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Monster, 1959, by David Maine

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The US Government has been testing the long-term effects of high-level radiation on a few select islands in the South Pacific. Their efforts have produced killer plants, mole people, and a 40 foot creature named K. Covered in fur and feathers, gifted with unusable butterfly wings and the mental capacity of a goldfish, K. is an evolutionary experiment gone very awry. Although he has no real understanding of his world, he knows when he's hungry, and he knows to follow the drum beats that lead him, every time, to the tree where a woman will be offered to him as sacrifice by the natives. When a group of American hunters stumble across the island, it's bound to get interesting. Especially when the natives offer up the beautiful wife of the guide to K. Not to be outdone, the Americans manage to capture him. Back in the States, they start a traveling show. The main attraction: K.

Monster, 1959 is not just a portrait of what may have gone wrong inside the head of a monster like Godzilla, it isn't just a novel that follows the typical plot of a ‘50s monster movie. It's also a nuanced, detailed and exquisitely written view of a time that had a profound effect on creating the world we live in today. It captures David Maine's storytelling brilliance as it's never been seen before.

• Sales Rank: #5055086 in Books
• Published on: 2009-01-06
• Released on: 2009-01-06
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Dimensions: 8.50" h x .58" w x 5.50" l, .65 pounds
• Binding: Paperback
• 256 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9780312373023
• Condition: New
• Notes: BRAND NEW FROM PUBLISHER! 100% Satisfaction Guarantee. Tracking provided on most orders. Buy with Confidence! Millions of books sold!

Review

“[When] Maine's evocative prose takes control, as in the telling of the creation myth recited by the elders on K's island, he creates something uniquely strange and beautiful...If you think you've seen this story before, you're right, but never quite like this.” ―Washington Post

“Like its protagonist, 'a Daliesque construct of unexpected leaps and alarming juxtapositions,' Monster, 1959 is both ungainly and oddly endearing.” ―The New York Times Book Review

“Maine's achievement is to revisit an American myth with fresh eyes, creating an affecting parable for troubled times.” ―O Magazine

“A ripping good adventure.” ―The Hartford Courant

“Discover Maine. If you haven't heard the story from him, you haven't heard it.” ―The Oklahoman

About the Author

David Maine was born in 1963 and grew up in Farmington, Connecticut. His previous novels include The Preservationist, Fallen and The Book of Samson. He is married to novelist Uzma Aslam Khan, and since 1998 has lived in Lahore, Pakistan.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One

Establishing Shot

In his dream, K. flies.

Below him is the island: verdant and vertiginous, lunatic with creation, lush like a scrap of Eden discarded and forgotten in the ocean's endless tundra. Trees flash by, rainforest-dense, tropical growth shrouding the hills in overstuffed quilted folds. Flocks of birds glitter like refracting jewels, like op art on the wing, Vs and swarms and grand unruly mobs weaving from scarp to treetop to lakeside and up again into open sky. Toward K.

K. has no words for this. In fact K. has no words at all. The language center in his brain looks like a Jackson Pollack painting dropped from a great height. K. is preliterate, prelingual; in fact, pre-just about anything you can think of. His thoughts are the pictures he sees and the feelings they create. Sensation is his vocabulary: flavor, touch, sound, intuition, image. And smell most of all. In his dream, the heels-over-head feelings of floating, swooping, soaring are bereft of words to name them. The closest he can come is to grunt in his sleep, whimper and purr and coo and bleat. Slumbering high in his treetop nest, K. does just this. But in his dream, he flies.

Not all dreams are such. Sometimes he sees faces, figures of others like himself: huge, shambolic forms lurching across the primeval landscape. In ordinary life—though "ordinary" is a precarious word to use around here—in ordinary life, K. wanders as solitary as John the Baptist, so the feelings stirred up by these misty figures elide into a whirlpool of difficult-to-understand emotions. In his waking life, K. has never seen anything even remotely resembling himself: an oversized, black-furred, butterfly-winged, fish-scaled, hawk-taloned, insect-antennaed primate. Sometimes he wonders, as best he can, why this is so. Such wondering is difficult without words. Ideas like species or even family lie far outside his ken; he is possessed of a rudimentary sense of me and a slightly clearer sense of them, but abstractions of any greater complexity elude him. He cannot know that he is a species of one, the first, last and only of his race: a race that is over before it starts. The merciless demands of natural selection have declared his impossibly overgrown, jumbled-up self to be simply too huge, too ungainly and demanding —of nourishment, of physical space—to evolve further. The other preposterous species of the island, the fish-finned insect-rats and miniature, eight-eyed mole people, are similarly marked, but possessing as they do even less self-awareness than K., they don't know it either.

In his dream, K. circles high in the air, flirts with the clouds, brushes the firmament, pirouettes like a deformed Nureyev before flipping head-down and plummeting toward a lake. The water approaches with gut-clenching speed, and K.'s heart jolts into double time. Waves glitter and smear across his vision. At the moment of impact, K. jerks himself awake. The tree he is lounging in shudders as if struck, and a multitude of storks takes noisily to the air.

Around K. the island hunkers, observing him. Low morning sun wrestles heavy clouds. Tropical forest, wet-earth smells, plenty of bugs.

K. peers about groggily. His heart beats fast as if he is in danger, but he smells none, hears none. What dangers are there, anyway, for a creature such as himself? The insect-rats are too small to mention, the dens of the mole people lie deep underground. K. flicks his tongue and smells the peaceful air. Already his heart is slowing, the dream is fading, then faded, then gone: river mist that flees the sun. His blood pressure drops. He reaches for a nearby cluster of leaves and stuffs them in his mouth, chewing meditatively. An observer might be forgiven for thinking that K. is lost in thought. He is not. He is simply lost. Or more properly, he is waiting for a stimulus, internal or external, to prod him into motion. Perhaps hunger, or the approach of the flying lizard who occasionally torments him, or the need to relieve his bowels, or a thunderstorm.

K. sits patiently, chewing without thinking. Waiting, like one of Pavlov's now-famous slobbering dogs, for something to happen.

Later that day, something does.

Excerpted from MONSTER 1959 by DAVID MAINE
Copyright © 2008 by David Maine
Published in January 2009 by St. Martin's Press

All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

Most helpful customer reviews

4 of 6 people found the following review helpful.
A familiar tale, uniquely Maine.
By Nicole Del Sesto
I am a huge fan of Maine's and was naturally quite excited to see he had a new book out. As with his biblical fiction, he has taken a well-known story and made it his own (this one just happens to not be from the bible.)

Maine's writing is top notch, and his word-play is one of the things I most enjoy when reading his books. His humor is my favorite aspect of his writing, and this book contains some gems.

As with his other books, Maine is not shy about sharing his opinions, sometimes overtly, sometimes subtly. In the scope of this "Monster Movie" tale there is just enough commentary to keep you thinking. I'd be hard pressed to find a topic that wasn't at least briefly touched on (money, power, greed, sex, the media, etc. etc.)

I probably wouldn't recommend this as a first exposure to Maine, unless you are a fan of the monster movie genre. The Preservationist is a great introduction to Maine's work, but once a fan I think you'd agree that he could write the copy on a cereal box and make it unique and interesting.

3 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
On the soapbox and Lady Liberty
By Richard LeComte
Maine sets up the book as a spoof of 1950s horror films, complete with corny dialogue, while at the same time echoing John Gardner's "Grendel" in that Maine tries to get into the "head" of a mutant, 40-foot monster. Some of the writing, particularly in the deptictions of the characters of Betty and Doug, is very good, and there's a good deal of excitement as well as sex and gore. But Maine has axes to grind about the United States and the world of the 1950s, and the novel, short as it is, suffers from the pretty naked preaching about Iran, Palenstine and Hungary.

4 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
Technicolor
By Stuart C.
If you thought the 1950's monster movie story was all used up, David Maine will prove you wrong as soon as you've hacked your way through a few pages of jungle on his nuclear-contaminated island. Maine includes all the parts left out of the originals: the primitive sacrificial victim who preceded the beautiful blonde intruder, the sluggish thought processes of the innocent vegetarian monster. He even fleshes out the highly interesting sex life you always fantasized about between the square-jawed hero and the big-busted heroine he saves. Gotta love it!

An arch, sardonic comic-book of a novel that brings technicolor into a black and white landscape. Definitely a romp.

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