The Great Victorian Collection By Brian Moore Farrar, 213 pp., $7.95 Back in 1956, when Mickey Mantle had a lock on the triple crown, this shrewd, old junk pitcher was asked about his Mantle strategy. “Never give him a fastball. If the sumbitch’s gonna jerk one out of here, let him supply his own power.” Which is, more or less, Brian Moore’s policy. Moore serves up a fat, tantalizing change of pace—one catchy symbol—and the reader provides his own intellectual, also dramatic, energy. It’s irresistible as a hung curve ball. You’ve got to pull the trigger and swing.
Here’s the premise. One Anthony Maloney corks off in a Carmel, California motel room. He has eerie dreams. Next morning there’s a spectacular block-square collection of Victoriana spread over a parking lot behind his motel. Everything from a steam engine to tea sets to knickers-off pornography. Some items are new, some duplicate existing pieces. Every night thereafter, he dreams sentry duty: on monotonous guard like one of those bank cameras that keep blinking red as you fill out a withdrawal form. If he leaves Carmel, or stays awake, the collection begins to deteriorate, to become a Made in Japan fake. That’s it, folks.
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