I’m continuing my recent rash of fictional reading with John Sedgwick’s The Dark House, the story of an obsessive man named Rollins with the odd routine of following random cars through the streets of Boston at night. One night Rollins follows a car to a dark, abandoned house, setting off a chain of events that would connect the house and the man he followed to his own past.
This book is a good read overall, although I can’t relate to Rollins the way I could to Irving’s Fred Trumper. Sedgwick’s book focuses more on description than Irving’s, but doesn’t have quite the expansive scope. This works well for The Dark House though, because it helps build suspense as the story unfolds (at the cost of little sight into Rollins deepest psychology). The novel is a mystery at the end of the day, and although the writing feels empty at times, the emptiness is more a fault of the genre than Sedgwick himself. A great read for mystery fans or anyone looking for a cheap thrill.