Comparisons have already been made between The Rule of Four, Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason's first novel, and Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code. Both novels deal with murder, strange codes, and a mystery larger than its protagonists at first realize. Unfortunately, while The Rule of Four is in many ways a superior novel to The Da Vinci Code, it also surprisingly falls short--mostly because the authors try to hard to distinguish their book from the pulp frothiness of Brown.

Here's the good: The central mystery of The Rule of Four is far more interesting and cerebral than the central mystery of The Da Vinci Code. Two of the four Princeton students at the heart of the book are almost done cracking the maddeningly mysterious book known as the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili. But strange things begin happening to others who had been involved with the book, and these two students--along with two of their closest friends, making up the fantastic four of the title--work against the clock to solve the final mystery before they are caught.

The Rule of Four is at its best when discussing the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili and its various mysteries. The authors manage to weave an intoxicating and involving explanation of the Hypnerotomachia's convolutions--and, unlike in The Da Vinci Code, the eventual solution actually seems to deserve the massive buildup that preceded it. The book also isn't so bad at characterization. While the protagonists of The Da Vinci Code were clearly nothing more than plot devices, at least the narrator of The Rule of Four has somewhat more depth, and the novel is at least as much concerned with his deep obsession with the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili as with the book itself. The result is that the book actually ends on something of an emotional note--although, by the end, it is clearly trying too hard to tug on your heartstrings, the last chapter is weirdly melancholy, and, more remarkably, makes the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili seem almost irrelevant.

And now for the bad. Although the book begins on a relatively smooth note, it soon hits some major bumps as it reveals all the normal tricks in trade of the novice storyteller: the obligatory mentioning of each character once per line, so you don't forget who they are; the all-too-obvious physical descriptions and character-building that occurs in the middle of an otherwise pointless dialogue; some really lame jokes (even some insider jokes) to establish how friendly these characters are to each other. Then there is the fact that this novel seems to be fairly obsessed with Princeton (where it takes place), with long and rather pointless passages taken up with a paintball game in the steam pipes, a meal at one of Princeton's eating clubs, and other minor details. While important stuff does happen at these events, it's not enough, and they never feel like more than self-referential obsession. (I'd probably feel different if I went to Princeton.)

The single worst thing about this novel, however, is that it takes itself so damned seriously. The problem here is quite the opposite of the problem in The Da Vinci Code: While Dan Brown takes his ideas seriously and his writing not too seriously, Caldwell and Thomason don't take their central mystery seriously, but they do sound like they're straining to write High Literature with each line. Thus:

Time is the guy at the amusement park who paints shirts with an airbrush. [And the metaphor continues, very painfully.]

Adulthood is a glacier encroaching quietly on youth. [Ditto.]

[M]y mind is a flock of pigeons, fluttering away. All my thoughts are shit and feathers. [This just didn't make sense to me. Plus it was hilarious, not the intended effect.]

And time pushes at our backs like a centrifuge, forcing us outward and away, until it nudges us into oblivion. That, I think, is the only explanation for what happened to my father and me, just as it happened to Taft and Curry, the same way it will happen to the four of us here in Dod, inseparable as we seem. It's a law of motion, a fact of physics that Charlie could name, no different from the stages of white dwarfs and red giants. Like all things in the universe, we are destined from birth to diverge. Time is simply the yardstick of our separation. If we are particles in a sea of distance, exploded from an original whole, then there is a science to our solitude. We are lonely in proportion to our years.

I admit that some of these passages could work. But as they are now they sound a little too earnest, the metaphors layered on each other too heavily. I'm sure that the authors were trying to be both fun and meaningful. They do a pretty good job on the former; but in the latter effort, they fall flat.

Copyright © 2004 Steven Wu