Mysterious allure of ‘pathologicals’

I put this to my friend, George Scialabba, who mans the New Thinking column, which appears now and again in this section, and also the author, most recently, of “What Are Intellectuals Good for?’’ He said he thought it was a symptom of the current “prestige of the pathological.’’ He’s right, of course, but that still doesn’t answer why the reading world should be so gung-ho on the “pathological.’’ Addressing that puzzle set us off on a number of tangents with me sparking and spluttering about political correctness and George making the sort of erudite conjectures that intellectuals can, on occasion, be good for.

Though the question remains unanswered to my satisfaction, the novel-reading part of the investigation turned out to be surprisingly rewarding. Both books, Matthew Dicks’s “Something Missing’’ (Broadway, 304 pp., paperback, $14) and Matthew Kneale’s “When We Were Romans’’ (Anchor, 240 pp., paperback, $14) are excellent and - I hope this doesn’t diminish their worthiness in your eyes - extremely entertaining to boot.

Martin, the hero of “Something Missing’’ is what used to be referred to as “anal-compulsive’’ - before that affliction became the less anatomical “obsessive-compulsive disorder.’’ He makes his living by robbing people’s homes, a business he conducts with meticulous planning and scrupulous attention to the smallest - especially the smallest - detail. When we meet him he has around a dozen “clients,’’ as he calls his marks, all of whom have been carefully vetted for suitability: couples only, predictable schedules and buying habits, comfortable incomes - not too rich, not too poor - no children, no maids, no dogs. He uses a digital camera and Excel software to log and keep track of his “acquisitions.’’ They include everything from household products and groceries for his own use, to jewelry, accessories, and other valuables that he sells on eBay under the persona of a middle-aged housewife.

Martin may be nuts to a degree, but he’s a likable guy with a professional attitude and sense of style. (He uses a traditional burlap sack.) He never takes anything his clients might truly regret losing - should they even notice its absence. He is a little lonely, perhaps, but scheduled visits, record-keeping, chasing down “referrals,’’ and surveillance keep him busy and engaged. Martin prides himself on his invisibility and takes a benign, even custodial interest in his clients’ lives. And then one day he accidentally drops one of his favorite householder’s toothbrush in the toilet - an OCD nightmare. He must put it right and so begins the unraveling of his orderly existence and his increasing involvement in the fate of others. Though the book is essentially a high-concept caper, it is deftly constructed, really exciting at a couple of junctures, moving at others, and very, very funny.

Kneale’s “When We Were Romans’’ was published last year and has now appeared in paperback. It purports to be 9-year-old Lawrence’s journal, eccentric spelling, punctuation and all. In the wrong hands, this conceit would certainly cause me to “frow up’’ - as Dorothy Parker said about Winnie the Pooh. But Kneale has managed to pull it off, conjuring a troubled, but doughty young voice trying to construct a reassuring frame of reference for the terrible and bewildering circumstances of his life. Lawrence’s mother has whisked him, his 3-year-old sister, and his hamster out of England to Rome, away from their father whom she claims is stalking them with malicious intent. Short on money, they stay with various old friends of Lawrence’s mother, resulting in a great deal of unpleasantness. Their presence is not only an imposition, but the true nature of their flight begins to emerge early on: Lawrence’s mother is insane. She is paranoid and prey to catatonic depression. We see this, but young Lawrence doesn’t. How can he really? He unavoidably absorbs his mother’s view of things and his eclectic reading - on astronomy and the lives of popes and Roman emperors - further shapes his view of their predicament.

Lawrence’s summaries of what he has learned from books punctuate the novel and become a form of metaphorical commentary on his powerlessness before the force of his mother’s deranged will. He goes over the doings of Pope Boniface VIII, Nero, Caligula, and others as they attempted to ensure their own safety and vanquish their enemies, real and imagined.

Lawrence ponders black holes in space, huge in gravitational force, around which other bodies spin on the brink of being drawn in and swallowed. He thinks of the inevitability of the sun exploding and dying out, but reassures himself that scientists have located other galaxies with powerful telescopes. “Perhaps,’’ he writes, “the scientists will see another planet with their gravitational lensing, it will be lovely and green, it will be beautiful. Then everybody will be all right after all. They will build a huge space craft and escape there before the sun goes out.’’ This is a wonderful novel, looniness included. Indeed, books like this suggest that in fiction today the payload is increasingly in the narrator more than the narrative: That’s where the strange adventures are to be found. But I can’t decide why this is so.

Katherine A. Powers lives in Cambridge. She can be reached by e-mail at pow3@verizon.net.