I just returned from San Juan, Puerto Rico where I spent the Valentine’s Day weekend lounging on the beach, reading and soaking up the sun. Unfortunately, one of the books I selected was Scott Smith’s “The Ruins,” and it pretty much ruined any chance I had of relaxing. Probably forever.
The book takes place in Mexico, around Cancun, and follows two couples as they journey to the interior with a friend searching for his brother, who’s gone off to find an archaeological site where a girl he met is working. Deep in the jungle they find a large hill entirely covered in vine, an area encircled by a large track of salted dirt; tiny blood red flowers pepper the lush greenery clinging to the mound. What follows, as our group becomes marooned atop that hill, is nothing short of absolute horror.
I was rattled by this novel like I’ve been by no other and captivated by the exceptional, clear, not entirely dispassionate voice of Smith’s writing. The characters, all on the precipice of adulthood, all indulging in one last fling before responsibilities set in, are helpless as grim mortality slowly closes in around them, ultimately leaving only the useless, awful “ruins” of childhood.
After nine hours of wonderful, excruciating suspense, I dropped the book in the communal basket of paperbacks out by where you’d pick up towels on the way to the beach. Pick it up if you like great writing and aren’t afraid to go down into the dark. Or if you just want to ruin your vacation.
