incent Ettrich is a bit of a cad, a bounder, even a louse, when it comes to his relations with the opposite sex. Unable to keep his pants on around attractive women, the charming and intelligent Vincent has recently divorced his wife of 16 years in favor of his mistress, Isabelle Neukor. But ironically, he and Isabelle have since had a spat and separated—whether temporarily or permanently is in doubt. This separation leaves Vincent free to take up with Coco Hallis, lingerie salesperson. Their relationship is well along when the props are knocked out from under Vincent's entire world.
Coco reveals to Vincent that his entire present life is a sham. Some months ago, he died of cancer. The world has been literally remade to accept his revivification. But currently he is no more than a substantial ghost, a revenant, a zombie, a fetch. Coco is some kind of supernatural agent in mortal guise sent to guide him through a tortuous labyrinth of revelations about his posthumous purpose.
Naturally enough, Vincent flips. He denies the reality of his situation and his obligations. But a series of incidents forces him to acknowledge the truth. He meets another dead man walking, his old friend Bruno Mann. He visits the hospital where he died, recognizing nurses and fellow patients, including the mysterious Tillmann Reeves. And when Isabelle gets back in touch with Vincent, she reveals that she, too, knows of his death. Moreover, she is pregnant with their supernaturally sentient son, Anjo, who promises to become an earthly savior—if he can ever be born in the face of celestial opposition. In an afterlife which is not set up according to any previous theological speculations, one cosmic force—known simply as Chaos, and symbolized by the white apple of the title—has plans to extend its mortal dominion, plans which include the extinction of Vincent and family. A race is on: Will Vincent learn to utilize his unnatural new powers and will Isabelle overcome her own moral failings before Chaos can crush them? Across time and space the couple bounce, on a journey that is as much into inner space as it is across a vividly limned set of cities.
A uniquely compassionate ghost story
Recently, one hoary old subgenre of the fantastic, the ghost story, has received a thorough and masterful revisioning under the hands of a number of talented writers. Tim Powers, Graham Joyce, Thomas Disch, Will Self and Damon Knight have all had a go at dealing with the afterlife and its intersection with our earthly sphere. Artists in other media, such as David Lynch and Neil Gaiman, have extended the visuals of an otherworldly existence. Even Robert Heinlein, in his Job: A Comedy of Justice (1984), couldn't resist venturing into the realm of heaven and hell, so potent is this topic. Now Jonathan Carroll brings his uniquely compassionate perspective and off-kilter storytelling skills to this ancient, resonant theme, and the result is utterly enthralling. Not only does Carroll fashion two main characters—the star-crossed lovers Vincent and Isabelle—who are more real and empathy-inducing than 99 percent of fictional constructs, but he goes on to invent a radically novel version of what death entails, bypassing any kind of Judeo-Christian mythology in favor of a blend of New Age physics, Far Eastern concepts and Gurdjieffian mysticism. And none of this is didactically presented, but rather embodied in a surreal, fast-paced adventure story.
Carroll's precise and surprising use of language is essential to his accomplishments. It's a cliche to call someone a "writer's writer," but that's precisely what Carroll is, someone to whom even the pros turn to learn how the job is done. From the extended paragraph of metaphor that opens the novel to the closing contemplative paragraph, Carroll delivers a steady stream of acutely observed descriptions, epigrams, reflections, figurative conceits and nuanced actions. His ability to continually surprise the reader also contributes to the stimulating ride. When Vincent first learns of his death, we are as shocked as he is. Likewise, Isabelle's revelations about Anjo come out of the blue with magnificent force. Finally, it must be mentioned that Carroll pulls off the best Philip K. Dick simulation we've seen in a long time. The constant undermining of "reality," with each newly discovered level being swiftly replaced by yet deeper strata, is richly bewildering.
I have only two minor bones to pick with this outstandingly complex and rewarding love story. First is an excess of character quirks. Having been told that Vincent carries around a pocket knife he never uses, do we really need to hear that he also carries on his person a red plastic spoon for sentimental reasons? One such personal folly is charming; two is overkill. Second is a partial failure to establish the solidity of the background against which Vincent is placed. Are these events happening on our solid globe, or are they occurring on some kind of numinous bardo plane? Eventually, the evidence preponderates that Vincent is indeed walking the soil of Earth, but there's always a lingering doubt, especially since the narrative voice that often intrudes seems to know more than Vincent does and is maybe even pulling some strings. The insubstantiality and weirdness of a ghost's condition is heightened and enhanced by juxtaposition with what is real, and if all of this is merely playing out in Vincent's head, so to speak, then the dire and portentous and gentle events lose some of their luster.
