Michael Ondaatje is frustrating to review. He’s a former poet dragged kicking and screaming into long prose, and it shows in the slimness of his novels and the spare inventiveness of his imagery. The man writes grandiosely, but punctures the possibility of pompousness by turning aside cliché.

On rare occasion, he turns a clunky phrase that’s overused or doesn’t play. As it rattles against the surrounding literary conceit and ellipticalness, you start to think that maybe he’s pulling a fast one. And though he’s funny in person, it isn’t discernible in his writing. He isn’t as turgid as Ayn Rand, but he’s as deadly earnest.

Divisadero’s neo-Western plot suits Ondaatje’s taciturn, male style. He’s an aficionado of technical fields and delights in tasks of skill. He’s an upmarket Tom Clancy chronicling the lives of bridge builders, gold divers, card sharps. He’s Louis L’Amour for the literati.

I rebel against book marketers who make the author’s name larger than the title. The MBAs sell prefab sequels over freshness and novelty. But in this case, it’s largely justified. Divisadero isn’t as memorable as The English Patient or as relentlessly grim as Anil’s Ghost, about the Sri Lankan civil war, but it’s a lovely read.

Update: Ondaatje refers to Caravaggio the thief from The English Patient in his new book, much like Rushdie’s in-joke about Braganza Pickles after Midnight’s Children. It turns out that Caravaggio the real-life artist painted a picture called The Cardsharps, and Coop the poker mechanic is a key character in Divisadero, so there are many levels of clowning going on here.

Related posts: A surprisingly GSOH, Ondaatje reading in Manhattan tonight