[In the following review, Malin examines the violence of action and of words in Closing Arguments.]

Although many readers of this terrifying, violent novel [Closing Arguments] will view it as a narrative of sexual obsession, of “innocence” and “guilt” (or the ambiguity of each term), they will not notice that Busch is a philosophical writer who is aware of linguistic uncertainty, epistemological difficulty. The novel, we can say, moves on two levels. The narrator, a Vietnam survivor, is a lawyer asked to defend Estella, a “forceful” woman accused of murdering her lover in bed. The violence of the war is subtly married to the violence of sexuality. And we are never allowed to forget the violence. The narration is jagged, broken, dislocated; the sections of the novel are abruptly short. There is a sense of mutilation as the sections—and the language of each section—start and end suddenly. Busch understands that no story—in court or out of court—can have closure, finality, absolute truth. Busch believes that our identities are unsure, mixed, fragile. We refuse, for the most part, to accept our notions of “self,” of continuous existence. For such reasons the trial is a fiction that remains incomplete—despite summations and closing arguments, justice loses. The truth is never revealed completely.

Once we accept Busch's premises, we see that he distrusts language; he recognizes that it is a violent instrument. Consider, for example, this passage: “The father's word: ‘bonding.’ Like ducks with ducks and dogs with dogs and children with parents: bond. They didn't like their progress as a family. They thought they'd try divorcing their child.” The narrator calls into question the silliness of the word bonding; he recognizes that such words are useless. What exactly is bonding? Isn't it merely an example of pop psychology? And, to continue, isn't any word open to creative ambiguity?

The narrator constantly makes lists. They suggest that there is sequence, order, direction. But his lists are crazy: “Responsibility. Defense of freedom. To achieve independence for South Vietnam. To do only what is necessary. To increase response to increased attack. To therefore make attacks by air.” The repetitions create a sense of certainty, but they also remain odd. What is “necessary”? What is “attack”? What is “increase”? The more we explore his lists, the less we understand their rationale.

One final irony: Busch puts the novel on trial. Can it be true to life? Isn't it true in a deceptive manner? Isn't it an open, not a shut case?