Novel falls south of Conroy's abilities

When Pat Conroy wrote another big novel, I felt an obligation to read it. His earlier novels, including "Beach Music," "The Great Santini," "Prince of Tides" and "Lords of Discipline" captured the angst of our generation in lyrical, evocative writing with powerful images. At his best, Conroy can make the English language sing. But Conroy's writing was not without its problems. As was apparent in "Prince of Tides," Conroy's writing could be self-indulgent and bloated, but his brand identification was so strong that an unbelievable plot twist or 20,000 unnecessary extra words did not hurt his sales or his status as a pre-eminent Southern writer.

So I read "South of Broad." Being fairly familiar with Charleston, where my brother has lived for 20 years, I looked forward to a story about that fascinating city. But what Conroy delivered was not a credible account of a fascinating city (such as John Berendt's wonderful ode to Savannah, "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil") but an unedited mish-mash of unbelievable story lines, paper-thin stereotypes masquerading as fictional characters, and the most wooden dialogue I've ever read in a reputable novel. "Wooden" is too complimentary a description of some of the conversation in "South of Broad"; it's more like cheap Formica. Example: "Here's all the wisdom I got to share, Leo: Being a kid's a pain in the ass. Being an adult is ten times worse. That's Cleo the Greek, who came from people who brought you Plato and Socrates and all those other assholes." You'd think the author had never listened to people talk.

Part of the novel is set in the social upheaval of desegregation in the 1960s, but Conroy's portrayal is all black-and-white (forgive the pun) with none of the nuance, internal conflicts and doubts that afflicted that era. His characters face integration as either pristinely noble knights or black-hearted, cruel scoundrels. For a more honest and accurate look back at this era, read "Magic Time" by Conroy's good friend the late Doug Marlette, who captures the conflicts and flawed characters of that time.

A third of the way into Conroy's 500-page novel, I complained to my wife, who had already read it, and she reminded me that I was under no obligation to finish it. But I persevered, partly in the hope that it would get better and partly in the desire to see how Conroy was going to drag this disjointed plot to a conclusion. I'm left with sad disappointment that a novelist with so much talent could allow himself to turn in a manuscript that falls so far short of his abilities.