If you took all the synopses from one issue of TV Guide, mixed them up, randomly drew 100 of them and merged them into a single narrative, you’d end up with something like Jackie Collins’ Lucky.
The dust jacket notes for Lucky select the most positive points made in a New York Times review of the novel. The review cited the novel’s “frenetic” pace, its constantly shifting setting, and concluded that in Lucky, “Miss Collins is at her raunchy best.”
Frenetic, disjointed, and raunchy are not positive characteristics, no matter what a publicist thinks.
Lucky’s plot is absurd, its characters amoral. There aren’t more than three characters in the entire book that a moderately intelligent person would hire to collect the trash.
The best part of the novel was the back cover of the library copy of Lucky that I read. It is a photo of Collins, all in black, against an ominous, gray-swirled background. Collins has wild hair and black-shadowed eyes, each of which appears to be looking in a different direction.
A previous reader had incised a handlebar mustache into the novel’s plastic protector.
The effect was highly amusing.
When a defaced photograph is a novel’s highlight, the book’s not worth reading.
Lucky by Jackie Collins
Simon and Schuster. 1985. 508 p.
1985 bestseller #8; my grade: D-
©2019 Linda G. Aragoni