"According to their Deeds" by Paul Robertson

My addiction is pretty plain and simple. It is books. It always has been, likely always will be. For that, if anything, is illustrative of some consistency in my life. I am enamoured with writing, how authors compose sentence structure and arguments. I marvel more so at the pre-20th century writers where conviction and prose matter most even if their words, in sum, amounted to only a hill of beans. Very dry, pruned beans at times. And yet, I wonder at how they do it.

My addiction, and there is no other way to explain it, leads me to buy and read books about books. Their history as an object, their evolution, their impact on culture and society. For this books are written about. But I also found a niche of fiction; of booksellers' unwittingly caught in a web of intrigue and danger. And this is harder to find. Yes, there are exceptions. There are a few authors who have capitalized on this genre, if it's meagre size qualifies as a "genre", and who have likely made some good coin on it. Paul Robertson, however, won't be one of them. According to their Deeds is a cardboard, thinly put together tale of a bookstore owner who discovers a few items in a book that lead him to discover and offer forgiveness to a blackmailers list and the soul of the blackmailer. For this to work the characters are in need of some depth beyond simple dialogue, in need of fleshing out, in need of forgiveness by the reader. And Paul Robertson sadly fails.

There was potential. A thread of flashback scenes between the saintly protagonist and the spider laying his web of deceit. Here they meet, unwittingly of one, across an aged chess board, the dichotomy of good and evil, in game, and in words. Philosophers are argued, their lives summed up, their worth measured and weighed. Here was Robertson's potential to explore and develop a heartful plot. Here, across a chess board, life and lives could have been explored. Instead, we endure the booksellers pun-ish nature with a past that would have been punishingly heavy if were allowed to unfold.

And instead, my craving moves on. Pleading forgiveness for my bookish sins (and there have been a few), now myself even wary of the absurdity of wanting to read everything I can. Something I couldn't say at a bibliophile anonymous meeting a few years ago. I have other titles to go to. And there certainly are other literary fictions in want of a reader. And I would certainly recommend others to avoid this one. Another sin awaits behind another dust jacket.
No. 0848