and is now living with a rich fisherman, is the woman in a love triangle. She is not happy.

Jim Buckridge is the fisherman who is extremely wealthy but misses his late wife. His two sons resent Georgie. Once again, he reminds me of one of those ranchers in Westerns, all powerful, rich but repressed emotionally. We never learn what makes him tick. We just know that like a ticking bomb, he’s going to explode.

The third member of the triangle is Lu Fox who is haunted by the violent death of his family. He’s a poacher who encroaches on Jim’s fishing lease as well as on his woman.

When Lu is forced to run away because of his poaching, he travels North. He swims, hitches some rides and walks on very blistered feet. I view this as a journey into the proverbial desert so that he can get lost and then find himself.

He meets a few Aussie characters on his journey who have problems of their own.

A disconcerting trait about all the characters is that they speak in the same way, Winton’s way, which can be confusing. In my opinion, a good writer should be able to vary his characters’ dialogue. We should be able to recognise who’s talking by something distinctive in their language. Winton’s style makes this impossible. Furthermore, the people Lu meets are very one-dimensional and so cliché. I have read the original “Pilgrim’s Progress” and this is a poor relative of that genre.

This is no stroll in the park, by the way, because Western Australia is huge and I mean huge, bigger than Texas actually, and Lu manages to cross it from South to the Far North.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch Georgie’s relationship with Jim is unraveling. Georgie’s family problems suddenly surface and I really think that these are included to pad the plot since nothing much happens apart from Georgie staring into space and wondering where Lu is.

I don’t want to spoil the denouement for you, but suffice it to say that Jim and Georgie go in search of Lu, way up north. Do you think they find him just in the nick of time?

I was very relieved when I finished reading “Dirt Music” because it was tiresome. And yes, I had to read it for my book club or I would never have chosen it. It’s the third and definitely last book of Winton’s that I will pick up. “Dirt Music” is a book I could put down and I did that with a sigh of relief.

Steyn regards Europe as a lost cause which did not notice that Muslims were multiplying much faster than Europeans so that the most popular name for newborn babes in Europe is Mohammad. He regards this change in demography, the aging population of Europe and its low birth rate as being extremely dangerous to the future of our Western culture.

He encourages us all to change that demography by having more children.

He also warns us that Muslim fundamentalists mean business when they declare they hate the West and want to destroy it.

What is going on France right now with the Muslim youth riots, must be terrifying to the French population. This is the second round of riots since 2005 and it was Sarkozy’s tough stance against the first round of riots that brought him to power.

Most European countries are becoming more right wing because of the threat caused by the changing demographics. Steyn has conceded defeat in Europe but I hope that the youths will embrace education and work and then perhaps they won’t feel so angry.

If truth be told, however, a higher education is no guarantee that the youths will be happy to assimilate. The 9/11 bombers were educated, after all. The latest would-be bombers in England were doctors.

if the Muslim youths continue their vendetta, then they will not win friends in France or anywhere else in Europe. You can’t force people to like you if you are bashing them up and burning their property, can you?

“America Alone” is similar in theme to Melanie Phillips’ “Londonistan” but is much more pertinent and interesting to read.
Steyn has a brilliantly effective and humorous style that belies the seriousness of his topic.

In one sentence his message is “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

There’s something to be said for light literature. You can read it anywhere, on a plane, at a bus stop or in a hotel lobby and still carry on a conversation or perform neuro-surgery. The plot should be simple, the characters generally distinguishable from one another and there should be some sort of denouement which will be satisfactory to the reader, even if it’s rather implausible.

Kennedy fulfills all of these criteria. The novel is about a writer, David Armitage, who finds “overnight success” and proceeds to be enthralled by all the trappings of wealth. He reveals a weaker side to his character, dumps his wife and child, spends, spends spends and begins a downward spiral into self-destruction. So much for original theme.

Most of the characters in “Temptation” are self-absorbed social climbers who want to profit from David’s success, but this is Hollywood, so what else is new? Apart from two nice characters in the novel, the rest are caricatures of one dimensional grubs. Into this plot enters a sort of George Souros cum Howard Hughes weirdo who never makes sense. We are supposed to regard this billionaire as some sort of Satanic creature, the serpent in the Garden of Eden, perhaps, who has come to ruin David’s joy by leading him into temptation.

This novel is so blatantly didactic that it smacks of the pulpit. David is a modern Icarus who flies too close to the sun and is consumed by it. Apparently, the American dream of ambition and success are bad things, according to the author and so David must be taught a lesson.

There is so much symbolism here and it’s all unsubtle, which is paradoxical isn’t it? Everything is spelled out in full, so that nothing can be deduced or discussed. There is no controversy at all. David was greedy. David was selfish and so must suffer. It’s no mere coincidence that he loses weight, grows his hair and beard and someone makes a reference to Jesus. David’s being crucified. Get it? That’s what I mean by nothing left to chance. Kennedy leaves no message unhammered.

Can I recommend “Temptation”? Yes, as light reading which should make all failures very content in their little hovels. Rich people bad, poor people, good. I have heard that message somewhere before and camels having a hard time getting through eyes of needles springs to mind, but as one of my favourite TV characters once commented on being reminded that the meek shall inherit the earth. “Yes, but the meek don’t want it.”

If you like moralising then you will be satisfied by Douglas Kennedy’s “Temptation”. Don’t be surprised, though, if somebody turns it into a film with Jude Law or Tom Hanks as the star or maybe Tom Cruise. Surely not Mel Gibson, though he would enjoy the fallen idol and messianic role, wouldn’t he?

Most modern literature fails to inspire me, but occasionally, I am glad that I had to read it. I did enjoy “Easter Island” because it was informative. “We need to talk about Kevin” was also worth reading because of its subject matter, but I am usually astounded by the number of books that are being published which are pretty boring, badly written and of no interest to an adult reader. I have to admit that I am sad about being unable to tolerate escapist literature. Why did I have to grow up and face reality?

Chick lit is the pits and Bridget Jones was no better than the romance comics I used to read as a young girl. I guess we all have to go through that idiotic stage and I was not immune to its escapist themes. After all, it’s nice to dream.

But one day, reality intrudes and bites you harshly. You can no longer tolerate the bullshit because you know better. Oh dear…that is a rude awakening and you wish that the dream could have lasted a little longer.

On reading “In the name of Friendship” one has the impression that Marilyn French, who wrote “The Women’s Room” thirty years ago, never had any illusions about romance and life in general. She seems to be a very angry woman who declared war on the male sex. At the time her feminist novel was regarded as the conscience-raising spark which jettisoned women out of the kitchen and into protest marches for equal rights for women.

Women fought hard and like all revolutions they sometimes went too far. But revolutions are, by their very nature, far from moderate and causes seem to snowball out of control. Nevertheless, much was achieved over the past thirty years, so much so that young women of today often wonder why the feminists burned their bras in protest. The fact that they wonder this is testament that the feminist movement was successful. These young women can now take for granted what the feminists struggled to achieve.

“The Women’s Room” was the only novel by Marilyn French that I ever read. However, my book club selected “In the Name of Friendship” written by French in 2005 and it was surprising to discover that French is still obsessed with the same themes. Men don’t understand women. They want to put women down. Women don’t need men to be happy and in fact they would be better off in a world full of women.

French constructed a novel in which most of the men are either hostile to women, patronising, or pretty useless as companions. The four women, on the other hand, are wonderful friends to one another. No petty bickering of the sort I witnessed in the many staffrooms of high-schools in which I taught. No bitchiness, no jealousy, just warm support for one another through all the angst of having to deal with the “inferior” sex with whom they share their frustrated lives.

The four friends are of disparate ages, the eldest, 76 and the youngest, thirty-something. In a way, they are more like members of a family of older aunts and younger nieces. Because of the difference in age there is very little competition between the women since their interests don’t clash. But the advantage of having such a range in ages is it affords the author with opportunities for comparing the position of women today with that of their sisters during the sixties.

Most of the plot deals with incidents which portray the progress made by modern women. There is a lesbian couple with a daughter and that is ultimate freedom, according to French. There is a middle-aged woman who asserts herself and rebels against her husband’s arrogance. There is the young woman who is fed up with the male chauvinism of her artist husband and who also asserts herself. The novel is very long but not intellectually demanding. Its main appeal is as a launching pad for discussion. No man could enjoy this novel.

By now you can see that French is reiterating the same theme that inspired “The Women’s Room.” In other words, “I am woman. Hear me roar!” If there is one optimistic note in this novel, it’s that the women discover an outlet from their frustrated lives by becoming creative. One of them becomes a successful composer, another, an artist and another, a writer. That makes three out of four who find expression in art. This outlet compensates for what is lacking in their personal relationships.

Of course, the same could be said for the men who spend most of their lives being productive rather than creative. In fact, only one of them is an artist and he doesn’t seem to be satisfied with his lot either. But French is not concerned about the men who are sadly regarded as the enemy. This is not surprising in feminist literature which by its very nature highlights the female condition.

Whilst Western nations have changed in their attitude to women’s rights, French’s message should be heard by women in the Third World and in parts of the Middle East. They are the ones who are suffering from gender discrimination and in my opinion, those nations will be held back as long as they treat their women as second-class citizens.

Why, only this week, I read that in Saudi Arabia some women are taking a stand and demanding that they be allowed to drive a car. Apparently, the problem with being allowed to drive is that women will be tempted to become independent —-ouch!!!

They may start wanting to go out on their own and who knows what catastrophes that will bring? They will become attractive to men other then their husbands. Poor Saudi Men! so insecure…

What really got my goat was that a ‘progressive’ Saudi male is now advocating that women over the age of 35 or 40 be permitted to drive a car. What he is suggesting here, is that women over the age of thirty are no longer a temptation. So they are no longer “uncovered meat” as the unlamented ex-mufti of Australia would say. This time the Saudis have really gone too far. How dare they be ageist as well as sexist?

If you want to pepper your anger at gender discrimination, read French’s novel. It is nostalgic and quite interesting. But if you are no longer interested in women’s issues because they are an old tale, then you should be very happy that the battle was fought for your rights. Just be grateful that you have the keys to the car LOL

So it’s a credit to today’s more candid society that Shriver could have written a book about a parent-child relationship that isn’t total bliss. Whilst the novel is described as taboo-breaking, gutsy and startling, which means that most people would have had some reservations about the theme of not really liking one’s child, the author has excused herself to some extent by making her child a sort of Damien Omen character and that is a kind of cop-out, in my opinion.

What I mean by that is that Eva, the narrator, rationalises her distaste for her son by having him commit a terrible atrocity along the lines of the Columbine High killings. She never liked him anyway and now she can say “well, no wonder I never bonded cause he was a potential killer.”

The question that this novel asks, of course, is whether Kevin would have turned into a murderer if his mother had loved him. It’s the question that all mothers ask themselves. If he has turned out to be less than she would have liked, was it anything that she did? Could she have done anything to prevent him turning into a killer?

As one of the characters in “We need to talk about Kevin” says:-

It’s always the mother’s fault, ain’ it…That boy turn out bad cause his mama a drunk, or she a junkie. She let him run wild, she don’t teach him right from wrong. She never home when he back from school. Nobody ever say his daddy a drunk, or his daddy not home after school. And nobody ever say they some kids just damned mean. Don’t you believe that old guff. Don’t you let them saddle you with all that killing.

Basically this would seem to be the main theme of the novel, is it nature or nurture? Not that there is a simplistic answer to that question since human beings are much more complicated than that. Anyway, it’s not a given that “good and devoted parents” give birth and bring up good children. Also, how many times have we heard about so-called lousy parents having amazingly marvellous children, which would support the nature argument. That is, if one could dismiss the genetic impact of lousy parents.

One could discuss this topic forever and still keep going round in circles.

What was interesting about the novel is how blind Kevin’s father was to his son’s manipulating character, but on the other hand, children do treat parents differently and play one off against the other. I found Franklin to be a very silly man, a bit like David Hicks’ father. David Hicks is the fool who trained with Al Qaeda in the hope of fighting against Americans. His father has decided that David is a scapegoat and has been working hard to turn him into some sort of hero. Whatever Hicks is, he is no hero. The only thing that Hicks deserved was an earlier trial than he received, but it is wrong to ignore one child’s faults and one can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Or can one?

Similarly, Franklin dismissed his wife’s misgivings about Kevin’s sadistic nature and in the end he paid the price for being blind to his faults.

I must admit that I was taken aback when Eva, the narrator, decided to have another child. Perhaps she wanted to make up for her original disappointment and perhaps she was trying to prove that she could produce a nice child, after all. Eva also said that it would be good for Kevin to have a sibling. Hard to understand why when he seemed to hate everything and would no doubt hate his brother or sister. Not surprisingly that turned out to be a dismal failure too. Besides, the second child seemed so implausible and was perhaps meant to act as a foil for the demonic Kevin.

If there is a lesson to be learned from “We need to talk about Kevin” it’s that having a child is one of the biggest risks one can take in life. There are no guarantees that we will like the child or that the child will like his parents. If we do it because we feel we should, or it’s about time, or we are bored with our life, we should seriously consider that we may be buying grief. It may be a fulfilling experience or it may not.

If it’s not nature or nurture, it may very well be the luck of the draw, with the highest stakes in the world.