Caputo knows how to set a scene and build tension through detail . . . . His prose is tough-minded but not without compassion, and he brings experience from one part of the world to another.”
—Seattle Times
“A work of genuine heft, Some Rise by Sin explores the search for meaning in a place where the stakes are highest and does so with unwavering focus. Caputo remains a master of his craft.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Caputo’s novel is one of action . . . . The overall lesson of the novel is a powerful one: economics trumps morality in shaping the fate of nations.”
—BookPage
“Couldn’t be timelier. . . . Caputo is an acute observer of human disorder and disarray . . . . A compelling novel.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Caputo skillfully brings to life the complex existential drama of [staying true to faith while living in a corrupt world]. Powerful and timely.”
—Library Journal
“A thought-provoking story . . . . Illuminate[s] the contradictions of human nature and the mysteries of faith.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A mighty narrative in a brutal land of old gods and new devils where darkness pierces the heart in an unholy war for souls. Beyond the realities of vicious narco-hombres, crooked good guys, innocents torn asunder and acts of selfless grace, Caputo reaches for a high moral compass not seen since Graham Greene’s magnificent Mexico set classic, The Power And The Glory.”
—Thomas Sanchez, author of Mile Zero and Rabbit Boss
02/01/2017
Caputo, whose long and distinguished career as a journalist and author includes nine novels, three memoirs, and a number of general nonfiction titles, is probably still best known for his 1977 Vietnam memoir, A Rumor of War, which asked troubling questions about the conflict that continue to resonate with readers today. This title portrays an American missionary priest, Father Riordan, who is serving a poor parish in San Patricio, Mexico. As in A Rumor of War, this novel features a morally compromised political environment, where competing drug lords, vigilante groups, and corrupt federal troops create a horrific no-man's-land ruled by violence, intimidation, and daily atrocities. Human life has very little worth in this part of Mexico, and this book centers on Riordan's attempts to stay true to his faith and his vows while living in a world poisoned to its core by corruption and greed. Caputo skillfully brings to life the complex existential drama of this predicament. VERDICT Powerful and timely, this novel is especially recommended for fans of politically focused literary fiction. [See Prepub Alert, 11/17/16.]—Patrick Sullivan, Manchester Community Coll., CT
2017-02-21
A novel that couldn't be more timely: the story of culture clash and compromise in Mexico.Caputo's eighth novel revolves around two Americans, a priest and a physician, in the Mexican village of San Patricio. This is not, the author tells us, "Cancún [or] Puerta Vallarta"; rather, it is the Mexico of our darkest, wall-building fantasies, "one vast bad neighborhood, East L.A. or the South Side of Chicago on steroids." Lest such an image seem stereotypical, it's not—because Caputo is an acute observer of human disorder and disarray. The priest here, Father Timothy Riordan, is conflicted: about his celibacy, about his faith, and most of all about his tenuous position between the townspeople and the authorities. The doctor, Lisette Moreno, is more settled, but that is to some extent due to her privilege; she has come to Mexico by choice. Complicating everything is the presence of the Brotherhood, a gang of narcos so casually brutal that their threats and violence are never anything but believable. The moral landscape is reminiscent of Robert Stone, particularly his 1981 novel A Flag for Sunrise, which also revolves in part around a priest adrift in chaos south of the border. Stone's perspective, though, is more apocalyptic, or perhaps, most accurately, touched with madness; among the challenges (and rewards) of his writing is the sense not just that the center isn't holding, but also that there is no center to hold. Caputo is a more traditional novelist, and his aims are, finally, less ambitious; for all its detailed evocation of life in the village, his book is more or less a character portrait, or a pair of character portraits, in which the Americans are always in the light. That makes for a more focused effort, especially in regard to Riordan, whose self-flagellations (both real and imagined) largely drive the narrative. "His anger drained away," Caputo writes of the priest, "and a gloom dropped over him, like a hood over a man about to be hanged." Ultimately, however—and despite the force of the writing—this makes the novel too neat, too predictable. Caputo is taking on a messy territory, in which there are no answers, and everyone must do what they need to get along. This is the promise of his novel, that such disruption is contagious, but in the end, the book portrays less the corruption of a tarnished world than the blight of a single errant soul. This is a compelling novel that wraps up too neatly, belying the uncertainty and turmoil at its core.
