I, Ripper
by Stephen Hunter
Simon & Schuster, 2015
1st ed. hc, inc. 4pp bibliography
ISBN: 978-1-4767-6485-6
A Review
by Gene Stewart
A novel about Jack the Ripper, researched in detail and presented in the voices of 1888 contemporaries, from Stephen Hunter, known for his sharp-eyed hard-nosed approach to keeping it real, promised to be at least an interesting reading experience. It proved to be compelling, an exciting tour through the grimy dark of Victorian Whitechapel and parts of the Raj.
This is written as Diary and as Memoir entries, allowing two distinct voices to overlap in a Venn diagram seeking truth as much as suspense. As he entertains with engaging people in tense situations Hunter is also tracking down his own answer to the perennial question: Who was Jack the Ripper?
Action scenes are handled with typical aplomb. Surprising details about era, epoch, and specific locales keep one’s eyebrows raised even as shoulders hunch in the grip of stretched nerves.
We meet a journalist, who tells the bulk of the tale. No more about him, other than he is garrulous as a raconteur with the gift of gab. His intricate presentation does not lag. He recounts the Ripper days vividly and with salty cynicism and an insider’s knowing wink now and then. We learn much about the press back then, at the dawn of media frenzy and serial killer front pages.
We also meet a diarist who openly gloats about his crimes. His first words, the very first in the book, are, “When I cut the woman’s throat…” and yet we wonder throughout, in a kind of agony of logic as we pit our detective skills against Hunter’s, who is this psychopathic killer with the cavalier attitude and businesslike experience slicing and gutting? Of course there are clues, and some are red herrings; wouldn’t be fun without them.
To say the killer’s bluntness clashes with the journalist’s wit and sharply-observed analyses perhaps edges too close to coy wordplay but even that is present in this surprise treat from Hunter, from whom we are perhaps more used to more modern prose.
Not that I, Ripper is dense, far from it. Not that it is overly-intricate. Remarkable tone control allows him leeway in both narrative direction and storytelling patterns. It’s a bravura performance by an old pro.
The journalist follows new leads, and is led by a set of assumptions about the crimes rarely broached in Ripperology circles.
Best of all, for those Ripperologists out there, Hunter knows his stuff cold as a body on a slab and presents it without bending any rules. An afterword discusses the very few liberties taken, and why they don’t ultimately matter, while his bibliography provides a top-drawer reading list for anyone still catching up on one of the literary world’s main indoor sports.
Cat and mouse played with men and tigers might characterize this book, with the big game yet to be brought to ground. A tantalizing tease at the end of Hunter’s notes offers a hint that perhaps a nonfiction book is coming, one addressing Hunter’s solution to the Jack the Ripper identity problem. Should be well worth the wait but I wish he’d hurry up.
Meanwhile, read I, Ripper and immerse yourself in a new angle, a new set to the theory’s jaw, and a new way of diving into historical crimes, the thought-experiment combined with immersive experience. Hunter excels at keeping things real, solid, and tactile. You can feel it all, even as you are free to set the book aside now and then.
If you can.
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