Primarily, however, Whispers explores the forces that affect our lives but that we often do not–or refuse to–contemplate. Geography and climate (in this novel, California) deeply influence us in more ways than we generally recognize on a conscious level. The subculture in which we choose to involve ourselves can either inspire us to be great or diminish us. And family history, for better or worse, shapes us more profoundly than anything else.
I still like this novel and feel that it was a milestone for me. I regret only the rigid Freudian nature of the psychology underlying the history. In the years since, I’ve come to believe that Freudianism is pure bunkum and to deplore the culture of victimization that it has generated. John D. MacDonald–the brilliant novelist whose work most influenced mine when I was young–might say, “Kid, don’t worry about it. Freud or no Freud, the yarn is still good.” That is, of course, the right attitude, and I hope that the yarn in Whispers is, indeed, still good.
Anyway, this is the book that saved me from a life of crime. No banks robbed. No airliners hijacked. No armored cars hit. I’ve had a couple speeding tickets over the past two decades, but in neither case did the authorities consider the offense serious enough to throw me in the slammer. Furthermore, I’ve gained back the twenty pounds–plus a few.