Stephen L. Carter has written the kind of novel in which the bad guys say 'very well' when they mean 'OK'; in which the hero calls a visit from old friends 'a delightfully rambunctious affair' and his rocky marriage a 'tumultuous mutuality'; in which 'homes' are 'spacious', jealousy 'flames afresh' and eminent legal scholars spend dinner parties debating the existence of God. It is also the kind of novel - I am about to spoil the ending - in which the hero uncovers a vast conspiracy at the highest levels of government, resists the advances of a slinky assassin, faces down a gun-toting Supreme Court judge, and ends up getting promoted. The Emperor of Ocean Park is, in other words, an 'airplane book', as opposed to a 'beach read': it's trash, but it's Business Class trash, relentlessly high-toned, tastefully furnished and driven by a Rube Goldberg-like love of complication, minus the suspense.

LRB 8 August 2002 | PDF Download