Most people would not gladly claw their way through the dark intestines of
a West Virginia coal mine in the 1930’s. To the vast majority it would seem too dangerous and too depressing. But the adventurous are often rewarded with the spoils. And spoils abound in Davis Grubb’sThe Barefoot Man. What are the spoils? Exhilaration. Suspense. Ecstasy and agony unbound.

While John Steinbeck’s The Grapes Of Wrath has come down as the seminal novel of the Great Depression (and deservedly so), Grubb’s The Barefoot Man is in some ways the more approachable fiction. It is no less harrowing in its depiction of poverty, hopelessness and despair for interweaving a tale of murder, revenge and eventual redemption.

Published in 1971, Grubb draws upon his considerable familiarity with the scarred hills and stoic faces he grew up with. His recounting of a terrible time in our nation’s history is Dickensian in its ability to transport the reader to a claustrophobic cabin inhabited by a courageous old woman and her family who must face down killers, strikebreakers and treachery in their midst. In the face of starvation, misery and death, a mysterious stranger and his pregnant wife wander into their world and lives are changed forever.

Davis Grubb, after leaving his native West Virginia to study art at the Carnegie Institute of Technology in Pittsburgh abandoned his thoughts of a painting career when he realized he was color blind. He moved on to New York where he turned to writing copy for radio broadcasts in Manhattan, then Florida and Philadelphia. Writing fiction in his spare time, he published several short stories. His first published novel became his most famous, The Night Of The Hunter. Which was later turned into a classic film starring Robert Mitchum and directed by Charles Laughton.

Grubb believed in reinventing himself with each new novel, though he realized his reputation probably suffered for it. He said “Literary critics seem to get very upset when you don’t write the same thing. They say you have lost your talent.”

But in his next to last novel, The Barefoot Man, his talents (certainly to this reader) seem not to have dimmed. Witness his exquisitely expressed descriptions of sensuality in the love scenes between Farjeon and Jessie. As well as his ability to turn seemingly ordinary people into portentous figures who rise from the pages far larger than life.

Sometimes the most unforgettable novels are found in the deepest, darkest places. Such is the case with The Barefoot Man. Dig it up if you can.

This is the inaugural blog of Fiction Fortune-Hunter. My goal is a simple one; find and report on lesser-known literary masterpieces. Not the ones your sophomore English teacher insisted that you read. Not the ones on past or present New York Times Best Seller Lists. In fact, if a novel is found in a college curriculum or on some best seller list or another, you probably won’t find it discussed here. Fiction Fortune-Hunter is more interested in the little-known gem, the one that may have gotten published but somehow flew under most readers’ radar, the exquisite failure.

Which is not to say I won’t be covering highly recognized and readable authors. I will do so. Assuming the tome they’ve created is one thing; unforgettable. And I guess there’s actually a second thing. It must not have already been written about ad nauseam. So, while it’s possible that while you’re here you might be exposed to Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald or Joyce, it’s highly unlikely you’ll be reading about A Farewell To Arms, The Great Gatsby, Light In August or Ulysses.

Just so you’ll know, I will not restrict my musings to any particular genre, style, decade or century for that matter. A novel that puts its imprint on one’s mind and heart achieves timelessness. Therefore it matters little when it was initially conceived. And yes, as you might have guessed, the ultimate decision maker
on just which novel I serve up for your perusal every week or so will be me, Fiction Fortune-Hunter. Though I have no doubt , readers of this column will offer their own opinions as to their gems as well.

For this very first Fiction Fortune-Hunter post, I give you The Master of Rain
by Tom Bradby. Published by Doubleday in 2002. This sprawling novel of Shanghai In 1926 whisks you into a world of Russian princesses, American gun-runners, British civil servants and Chinese gangsters. If there were a bit more Catholic guilt involved you’d swear you were between the pages of a Graham Greene offering.

Bradby serves up the very best kind of escapism. Luxuriously decadent brothels and opium dens, lavish dinner parties and starving masses. Sex, murder, and wicked weather. A journalist, when not penning fiction, Bradby also brings an historian’s precision to his depiction of the international settlement and French concession that was part of Shanghi at that time. And he wraps it all tightly with an enthralling murder mystery to boot.

The title relates to Chinese legend, which Bradby entices you with initially, letting you know that you are about to enter a world for which you are woefully unprepared. But have no fear, the journey is more than worth it. The people you meet along the way are excellent companions. And the trip itself is unforgettable. Find and read The Master of Rain by Tom Bradby. http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk