There's a schizophrenia at
the heart of Dirk Wittenborn's new novel. Perhaps that's by design; Pharmakon's deeply troubled cast of characters all have some
relationship to mental illness, whether as patients, doctors, or the
beneficiaries of pharmaceutical profiteering. But it takes a genius, or at
least a steady, fearless hand, to pull a personality switcheroo after involving
readers deeply in a particular story and narrative style. Wittenborn is good
enough to pull it off once, but not twice. His promising novel collapses badly
in its final 50 pages, betraying the fine writing and sharp character work that
comes before.
Pharmakon begins with the story of
William Friedrich, a Yale psychologist mired in the middle of the tenure track
and oppressed by his contempt for middle-class family and professional mores.
When an alluring colleague mentions a fermented plant extract that remote
tribespeople take to relieve grief and restore happiness, he starts research on
the compound. But he can't resist bringing a pathetic undergraduate named
Casper into his study, and eventually something—either his own psychosis
or withdrawal from the drug—causes Casper to snap and go on a killing
spree. In the second section of the novel, Friedrich's son Zach, born after the
tragedies, narrates his childhood's strange symbiosis with the
institutionalized Casper. The final chapters jumps forward to the '90s and back
into omniscient narration, as the son now known as Z, a heroin-addicted
celebrity, tries to come to terms with his family's dysfunction.
Wittenborn is fond of
magical-realist touches, like the flock of parrots that inexplicably roosts in
Friedrich's front yard. But his best moments come from his feel for the '50s, a
sense of impending, uncontrollable change that leaves his protagonists adrift
in a world that's passing away before their eyes. He manages to carry that
insight forward to the squeeze of the early '60s, as the comfortable class of
intellectual elites is about to be shoved from the stage by rampaging youth.
But when he tries to connect the dots to the aftermath of the decadent '80s,
he's out of his element. The ugly artificiality of the "Z" section does such
damage that a brief epilogue back in Friedrich's perspective can't pick up the
pieces. Even if his characters can't stop their lives from ending up in
shambles, Wittenborn shouldn't consign his book to the same fate.