There is much that is praiseworthy in The Photographer’s Sweethearts, the first novel written by the poet Diana Hartog. As one might expect, given the reputation Hartog’s earned with her three volumes of poetry, her use of language is quite dazzling. The story is told mostly in the voice of the semi-historical Louie Olsen, living on the West Coast among the redwoods, but raised in Denmark. His words strike one at first as awkward and ill-chosen, his syntax idiosyncratic. But soon one finds the rhythm, even espies a logic and intelligence, and it is not long before the misrendered axioms and phrases acquire their own peculiar grace.

Louie Olsen speaks to us from various ages in his life, and he tells the story of a fearless spiritual journey that is informed by somewhat mundane complications. Brushes with the law and entanglement in the court system, for example, because Louie Olsen is, among many other things, a pedophile.

The fact of Louie Olsen’s love of children will no doubt earn the novel a good deal of notoriety. There is little doubt that some readers and reviewers – perhaps even a bookseller or two – will, as my friend Joe says, rear up on their hind legs and assume a moral stance. Some may point toward the sexuality portrayed in the children themselves (unavoidable, I think, since they are seen through Louie’s eyes). What will most unsettle them, I suspect, is Hartog’s steadfast refusal to condemn (indeed, Louie Olsen completes his spiritual odyssey to his own satisfaction) leaving the question of judgment in the apprehensive hands of the reader.

When we first meet Louie, early in his middle-age, he is occupied with photographing children “in their nude.” It is easy to accept the rationalization – given even by some of the parents – that in Denmark they have different notions about nakedness. Indeed, Louie Olsen has different notions about a lot of things. If nothing else, the novel is a well-researched and convincing portrayal of a man dwelling on the eccentric fringes of Spiritualism. (The book’s proem is taken from the writings of Manley Hall, a tip-off to those of us familiar with works like Magic and The Apocalypse Attributed to St. John.) Louie also has different notions about health and healing (many of which, given the advantage of hindsight, are sound medically).

Louie is never less than convinced of his own rightness; this is, in effect, his tragic flaw, this refusal ever to doubt or mistrust his impulses and desires. There is also a curious emptiness at his emotional core, at least something vague and inchoate. The reader begins to understand the nature of Louie’s relationship with children, the very real bond he feels with them; even some of the authorities admit that he has “a special rapport.”

The particulars of Louie’s life are peopled with well-drawn and intriguing characters; the grief-stricken Pete, the enigmatic Grandmother Breece, and the children themselves, most notably Gemma, who remains close to Olsen even into adulthood. Louie is a clear-eyed and reliable witness to everything but his own wrongdoing, and some of the physical description assumes considerable beauty. He worked as a lumberjack, for example, and waxes poetic – in his own strange way – when discussing the sequoia.

It would not be fair to call Louie Olsen “likable” – it would not be fair to the depth and complexity of the novel – but there is something compelling about him. The reader, however unwillingly, soon becomes concerned for Louie, and experiences a disquieting range of emotion, from attraction to revulsion. It is this, as I’ve said, that will cause the loudest howls of outrage. Novels are convenient vessels for condemnation, and perhaps too often this is what we expect of them. In this sense, the novel is a failure. In all others, it is a success. The Photographer’s Sweethearts is a remarkable act of poetry and empathy.