Customer Reviews

Still Life with Volkswagens

5 star:		(2)
4 star:		(3)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Apparently this is the second Volkswagen-themed novel by this British author. I have not as yet read "Street Sleeper," so I can't tell you if this is the better of the two or not. What I can tell you is that is a mostly amusing tale of a number of Brits all bound together in one way or another by Volkswagens. The main problem is that all across England, there are Volkswagen's blowing up left and right. Who is doing and why, and how they can be stopped is the alleged plot which drives this book, but the reader is mostly along for the ride as the main characters search for meaning in their existence. I get the impression that many of the main characters appeared previously in "Street Sleeper," but how long the interval has been in unclear. It's a little tough to describe a novel which culminates in a rave/VW expo under siege by eight neo-Nazi skinheads and their delusional leader, who is questing after a holy grail comprised of a hand carved VW whose sun roof opens to reveal human bone replicas of Hitler and Eva Braun in flagrante... All I can say is that if you have a taste for the quirky, check it out.

If you've never met a collector of Volkswagen beetle memor
abilia, you don't have a complete grasp of the meaning of
the proverb: "It takes all kinds..." Nicholson brings the
reader a diverse group of Volkswagen "nuts", and with some
of his characters, the quotation marks would be optional.
All of his characters, from an annoyingly precocious
little boy, to a millionaire who vanished, to a platoon of
neo-Nazi skinheads are brought together convincingly by
that odd-shaped "car of the people" in this absurd romp
through our times. And Nicholson skillfully weaves his own
connection to the Bug into the novel via asides to the reader
which just add to one's conviction that one has entered an
alternate universe. Have no fear: you will reach a satisfying ending from which you will be allowed to return to
your own reality, where people drive Chryslers, Jeeps,
Hondas, and 4-wheel drive pick-ups.

I purchased this title a a gift for a "bugged" friend after reading another of his books and seeing this on his back list.

It shall not disappoint.

I bought this book at first because I too have a strange passion for Volkswagens. I was thoroughly delighted when I discovered that Mr. Nicholson had a great story to back up the VW obsession, once I got over the horror of destroying all those VWs that is. The strange cast of characters and their individual motivations are brilliantly woven together. The amazing thing is that even at it's most confusing and destructive I didn't want this novel to end. I look forward to trying his other works.

I was worried that this book might be to 'British' for my American tastes, but it was wonderful. Well paced, colorful characters, and a good mix of action and humor. Well worth the money.

I didn't know this was a work of fiction, and not non-fiction. It is told from England, and deals with New Agers, Hippies, and Neo-Nazies. I was entertained by the story, but if given more details about the nature of this book, I would not re-purchase.

If there was any more fluff in this book contractors would buy it by the truckload and use it as landfill. The obvious waste of time, energy, and research that went into this book is staggering, on par with the worst writer of our time, Tom Robbins. I admit, I did finish it, even though I regret that waste of life, but the ending was worthless. Mr. Nicholson, in an attempt to tie up loose ends only succeeded in putting a bullet in the head of a horse that didn't even make it out of the starting blocks. The characters were unbelievable as human beings from the start, the author's asides into his depressing and pathetic life were a complete waste of paper, and the story line went from bad to worse to unimaginably stupid. At no one point could I succeed in a suspension of disbelief. Maybe it was the nine year old car thief savant, or the sodomasochist undercover reporter, or the closeted gay neonazi; I don't know, but they all seemed to be part of the cast of an off, off, off broadway musical dreamed up by a necrophilic methamphetimine addict. I think after awhile I just kept reading out of pity for poor divorced Mr. Nicholson, who is obviously so obsessed with Volkswagen toys and writing that he can't seem to keep a normal personal relationship. Poor guy. If he ever reads this I hope he takes my advice and lays down the pen. If I were a psychic I'd say his future lies in the manufacture of kidney pies.