Praise for Second Nature
The fable that lies at the heart of Alice Hoffman's lyrical new novel, "Second Nature," is familiar almost to the point of cliche. . . . "Second Nature" is moving, up to a point. But beyond that point you are forced to think about its premise that humans dare not alienate themselves from nature by thinking about it abstractly, a proposition that is so worn and debatable that it finally undermines an otherwise diverting story. -- New York Times
Christopher Lehmann-Haupt
Beguiled by her seductive prose and her imaginative virtuosity, readers have always been willing to suspend disbelief and enjoy the touches of magic in Hoffman's novels ( Illumination Night ; Turtle Moon , etc). Here, credibility is stretched not by magical intervention but by the implausibility of a major character. When a feral young man is discovered living with wolves in a remote area of upper Michigan, he cannot speak and can barely remember his early life. Transferred to a hospital in Manhattan, he does not utter a sound and is on his way to being incarcerated in a mental institution until divorced landscape designer Robin Moore impulsively hustles him into her pickup truck and carries him to the sanctuary of her home on an island in Nassau County. There the Wolf Man reveals that his name is Stephen and that he was the sole survivor of a plane crash that killed his parents when he was three-and-a-half years old; thereafter he lived with a wolf pack. Within three months Robin teaches Stephen to read; soon afterwards they begin a passionate affair. How Stephen can so easily expand the small vocabulary he had mastered at a tender age but has never used since, how suddenly he can deal with sophisticated concepts, speak in grammatical sentences and even observe the social graces, is the central flaw that undermines what is otherwise a highly engaging tale. Stephen's presence in the community causes various people to reassess their lives; then there is a tragedy involving a child, (a device that is beginning to be a pattern in Hoffman's novels, as are strange changes in climate that herald a significant event). Hoffman's keen appraisal of human nature and her graceful prose do much to keep this novel appealing; but the bedrock implausibility may deter readers from whole-hearted enjoyment. (Feb.)
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Hoffman continues her sensitive portrayal of outcasts, growing more bizarre with each book. Here she introduces Stephen, raised by wolves and about to be declared incurably insane, who is rescued by a woman in the midst of a messy divorce. This small Long Island town is complete with pettiness, busybodies, and interrelated lives. Robin's estranged husband is on the police force, her brother is Stephen's psychiatrist, and her teenage son dates the girl next door, whose sister is murdered. It is one of many murders (first animals, then humans), all easy to blame on you-know-who. An interesting premise and fascinating characters, but the story itself borders on mystery, and as such it promises more than it delivers. The finest writing is on the first tape where descriptions of Stephen's return to humanity are startling; by the second cassette, we've guessed who the villain is. The ending is so unsatisfying that listeners may feel that they've missed something. For larger collections.-Rochelle Ratner, formerly Poetry Editor, ``Soho Weekly News,'' New York
There's always been a kind of primal undercurrent in Hoffman's love stories—a pulse of feeling as mysterious and inevitable as the moon-besotted turtles who clamber out of the sea to lay their eggs once a year. In her tenth novel, a latter-day Beauty and the Beast, this pulse is as powerful as a drumbeat—it draws you in and frightens you at the same time. Stephen is not your everyday beast. He's an attractive and intelligent man who happens to have been a feral child, raised by wolves and then returned, unwillingly, to civilization. When Robin Moore chances upon him in a hospital corridor, it's as if she's fallen under a spell. She could never explain it, she just has to rescue him, spiriting him back to the house she shares with her teenaged son in a small island community near N.Y.C. But it's difficult to keep secrets in a small community. Robin and Stephen quickly find themselves the objects of rumor and scrutiny from nosy neighbors, from Robin's estranged husband, Roy, who's a member of the police force, from just about anybody who has a window to spy out of. Tensions mount and, when tragedy strikes on the island, its aftermath comes as no surprise. Hoffman's foreshadowing is laid on a little thick here, but, by the close, events don't seem so much predictable as predestined in the way of a myth or a good fairy tale, made just spooky enough by that steady, distant drumbeat. Once again, Hoffman (Turtle Moon, 1992, etc.) stirs up the unlikely with the ordinary and seasons it, expertly, deliciously, with our darkest desires—her fans should wolf it down. (Literary Guild Dual Selection for May)
