I’ve mentioned my approach to book reviews at the outset of my 2019 reviews, and so I won’t repeat it here. Suffice it to say that I give a book I enjoyed three stars and one that I found wanting gets two stars. I do my best to explain my rationale. To get four stars, a book has to be outstanding in terms of its characters, story, style or voice. Five stars will go to a work that is exceptional in all those areas. Typically I rate books higher if they have something to say about society at large, rather than only about individual characters’ lives. My ratings for books I’ve read this year are listed immediately below, with the full review of each following thereafter.
Force of Nature by Jane Harper 2.5* (stars)
When We Believed in Mermaids by Barbara O’Neal 3*
The Library Book by Susan Orlean 3.5*
The Testaments by Margaret Atwood 4*
Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips 3.5*
American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins 4*
Normal People by Sally Rooney 4.5*
The Dutch House by Ann Patchett 4*
Long Bright River by Liz Moore 3*
A Hologram for the King by Dave Eggers 3*
Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver 2*
The Buddha in the Attic and When the Emperor Was Divine by Julie Otsuka 3.5*
The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri 4*
Commonwealth by Ann Patchett 3*
On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong 2*
The Glass Hotel by Emily St.John Mandel 4*
The Light in the Ruins by Chris Bohjalian 2.5*
The Red Lotus by Chris Bohjalian 3*
Force of Nature – Jane Harper
In this novel, five women hike into the Australian bushland in a corporate team-building exercise. After the first day of the four-day hike, they become lost and are caught in cold storms. They lose key supplies. Several sustain injuries. Only after one disappears do the remaining four find their way to a road and are rescued. Two of those searching for them are federal police. They have made arrangements with one of the women—Alice—to provide documents proving that the corporation is engaged in money laundering, in exchange for her immunity. Unfortunately, Alice is the one who has disappeared, so they and others must engage in a continued search for her. Ultimately, she is found dead, but another of the women provides the officers with the documents they need.
Tension from the beginning
The novel starts off with a bang. In a short prologue, the reader learns that the five women are missing. Eventually they are spotted, screaming for help. Alice isn’t with them, and they don’t know where she is. Thus the novel establishes good tension right from the start.
Tension continues as the novel suggests what might have happened to Alice. We know that she’s had a tense discussion with the company president before the women set out on their trek. Thus the novel creates the possibility that David (the president) discovered Alice’s subterfuge. He may be responsible for her disappearance. At the same time, there is a recollection by Falk, one of the Federal officers. He recalls an old case where a man killed four women in this part of the bushlands twenty years before. He was eventually caught and died in prison, but had a son. The novel suggests that the son could be around, and responsible for Alice’s disappearance.
Too many narrators?
I had a number of concerns with this novel. One related to the number of points of view. Each of the five women except Alice narrates a few chapters. While this reveals their differing perspectives, and to some extent differing personalities, I felt like it diluted the novel. Nearly halfway through the novel, I noted that I still didn’t have a solid feel for them.
We learn the most about Alice, but it’s mainly that she can be a tough boss. She is typically disagreeable on the women’s trek, but usually also right. She is strong-willed and experienced in getting around the bushland. But that’s all we know. We don’t know why she’s so annoying to co-workers, other than that she is possibly stressed due to the fact that her daughter’s ex-boyfriend put “explicit” photos of her daughter on the internet.
The rest of the characters are similarly half-drawn. Bree and Beth, are supposedly identical but so different that a reader has to wonder how they diverged so completely. In addition to the women’s POVs, the novel also presents chapters from the POV of Falk, the police officer. This flipping around of POVs undermined the tension of the novel.
Characters aren’t sympathetic
A more serious problem I had is that the characters aren’t sympathetic. None of them. By and large, the women are all uptight. They don’t laugh or joke or do anything funny or interesting. Their distinct qualities tend to be negative: Jill is fussy and is the default leader because she’s the boss, but she shows little leadership. Beth is self-abusing and has a chip on her shoulder. Bree is a brown nose and drinks too much. Lauren is perhaps most sympathetic because she has a daughter who’s causing her strife. But even though she’s had a year of school in the bush, she doesn’t show much competence and no leadership. Alice is the only one who shows leadership, but she doesn’t know how to exert it effectively. Instead, she just annoys people and eventually abandons them and takes off on her own.
As far as the federal agents are concerned, they’re both wooden. They express no emotion, and little enthusiasm for much of anything including their jobs. Later in the novel we learn that Falk was estranged from his dad, and never reconciled, and now feels bad about that. So we understand his rather numb personality better, although it didn’t make me feel any sympathy for him. The fact that he hasn’t had a girlfriend in four years just makes him seem like a loser. We also learn that his sidekick Carmen is young and unmarried, although she has a fiancé. Romantic tension could be created between these two unmarried agents, but isn’t. Their single kiss at the end of the novel is too little, too late.
Plot letdown
The plot contains much subterfuge and misdirection. Ultimately, we discover that Alice was killed accidentally. Lauren ran into her and she fell and hit her head on a rock. While realistic, this wasn’t very interesting. Later, when Lauren attempts suicide, I didn’t really buy it. She seems intelligent enough to know that she didn’t intentionally kill Alice, so why would she want to kill herself?
Similarly, the crime that the federal police are investigating is thinly developed. Much is made of Falk’s superiors’ insistence that they “get the contracts”. These documents will apparently prove that the company was involved in money laundering. Unfortunately, little information is provided regarding this crime, no background or history, no information about who is doing it, what their need for it is, how the money is laundered, etc. As a result, I couldn’t get very interested in it. (Maybe that’s why Falk wasn’t very interested.) Most of the money laundering subplot comes across as a kind of treading water. There is no tension related to it; they’re just waiting for Alice to give them what they want. There could have been a series of actions causing the reader to doubt whether or not they’ll get these contracts. None is provided.
On the plus side, this novel was realistic. Although I didn’t like the characters, they were real, not some fantasy spies or superheroes. The bushland felt real as well, as did the women’s suffering due to the nasty conditions. (However, I repeatedly wondered who would schedule a hike like this in the winter.) There was sufficient tension in the novel, and the underlying mystery—what happened to Alice?—kept me reading.
When We Believed in Mermaids – Barbara O’Neal
I started reading this because the taglines made it sound like a mystery thriller. A girl thought to have been killed in a terrorist attack is spotted by her sister in a news clip fifteen years later and half a world away. Immediately, questions come to mind: Is the sister, Josie, really alive? Will Kit (the sister and protagonist) try to track her sister down? Will she succeed? All of my reader instincts looked forward to sharing the unspooling of these mysteries over the course of the book.
And then, at the outset of Chapter 2, the biggest mystery – is sister Josie actually still alive? – is removed. The chapter is told from Josie’s point of view.
At this point, it became clear that the novel was not a thriller. It was something else. A mystery remains: Why did Josie disappear, leaving her sister and mother thinking she was dead? But this is an introspective one, not a pulse-pounder. And whether Kit will find or sister? Psshh, of course she will.
Women’s Fiction
When I was about halfway through this novel I read that the author was known for writing good women’s fiction. I didn’t really know what “women’s fiction” was, but I started to feel a little embarrassed. If anybody else was around when I was reading the book (and I read it on a plane and at a resort) I’d check to make sure that nobody could actually see the book’s title.
Finally I googled the term, and read what people think women’s fiction is. So I learned that women’s fiction is largely about women’s relationships. I decided to finish reading the book anyway.
As far as the quality of the writing, I thought it was fine. It wasn’t literary, and it flowed smoothly. The author did a good job of dribbling out the relevant family secrets that allow us to understand the characters. Kit’s relationship with Javier, the perfect and soulful Spaniard who just happens to bump into her on her first night in Auckland, was awfully convenient and pretty formulaic. Come to think of it, so was the entire novel. But I have the feeling that plot originality isn’t critical in women’s fiction. Having a drama focused on female relationships is really what matters.
A question of motivation
At times, I had trouble suspending disbelief in what I read. I never completely believed that Josie had sufficient motivation to disappear as she did, and leave her family grieving. She seems too good-hearted for that. (All the characters are good, by the way; there is no antagonist.) And I didn’t really believe Kit’s expressions of nearly uncontrollable anger at her sister because of her sister’s deception. Kit just seemed too solid, too together.
Nevertheless, I thought the novel succeeded because it affected my emotions. I wanted the sisters to reunite successfully. I cared about them. On that important level, the novel was a complete success.
The Library Book – Susan Orlean
The first thing that struck me about this book was the way it evoked memories of my childhood library. Every week my mother would take my younger brother and me to the library in our city, Schenectady, New York. I can still remember the look and feel of the place, which was magical. It allowed my young mind to dive into books and become part of whatever world was on display there.
Reading how Los Angeles retained its architecturally impressive 1926 library made me wonder if my childhood library was still standing. I can still remember what it looked like, an impressive classical stone structure largely funded by the Carnegie Foundation. When I Googled it, I learned it had been replaced because it was found too short on space. The new library lacks the impressive classical style of the one I grew up with. Doubtless it has better functionality in terms of wiring, lighting, and storage. But I wonder whether modern architecture is as inspiring to young imaginations.
The Library Book is a non-fiction narrative that revolves around the mystery of who started the 1986 fire. The fire destroyed more than 400,000 books and damaged 700,000 others. It was the most destructive library fire in American history. The story depicts how one rather odd, attention-needing fellow created the impression that he started the fire. The book covers what happened as the investigators focused on him. But that mystery is only a small aspect of the book. Much attention is on the history of the L.A. library, from its rudimentary 1840’s beginning to today’s massive system.
Interesting inner workings
The book introduces the reader to hidden functions of the library, such as its system for transferring books among branches. It focuses even more attention on ways the L.A. library has evolved to become a tremendous social services provider. The library now provides English language instruction, internet access, and basic shelter (during operating hours) for the homeless. These are all things that I’ve noticed in my own small town library (sans any homeless).
I used to believe strongly that libraries are essential to a successful society because they provide information and knowledge. Books and other media provide a way for human beings to communicate with one another. Thus they’re essential mutual understanding and mutual respect (something certainly lacking these days.) But The Library Book shows that libraries are even more important to their communities than that.
Librarians as professionals
Another major focus of the book is on the individuals who served as City Librarian over time. We learn about the problems they faced, as well as their innovations. They ranged from the mercurial Charles Lummis, who flamboyantly promoted both himself and the library. Lummis was possibly the best-known librarian of his time, but wore out his welcome and was replaced by Everett Perry. Perry was Lummis’ opposite in temperament, but became so well-liked that he was referred to as Father Perry. Of note, Orlean notes that many City Librarians were women, and that today 80 percent of system librarians are female. It was a new profession that proved open to and welcoming of women.
What I particularly liked about The Library Book were the many thoughtful reflections that the author wove into the narrative. For example: “In the library, time is dammed up—not just stopped but saved. The library is a gathering pool of narratives and of the people who come to find them. It is where we can glimpse immortality; in the library, we can live forever.” And another: “Writing a book, just like building a library, is an act of sheer defiance. It is a declaration that you believe in the persistence of memory.” This is the type of thoughtful writing that transcends its own narrative and leaves a reader richer.
The Testaments – Margaret Atwood
When I read The Handmaid’s Tale back in the 80s, I felt that it was a good if depressing novel. I also thought it rather far-fetched. In the era of Trump, with crazed believers in high posts, it seems less so.
In this sequel to The Handmaid’s Tale, we hear from three women. One is Aunt Lydia, formerly a lawyer and judge before the revolution that created Gilead. She has become so powerful that a statue of her has been erected in her honor. Unknown to Gilead’s ruling commanders, she harbors long term plans to disrupt if not destroy Gilead.
The second woman is a young girl, Agnes, whose father is a Commander. She’s spunky but not quite rebellious. When her mother dies, her father marries Paula, who wants Agnes out of the way. She contrives to marry Agnes at thirteen to a pimply-faced boy from a high status family. Pressured, Agnes reluctantly agrees. At the same time, Paula gets a baby of her own, via a handmaid. Unfortunately, the handmaid dies because of a violent home delivery. Her death is considered, in this sick theocracy, a necessary sacrifice, although the family does attend her funeral.
Baby Nicole
The third POV is Daisy’s, a girl of sixteen, who lives in Toronto with her parents Neil and Melanie. Unknown to Daisy, her parents are members of Mayday, an organization that helps people escape from Gilead. They share the ultimate goal of overthrowing the theocratic state. When Neil and Melanie are killed by agents of Gilead, Daisy is whisked away by Ada, another member of the group. She then learns that she is the notorious Baby Nicole, who was taken to Canada by her handmaid mother. Her mother now lives elsewhere for the safety of them both. But Baby Nicole is a cause célèbre for Gilead, whose agents continually seek to find her.
Ada and two other members of Mayday, Garth and Elijah, enlist Daisy in a secret plan. Their goal is to obtain some damning information from a contact in Gilead, which will cause the regime’s downfall. To carry out the plan, Daisy must return to Gilead as Baby Nicole. This is risky since, if the plan fails, she will be stuck in Gilead. Nevertheless she agrees, knowing that Neil and Melanie and others have died for this cause.
A woman’s place is not in Gilead
One of the unique aspects of Gilead is how misogynistic it is. Women are always dying for the convenience of men, and their deaths are treated as natural occurrences. The Commanders such as Judd have multiple wives, as one after another dies and is replaced by a younger model. What exactly happens to the ill-favored wives is never very clear. We do, however, learn that Commander Judd’s last wife died in a mental institution. Interestingly, we’re also told that the new brides can be given a tranquilizer prior to the marriage ceremony. This apparently is to keep them from rebelling against an unwanted union.
The Testaments is a page turner. Halfway through, we realize that the three women are moving towards a climactic intersection. Thereafter, we race on, anxious to know how their fates will intertwine, and whether their plan will succeed.
Gilead is a prison-like society constructed on lies. The controlling authoritarians believe that if you repeat a lie often enough, people will believe it’s the truth. In the novel, Atwood presents characters who time and again are willing to believe obvious lies. They do this partly because they fear the consequences of not doing so, and partly because it’s convenient for them. The responses mirror the German people under Hitler, as articulated by Erich Fromm in his insightful masterpiece, Escape from Freedom.
Contemporary references
With its depiction of a lie-dominated society couched in quasi-religious sophistry, Gilead reflects Trump’s attitudes and supporters. Of note, Gilead has suffered various environmental disasters involving toxic pollution and even radiation, These have left most women infertile. Although the U.S. has not yet suffered similar disasters, the USEPA has moved to eliminate 95 significant environmental regulations. (New York Times,September 12, 2019) These include many key rules affecting air quality, water quality, toxic chemicals and pesticides.
The Testaments is skillfully written. Each of the three voices is distinctive, which makes them more believable. The story is filled with plot complications that keep the tension high. The scheming machinations of Aunt Lydia are impressive, while Gilead’s perversions demonstrate how a divided society can be subverted. If I had any complaint with the novel, it would be that things worked out for the best rather too easily. In our own present reality, there is no guarantee of a similar happy ending. But Ms. Atwood can feel satisfied at having provided her readers with a clear warning.
The Gulf – Belle Boggs
The wry humor of Belle Boggs is evident from the first page of her novel, when she describes Marianne’s struggle to read the applications to her new Christian writing workshop: “First off, a good number of them had been printed on pastel paper, pinks and blues and yellows and creams. Easter egg colors, baby blanket colors, three-pack-of-panties colors, clashing, in their ever-growing stacks, with her rooms dark-and-bright seventies décor, the grainy wood furniture and the demented cabbage roses on the upholstery.”
Her humor reaches an over-the-top vaudevillian madness when Regina, the marketing genius from God’s World God’s Word, and her two sidekicks show up in Chapter 8 for a tour of the campus. They find the poetry teacher directing students to write about “your worst sexual memory, any age.” The fiction writers are arguing over a story in which Obama is portrayed as the Antichrist.
Quality prose
As the novel reaches its climax during a hurricane, its humor diminishes. But the writing is always excellent. Complex sentences provide clear insight into the characters, yet are easy to read: “Janine tried to write in her room, but Beth’s things were strewn across every surface; even the air, humid from her late morning shower and permeated with the smell of coconut shampoo, was full of her.” Similarly, every scene in the novel is well orchestrated, and the novel moves along at pace.
The central character of the novel is Marianne, a poet. She is thirty-four years old and has yet to commit to a relationship or a career. The novel is told largely from her POV, but occasionally we hear from Janine, a student and stay-at-home mom. The novel explores the lives of these two women, and shows them change over its course. What was more interesting to me was the way the novel exposed predatory writing programs and cynical “Christian” enterprises. The former make money from innocents who dream of publishing their masterpiece, while the latter extract funds from innocent believers. Combining these two topics was the author’s stroke of genius.
Is acceptance equal to change?
If I had one concern with the novel, it would be that Marianne doesn’t take charge of her situation. She initially sends Eric away when he comes to her room, and is then disappointed when he doesn’t pursue her. Though she wants him back, she never lets him know. And when Eric and Mark effectively take over the school, leaving her out of decisions, she doesn’t fight back effectively.
Overall, although Marianne is a likeable character, she is also a doormat, which made me want to slap her (figuratively). In the end, she is right back where she started, living in the same condo and teaching school in NYC. But she has changed. To Janine she writes, “You are a poet, and that is something you just can’t help, like a disease or a birth defect, but if you accept it, it can make things better, can at least help you understand things.” Her year-long trial with her school has brought her to acceptance of her life and its limitations. It has also re-invigorated her poetry. The novel leaves us with the impression that life will be better for Marianne in the future.
Disappearing Earth – Julia Phillips
Initially I wasn’t sure I would finish this novel. It starts with two young girls being fooled into taking a ride with a stranger, after which they are never seen again. After this, roughly 200 pages pass during which the abduction is only occasionally mentioned. Finally, it returns when a local photographer tells the girls’ mother that he’s seen a car like the one a witness said carried off the two girls.
Quality Prose
What kept me reading was the quality of the prose, and the depth of characterizations the author provides. All of the significant characters came fully to life, except perhaps for the alleged kidnapper. Overall, I found the lives of these people quite engaging.
I also appreciated learning about a place I knew nothing about, a place that seemed somewhat similar to Alaska in its mix of indigenous and white residents. Interestingly the characters, who are mostly young adults, think and act in ways that are largely similar to their peers in Japan or America, though their living circumstances are generally poorer. These characters seem at home in a post-Soviet Russia, while the older characters are less so. For example, Tatyana Yurievna says that it was only after Kamchatka opened to outsiders that they started to see any crime.
Prevailing Misogyny
Another impression I came away with was the misogynistic attitudes of the prevailing society. Women seem to have little power or control over their own lives. Zoya, who formerly had a job with the park service, is forced to stay at home for years, utterly bored, after she has a baby. On the other hand, men largely do what they want. The novel shows them failing to follow through with marriage promises, or walking out on a relationship. They are apparently unconcerned with the impact on others, including children. The novel also highlights the problem of being gay in this society, where openly admitting it can get you arrested.
A Few Problems
Beyond the fine language and the interesting social commentary, I had some issues with the novel. As noted above, there is little plot to draw the reader forward. Most of the chapters felt like short stories, and apparently some had previously been published as such. Their focus was on the characters, not the mystery of the missing girls.
I also felt that there were simply too many characters. Each of the 12 chapters introduces and focuses on yet a new set of characters. In order to keep them straight I had to make a list – never a good sign. Worse, because there were so many, I didn’t become invested in any of them until the end of the book. Finally the missing girls’ mother, Marina, takes center stage as the novel suddenly offers a resolution to the mystery.
Overall, I would give this novel 3.5 stars. While the quality of the writing argues for more, the lack of a substantial plot diminishes its overall value.
American Dirt – Jeanine Cummins
American Dirt fictionalizes the story Central American and Mexican citizens seeking to immigrate to the U.S. In describing the poverty and/or violence that force people to leave their homes, the novel provides an important public service. It enables its readers to understand the current tide of immigration. In particular, it makes clear that many immigrants are literally running for their lives. Moreover, they are by and large decent people, and that they are seeking work in the U.S., not welfare.
The novel focuses on Lydia and her eight-year-old son Luka, who are running from cartel gunmen. As the novel opens, the gunmen are killing 16 members of their family, and only by luck do they escape. Knowing they will be hunted until killed, Lydia decides they must go to the U.S. On the way, they are joined by two beautiful girls from Honduras and an asthmatic ten year-old. Later, a woman who was deported from her home in San Diego joins them, along with several others. During their trek through Mexico they are at times robbed, beaten, and raped. Reaching Nogales, they pay a coyote and must endure a brutal hike through desert to reach el norte. Lydia and Luca survive, but two others die. Two more are left to fend for themselves after one breaks a leg in a flash flood.
Problems with the Opening
From a craft perspective (which I focus on as a writer) the novel gets off to a problematic start. It begins with the massacre of Lydia’s family. While this should be dramatic, the event happens so immediately that it generates little sympathy for the characters. I would have liked to have met some of the characters, especially Sebastien, Lydia’s husband, beforehand. I would have liked to have known the jeopardy he (and they) were in, and why. That would have given me a sense of the stakes in play. It would have let me care for them and want them to survive. As it was, I didn’t care.
The blizzard-of-bullets opening also contributes to a distinct lack of tension in Chapter One. It doesn’t give the reader a chance to hope that a massacre might be avoided. Why not start with a noise at the gate to the courtyard, the gunmen saying they have a message for Sebastien? Why not create the impression that, though intimidating and threatening, they may ultimately leave without violence? Let the gunmen toy with them. Make the danger evident, but provide a basis for hope. That would have created tremendous tension. As is, the opportunity was missed.
Flip-flopping Points of View
Another craft problem I found was the flip-flopping of points of view, beginning in Chapter Two. There, POV flips between Lydia and Luca frequently, sometimes within a single paragraph. The great shortcoming with this approach is that it prevents a reader from forming a close attachment to Lydia. Because we don’t get to be close to her, we don’t experience her struggles as our own. We are forced to remain at arm’s length, so to speak, which is not as satisfying.
As the novel proceeds, the POV goes into the head of most of those traveling with Lydia. This allows the novel to present more information, and a fuller view of the migrants and their experiences. Still, it’s important for the author to first establish at least one solid point of view – the protagonist’s. Here, that doesn’t happen. I felt like I was halfway through the book before I began to care about Lydia and her fate.
Language Issues
More than any other novel I can recall, this book got better as it went along. But in the first half, I felt that some of the writing was stilted and some dialogue not credible. When Luca talks about a nuclear warhead on their train, he doesn’t sound like an eight-year-old. When Rebeca says, “We come from a really small place, only a little scrap of a village in the mountains, or not even a village, really, because of how stretched out it is, just a collection of different tucked-away places where people live.” (p158) Phrases like “scrap of a village” and “tucked-away places” didn’t ring true for me.
Second Half Takes Off
But it got better, much better. The way that threats to their journey kept coming in new forms did a good job of maintaining tension. I could feel the mental strain that the immigrants in the story were feeling. I understood how their constant fear was debilitating. Soledad’s letter to her father (p165) was particularly effective at communicating the terror that forces migrants to leave their homes.
As the novel reached its climax, the prose became powerful. The long passage where Ricardin is caught in the flash flood is riveting (p348). Lydia’s manic conversation with Javier (p362-365) is equally stunning. The narrative also offers lyrical passages, such as this description by Lydia. “The sky scrubbed fresh and stark blue by the gone rain . . . It feels like dream, all that rainfall. This is a cycle, she thinks. Every day a fresh horror, and when it’s over, this feeling of surreal detachment. A disbelief, almost, in what they just endured. The mind is magical. Human beings are magical.” (p353)
A Sad Reality, Even in Success
On a more melancholic note, the description of how Rebeca and Soledad fare in el norte is sobering. Even after coming to live with their cousin César in Maryland, the trauma they’ve endured stays with them: “The sisters are enrolled in school now, too, and it’s difficult for them. . . their lives have been so expansive, their traumas so adult. They are young women, and now they’re meant to clip themselves into a three-ring binder each day. They’re meant to hang their jackets in lockers and flirt with boys in the hallways. They’re supposed to regress into shapes that were never familiar to them. They don’t understand the teenage expectations of el norte.” (p375-76)
As the novel comes to a close, the author’s voice rings powerfully and true. Her eloquence combined with the obvious empathy she feels for her subject affected me. She is to be commended.
An Unwarranted Controversy
I note that various latinx individuals have complained about the fact that this book was written by a “white” woman. They assert that such a story should only be written by a latinx individual, and that the publishing industry is remiss in not publishing more books by latins writers. I respectfully disagree. I believe that a novel should be judged not by who writes it, but by the quality of the writing. For more thoughts on this issue, see my blog post on this website.
Normal People – Sally Rooney
Apparently there are readers who don’t take to Normal People for a variety of reasons. Some dislike the characters or are put off by the casual sex and/or Marianne’s submissiveness. Then there the countless moments when she and Connell are too thick-headed to speak or act in a sensible manner. While I shared these reactions, I think now that their depiction reflects the uncomfortable realities of young adulthood. However wrong-headed their behavior may be at times, in the end they fit the novel’s title: normal people.
The Style: Like people communicating under water
Beyond the story that this book offers, this novel is a masterpiece of style. The author often places us inside the thinking of Marianne and Connell so that we get to know them well. We see their confusion and uncertainty, about themselves and each other. From the novel’s beginning to its very end, we see one thought immediately contradicted by a following thought. They seem to willfully misunderstand themselves and what they want. They misspeak frequently, to the point of unintentionally hurting one another and missing opportunities to connect.
Several reviewers have been troubled by Rooney’s style, particularly the seemingly affectless descriptions and the dialogue presented without quotation marks. Ordinarily I too tend to look at dialogue without quotes as pretentious. Here, however, I felt that all aspects of her style contributed to a kind of stream of consciousness. I don’t mean this in the Joycean sense, but in terms of a mood that pervades every scene. Often they seem like people trying to communicate under water.
To an extent, Marianne and Connell portray the kind of intellectually bright people who can’t quite deal with their emotions. They try, they struggle, they fail, they carry on. They experiment with other relationships and they make mistakes. All the while, the tie between them never completely breaks. As a reader, I found myself constantly if quietly rooting for them to survive their wandering and come together.
Insecurity, Submission and Abuse
At the heart of this novel is Marianne’s insecurity. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says. “I don’t know why I can’t make people love me.” (187) Her problem traces back to her family, especially her brother. She tells Connell that her brother told her she should kill herself, and that no one would miss her. When she and Connell grow apart during college, she takes up with several men who abuse her.
Lukas, a Swedish photographer, entraps her for a while in a sadistic game. While she should be humiliated, she thinks for a time that she enjoys it. Finally breaking free of him, she poses to herself one of the central questions of the novel. “Could he really do the gruesome things he does to her and believe at the same time that he’s acting out of love? Is the world such an evil place, that love should be indistinguishable from the basest and most abusive forms of violence?” (205)
Connell the Macho Man
I’m not surprised that Marianne’s repeated submission to abuse is a turn-off for some readers, particularly women. Another turn-off may be the way it reflects traditional sex roles. When Connell discovers that Marianne is being abused by her then-boyfriend Jamie in Italy, he rescues her. When her brother breaks her nose, Connell threatens to kill him if he ever touches her again. While often bumbling, in these moments Connell also displays the instincts of a dominant male. His actions don’t come across as chivalrous, but he protects Marianne throughout. In the end, he is in charge of their relationship. When he insists that she go out with him on New Year’s Eve, she says, “Far be it from me to disobey an order.” “Yeah, exactly,” Connell says.
Like others, I have to wonder whether Connell’s aggressive instincts reflect the attitudes of contemporary Irish men. I don’t really know. Being of ¾ Irish ancestry myself, I have to hope not.
Marianne Redeemed
Perhaps Marianne is at ease being submissive with Connell because she feels safe with him, and because he gives her what she needs. At midnight on New Year’s Eve, Connell tells her he loves her. “She was laughing then, and her face was red. She was in his power, he had chosen to redeem her, she was redeemed.” (269)
At the end of the novel they seem finally to have come together. Perversely, just at this point Connell receives news that he has been accepted into an MFA program in New York. And while Connell displays his typically frustrating indecisiveness about whether to go, the novel ends with Marianne’s thoughts:
She closes her eyes. He probably won’t come back, she thinks. Or he will, differently. What they have now they can never have back again. But for her the pain of loneliness will be nothing to the pain that she used to feel, of being unworthy. He brought her goodness like a gift and now it belongs to her. Meanwhile his life opens out before him in all directions at once. They’ve done a lot of good for each other. Really, she thinks, really. People can really change one another.
You should go, she said. I’ll always be here. You know that.
Some people have called this a sad novel, but to me this is a perfect, positive ending. They definitely have helped each other, and if I had to guess, they will keep coming back. They will always be there for each other.
The Dutch House – Ann Patchett
The Dutch House is a book of such richness and complexity that a thorough review would take as long as the book itself. All I can do is touch on a few passages that demonstrate the subtle beauty of its craft.
The novel begins slowly, with Danny narrating events that are not particularly dramatic. We learn that he and his sister Maeve live in a grand house with their father and several servants. Their mother has left them—gone to India and elsewhere to serve the poor. Now, their father has decided, to everyone’s surprise, to marry again. The woman he chooses to marry, Andrea, already has two children of her own. She seems much less interested in Cyril than she is in possessing the Dutch House itself. When Cyril dies a few years later, she is quick to throw his children out. Though Danny is still in high school and Maeve has only recently graduated from college, she insists they be gone.
As the years pass, Danny and Maeve successfully find their way in the world. Both graduate from Columbia; Danny’s costs are covered by a trust fund established by Cyril for his and Andrea’s children. While Maeve takes a job that ultimately has her helping to run a frozen food business, Danny goes on to medical school. His purpose in doing so is solely to spend down the trust fund, and thereby leave less for Andrea’s children. This act of revenge, performed at Maeve’s direction, is recounted by Danny as if it’s nothing special. But however understated, it testifies to just how deep Maeve’s animosity for Andrea goes.
The Inescapable Dutch House, the Inescapable Past
We understand Danny and Maeve in large part because of a distinctive, repeated behavior. Year after year, they park in front of the Dutch House to reminisce about the past. It seems as if both were products of a perfect childhood until their mother left and Andrea came. Maeve in particular suffered from the coming of Andrea. She calls her childhood room with its window seat her Shangri-la. Though she never says so directly, when this special place was usurped by Andrea, Maeve was deeply wounded. As Maeve and Danny reminisce, we see that more than anything they want their former happy lives back. The fact that this is impossible leaves both of them, but especially Maeve, emotionally crippled. Though brilliant, witty and energetic, she never fulfills her promise. She never moves beyond the first job she takes, never marries, never forms any other meaningful relationships.
What Maeve has is Danny, and the hurt and outrage they share. Their relationship is stronger than the one Danny has with his wife, Celeste. As he builds his successful real estate career, Danny insists on using Maeve as his accountant even though she lives hours away by train. Though he has two children with Celeste, he insists on naming his daughter May, after Maeve. A good wife and mother, Celeste can’t compete with Maeve for Danny’s affections. When we learn abruptly that Celeste and Danny are divorced (p324), we are given no reason, but we understand.
The Poison Returns
In its climax, the novel surprises us with the reappearance, after decades, of their mother Elna. She shows up after Maeve has a heart attack. Danny is outraged by this, but Maeve is overjoyed to have her mother again. She invites Elna to live with her, and grows stronger until her mother leaves her yet again to help Andrea. Elna leaves because of her own mindless drive to help whomever she deems neediest—family be damned. She is reprehensible at the same time she is caring and charitable. Maeve, naturally, is irate: she has lost her mother again, and to her great enemy, Andrea. Two weeks later she dies, very likely from the stress of her loss.
Of the novel’s many insights into human nature, I was drawn to the idea that human beings have patterns of behavior that they can’t help but repeat. Thus, Maeve and Danny are drawn back to the Dutch House again and again, and the spell is only broken when they see an aged Andrea as she wanders out to pick up a newspaper. Twenty-seven years have passed since they last saw her, and both now realize how much they’ve lost. “Just imagine if she’d come to get the paper sooner,” she (Maeve) says. “Say, twenty years ago.” And Danny replies, “We could have had our lives back.”
Repeating the Sins of the Father
Another form of repetition occurs in Danny. Midway through the novel we see him forsake medicine to become a real estate investor like his father. But only at the end do we learn that he repeated his father’s most grievous mistake. Specifically, Danny purchased their Manhattan house for Celeste without giving her any forewarning, or say in the matter. He simply took her to it and handed her the deed. Clueless, he describes it as “one of the few truly romantic gestures I’d ever made.” But like Elna, Celeste didn’t like the house: “It’s not my taste. It’s heavy and old. It’s too dark.” (324) This description of their Manhattan house could just as easily be a description of the Dutch House.
By the last chapter of the book, Danny is alone. Maeve is dead, and Celeste divorces him. But Patchett chooses to redeem him, first by having him reconcile with his mother. “The rage I had carried for my mother exhaled and died. . . What I was left with was never love but it was something—familiarity, maybe.” (331)
Still better for Danny, Andrea’s daughters don’t want the Dutch House when she dies. Instead, May—who not only looks and acts like Maeve but is fulfilling all of Maeve’s promise—wants it. And her success as an actress enables her to buy it. Thus a circle is completed, and we arrive at a satisfying ending to a rich tale. Yet I did wonder, when Danny catches his daughter smoking on the last page of the novel, what it portended. Had May reclaimed the family home in purchasing the Dutch House? Or had she repeated the mistake of her grandfather, father and aunt in falling in love with it?
Long Bright River – Liz Moore
Long Bright river is a well-written and heartfelt novel with an occasional flourish of literary language. Over all, I enjoyed it.
The novel’s first person narrator, Mickey, is a Philadelphia police officer who patrols in Kensington. A rundown part of the city, Kensington features many abandoned buildings that are inhabited by drug addicts. One of those addicts is Mickey’s sister, Kacey, and for much of the novel Mickey is searching for Kacey. This search is not officially part of Mickey’s police assignment, but she’s worried because her sister hasn’t been seen for months.
Mickey is an intelligent woman whose mother was an addict who died, and whose father then disappeared. She and Kacey were raised but not loved by their grandmother, Gee. In school, Mickey was a quiet loner who did well. When she graduated from high school, she was poised to attend a good four-year college. However, Gee refused to sign the financial aid forms that were essential to her admittance.
Mickey ended up joining the police force because of Simon Cleare. Simon was an officer who befriended her when she was 14, while she attended a PAL after school program. Simon gave her the attention she needed, but eventually took advantage of her sexually, as he did other women. Well into the novel we learn that Simon got Kacey pregnant. When the baby was born, Mickey gained custody because Kacey was a known drug addict without a real home. This, in addition to Kacey’s addiction, have caused the two sisters to grow apart.
Mickey the Incompetent Cop
The principal focus of Mickey’s police work in the novel is a series of murders of four young women in the neighborhood. About halfway through the novel she begins to suspect that Simon Cleare is the killer. But when she lays out her evidence to DiPaolo, a veteran detective, he tells her she’s wrong. He says that they just caught the murderer, and it isn’t Simon.
Mickey’s false accusation against Simon makes her look foolish, and embarrasses her. But this is not her only failure in the novel. In fact, she often makes mistakes in procedure and in logic. She even comes to suspect her partner Truman, whom she’s known for years, as the murderer. And in the penultimate scene, when she has the drop on the true murderer, she lets him overpower her. While she is serious about her work, she isn’t very competent.
A Few Quibbles
In some respects Mickey’s imperfections, including serious trust issues, make her an interesting character. This in turn makes the book more than just a crime novel. To me, however, her imperfections made her less sympathetic. When at the end she quits the police force I thought, She’s finally done something right!
While the novel is well written and easy to read, I had some concerns. The first two hundred pages were largely given over to describing Mickey, her family and various other characters. For me, this was about one hundred pages too much. In terms of story, I felt like I was treading water during those pages. While the book began fast with a murder, it focused on finding the killer only intermittently. There were too many other things going on. Then, just over halfway through the book, DiPaolo announces that they’ve caught the murderer. So, with the mystery solved, I decided that the book might actually be a character study of Mickey. But that wasn’t the case, either. The last third or so of the book re-focused on Kacey, and then returned to the murder mystery.
Too Much Ambition Does Not A Great Book Make
Overall, I felt that the novel tried to do too much. It combines a detailed portrayal of a troubled neighborhood with a description of various addicts’ lives. It focuses attention on the scourge of drugs on the health of newborns, a critical issue. It also highlights both the way in which drugs destroy families and the difficult road to becoming drug-free. It wraps this social commentary—which I applaud—around a murder mystery told by an unreliable narrator. Not that the author intended Mickey to be unreliable, but she is so because of her own incompetence. Unfortunately, her incompetence makes it hard to follow the story. Given all of these factors, combining them into a single novel was probably an impossible task. Still, I appreciate the author’s effort. Moreover, I would much rather read a novel like this than even the best escapist crime novel. 3 stars.
A Hologram for the King – Dave Eggers
Economic City (KAEC, pronounced like cake). If all goes well, Alan will earn a six-figure commission, enabling him to pay all his debts. But if Reliant is not awarded the contract, he earns nothing.
Excellent Sad Sack Humor
With stakes this high, Alan should be able to marshal the energy and focus to push the project to success. Instead, he can barely get out of bed some mornings. Most days this makes no difference. He and the rest of the Reliant team are made to wait weeks for King Abdullah to view their pitch.
For me, the most enjoyable portion of this novel was the wit that populated Alan’s thoughts and words. At one point he takes stock of himself. “Now he was fifty-four years old and was as intriguing to corporate America as an airplane built from mud.” Even more entertaining were his interactions with Yousef, a young Saudi. When Alan misses the morning shuttle to KAEC, where the presentation to the King eventually be made, Yousef drives him. Yousef speaks excellent English, and the scenes between the two read like comedy sketches.
America in Decline
Occasionally small snippets in the novel raise the portent of America in decline. On one flight, a man regales Alan with a gin-inspired critique. “It was good for a while, right? he’d said. What was it, thirty years or so? Maybe twenty, twenty-two? But it was over, without a doubt it was, and now we had to be ready to join western Europe in an era of tourism and shopkeeping.” In this vein, the novel highlights the ascendancy of China, while America’s decline is writ small in Alan’s deterioration.
Farce and Satire
As I read the novel, I stopped anticipating Alan’s triumphant presentation of Reliant’s hologram technology to the King. Partly this was because the endless delays lent the novel an aspect of farce. Indeed, much of the novel reads like a satire of the oddities and perversions of Saudi society. For example, alcohol, supposedly prohibited, proved readily available to Alan. Work of all sorts seemed to be performed almost exclusively by foreigners. And the one Saudi woman that Alan interacts with is not only highly educated but sexually promiscuous.
So It All Adds Up To . . .
Despite the pleasure I had in reading the novel, I did have several concerns. On a minor note, though adequately fleshed out and complex, Alan didn’t seem quite believable to me. The fact that he never expressed much worry over his dire financial situation didn’t compute. More significant for me was the fact that the novel didn’t add up to much. While I appreciated its political and economic commentary, that commentary came across as lightweight, of no more significance than Alan’s jokes. And while the ending was appropriate, it was also underwhelming—almost a fizzle. 3*
Unsheltered – Barbara Kingsolver
I understand that some readers don’t enjoy novels that address significant social and political issues. But to me, artists have an obligation to point out society’s ills. Income inequality, corporate profiteering, our addictions to drugs and video games, all are worthy subjects for a novel. In that Unsheltered touches on some of these issues, I applaud the author.
I also appreciate the writing in this book. Kingsolver’s sentences always shine. True, the craft in this novel didn’t strike me as being quite as impressive as in some of her other works. Still, it was still far superior to that which I find in most novels.
Too, the history of Vineland was interesting. Learning something about Mary Treat, a real female scientist in the 1870s, was particularly engaging. The debate between Thatcher and Cutler over evolution was equally so. It provided clear insight into the difficulties faced by those attempting to introduce evolution into a hidebound 1870s town. Moreover, Kingsolver captures the language of the 1870s in the voices of her characters. She does the same for their attitudes and behaviors. As a result, we come away with a robust experience of life in those times.
Concerns
Beyond those positive attributes, I had some concerns with Unsheltered. One was the lack of plot. Another: the overly long sections of dialogue. A third was the practice of telling rather than showing the author’s philosophical perspective.
One particular stumbling block for me was the error-filled description of the problems with Willa’s house. We are told that it didn’t have a foundation, and yet it has stood for well over one hundred years. Unless the earth itself was concrete, this isn’t possible. Then we have Pete, the contractor inspecting the house in Chapter 1. He tells Willa that he found ruptures in the ductwork on the third floor. Ducts are used in forced air heating systems, which were not invented until 1930. Adding ducts to a house built in 1880 or thereabouts would have been either impossible or cost prohibitive. (Adding steam radiators, on the other hand, would have made sense.)
Later, Willa’s efforts to obtain grant funds by having the house declared historically significant are presented as reasonable. But doing so would dramatically increase her renovation costs because she would have to comply with historical preservation rules. I kept waiting for her contractor or Chris Hawk to clue her in to this, but it never happens.
Is Willa a Trump Voter at Heart?
Most interesting was the way that Willa is portrayed as openly critical of the Bullhorn, a.k.a. Trump. Yet she betrays attitudes consistent with the working class voters who opted for Trump in 2016. Those voters felt betrayed by job losses caused by improved productivity, off-shoring, and other globalization effects. Rather than change with the times, by re-training or re-locating, they insisted that the evolving economy was at fault.
Similarly, Willa laments the fact that, while she and Iano “did everything right,” they nevertheless find themselves financially insecure. In fact, like the Trump voters who lost their factory jobs, they did not do everything right. Both skated along on the surface of life, blithely ignoring the changes that were occurring in education, publishing and elsewhere.
In one of the novel’s oddest bloopers, the narrative presents Willa as unable to fill out an online Medicaid application. But isn’t Willa a woman who once had the capability to research and write magazine articles? Surely those activities took far more problem solving skill than filling out a Medicaid application. Presumably this scene is intended to suggest how complicated our medical care system has become, and it does. But it also reinforces Willa’s unwillingness to adapt and change.
Are Willa and Tig Caricatures?
I wondered whether Willa’s character, and Tig’s, were meant as caricatures of Trump voters and the Operation Wall Street protesters respectively. Both groups have grievances but no real solutions. (And no, Cuba is not a shining alternative!) Alternatively, I wondered if the present-day storyline wasn’t Kingsolver’s portrayal of how far the American character has declined. Traditional values like self-reliance, curiosity and confidence, apparent in the 1870’s characters, seem non-existent or subdued in Willa’s family. Given the author’s known political preferences, my guess is that she sympathized with Willa’s plight. But the story she tells reads like an indictment.
Verdict
In sum, I felt that the negatives outweighed the positives in this book. Plot was largely non-existent and although some of the characters are distinct and interesting, none was a strong protagonist. Asking a novel to succeed without either a plot or a protagonist is asking for the impossible.
The Buddha in the Attic and When the Emperor Was Divine – Julie Otsuka
I had the feeling I wouldn’t like this book because I read that it didn’t have a single protagonist. I generally want to have a protagonist that I can relate to, or at least understand. That way I can get into the character’s mind and see the world as they do, and share their feelings. Nevertheless, I enjoyed this book. I thought the style was original, distinctive, and effective. The use of the first person plural POV offers the reader a view of multiple Japanese picture brides. It allows us to see both their varying backgrounds and varying destinies in California. In doing so, the book illuminates a distinct historical and cultural phenomenon.
From a craft perspective, I particularly I appreciated the incantatory rhythm that the author employed. That rhythm was well-match with the first person plural perspective. Together, they wrapped the reader into the lives and the mindset of the picture brides. Additionally, I appreciated all the details provided about everyday life. In a way, reading this book was like opening a time capsule. Ordinary items became interesting just by being included. Instead of details about a character, we get massive details about a time, place and multiple people. They are all the protagonist, a sort of joint main character.
History Through the Novel’s Lens
I have read reviews that suggest the novel contained too many details, and that while the author obviously did her research, the novel seems like a non-fiction history. I understand these points, but they didn’t make me like the book any less. It is fiction based closely on historical events that are themselves worth visiting.
Quibbles
A couple of things about the novel confused me a bit. One was that I didn’t know who the husbands were. Initially I thought they were white men. Later, when the families were sent to camps, the husbands were clearly Japanese. Still, the novel mentions at one point that a husband chose not to go with his wife. This again implies he must have been white.
I was also surprised when the novel seemed to move suddenly into the Second World War. The preceding chapters seemed to occur several decades earlier. Of course, I can’t be sure about the timeline of those chapters. The only clue is the single reference to a Model T Ford, which was produced from 1908 to 1927. Like the question of the husbands’ ethnicity, this abrupt leap into the war years, was momentarily unsettling. Nevertheless, I found the book both enjoyable and affecting.
~
Although published before The Buddha in the Attic, When the Emperor Was Divine covers a later time period. It focuses on the relocation of a family of Japanese-Americans from Berkeley, California to a internment camp in Delta, Utah. This novel lacked the incantatory rhythm of the later work, but was more powerful.
Part of the power in this novel stems from the author’s straightforward style. Initially we follow an unnamed woman as she prepares to comply with Evacuation Order No. 19. The way she proceeds in a rational manner, showing no emotion, is eerie. It’s almost as if by acting perfectly normal she can maintain her equilibrium. She can believe the evacuation will be short-lived, and life will soon return to normal unchanged. Her killing and burying of the family dog also testifies to self-control she brings to her responsibilities.
Perhaps not surprisingly, once she is on the train to Utah with her children she withdraws. It’s as if her powerful will collapses when once she is no longer mobilizing her family for the coming change. Now, on the train, she is overwhelmed by the reality of what is happening to them. Later, when they are living in the barracks in Utah, she spends much of her time hiding behind a sheet. The many small details of what her family and others in the camp undergo are not dramatic. Nevertheless, they effectively convey the unjust horror that innocent people suffered. These were people who were found guilty of being the enemy without ever being accorded due process of law.
A Novel is Not a History
The family described in the book are never given names, which reinforces their function in the novel. They are not intended to be characters so much as representatives of the families that were interned. Nevertheless, the novel remains a story of people, of human beings the reader can empathize with. Were it non-fiction, it would certainly tell us that over 117,000 Japanese-Americans were unjustly interned. It would tell us that legal challenges to internment went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court. It would tell us that the Court, in Korematsu v. United States, held the program constitutional as a military necessity. A sad day for Constitutional rights.
Indeed, a history would tell us even more. It would tell us that Justice Department memos uncovered decades later proved the decision was based on trumped up evidence. It would tell us that in 1988, President Reagan signed a bill providing $20,000 in reparations for each living detainee. It would tell us that 82,219 claims were paid. Recent editions might also tell us that in 2018 the Court wrote that the Korematsu decision “was gravely wrong.” They might even mention that this statement was included in the Court’s decision in Trump v. Hawaii. Ironically, that case upheld the Trump travel ban focused on Muslim countries. (Some things never change.) But all that aside, this isn’t a book about historical facts, as salient as they are. It’s a book about people, and the effect of internment on their lives.
Impact on Race Relations
I found it interesting, if disheartening, to see how race relations were damaged by the war. Before the war, the woman and her children enjoyed friendly relations with their neighbors. After, when they returned home to California, they were shunned and even attacked. Even so, the book sugar-coated the situation that its family returned to. They found that their home, although picked over for its furniture and other valuables, remained theirs. Most Japanese-Americans fared worse. Many had to sell their possessions—homes, cars, trucks, boats and other personal property—for a fraction of their value. Businesses were shuttered, business loans could not be paid, and business inventory had to be sold at a loss. Few Japanese businesses remained when the interned people came home. Years of hard work were effectively stolen by government subterfuge.
The greatest injustice suffered by Japanese-Americans is revealed in the last chapter of the novel, “Confession.” The husband tells his story of being taken away in the middle of the night and interrogated for days. At last, under severe duress, he confesses to various acts of spying and sabotage. His confession is a tour de force recitation of all the crimes that the authorities could imagine. It makes clear the both the absurdity of those charges and the racism behind them. There is anger in the man’s confession, as there should be.
A sobering Reminder
In the context of CoVID-19, this novel is a sobering reminder of the fragility of society. In many states a vocal minority is demonstrating loudly for the “re-opening” of business, parks, schools, etc. In Michigan, demonstrators with automatic weapons had the nerve to invade the state capitol. Similar demonstrations have occurred elsewhere. These are not simply exercises of Second Amendment rights, they are a challenge to the rule of law. But what happens when the tactics of intimidation fail, as they will? Because forcing cities and counties to open too soon will cause a spike in CoVID-19. That in turn will lead to a new round of tighter constraints. And then what? Armed rebellion? Most of us have grown up in the comfort of a secure, resilient society, qualities now being severely tested. The question is: will this society endure?
The Lowland – Jhumpa Lahiri
The Lowland covers the lives of three generations of an Indian family over the course of roughly 50 years. It started out as an interesting story that became a captivating one.
The story’s initial focus is on two brothers, Subhash and Udayan. While they come from a traditional middle class family, both brothers follow non-traditional paths. While Udayan remains at home with the family, he secretly joins the Communist Party of India/Marxist-Leninist. He also secretly marries a woman, Gauri, and secretly participates in violent revolutionary activities. These activities cost him his life after only a year or two of marriage.
Subhash’s path takes him to Rhode Island for graduate school and a career. When Udayan is captured and killed, he returns to India and meets Guari. Guari is pregnant and living with his parents, but they are unkind to her. Subhash convinces Guari to marry him and move to Rhode Island. He does this more out of a sense of duty than love. Guari marries him because she knows his parents don’t want her to live with them now that Udayan is dead. She has no other alternatives.
The Sins of the Mother
Most interesting in the novel is the way it portrays people who have difficulty adapting to changing circumstances. Guari is chief among those who fail in this way. Despite the fact that Subhash gives her a chance at a new life, she shows no appreciation. Ultimately she abandons Subhash and her daughter to pursue an academic career. This leaves Bela, the daughter, bitter at both Guari and Subhash. Now both women in Subhash’s life have rejected him, even though he tried his best to care for them.
The coldness of Guari reappears in Bela. She not only rejects her parents, she rejects their lifestyle. Rather than going to graduate school, she becomes an itinerant farmer. She has no real home, no career, no economic security. She doesn’t wear make-up, doesn’t date, doesn’t have any real relationships. After many years of this wayward existence she becomes pregnant, but does not want the father involved. She returns to Rhode Island and settles in with Subhash. Like her mother, she bears a daughter without a father, and again Subhash steps in. This time, however, the mother—Bela—appreciates Subhash. She stays with him thereafter, although she eventually meets a man who owns a small farm, and a relationship blossoms.
A Pleasure to Read
This novel, like other Lahiri work I’ve read, is exquisitely written. Additionally, I appreciated her use of actual political struggles in India as the stage for Udayan’s part of the novel. In fact, I would have liked to learn more about the struggle that Udayan was involved in. Of course, more emphasis there would not have given us the story Lahiri wanted to present.
As the novel moved into its later chapters, the novel became increasingly poetic. The language expresses a sense of peace and closure, especially as Subhash and Elise walk through the fields of Ireland. I’m not going to quote sentences as examples because the whole chapter was stunning. The ending chapter, which returns to the events of Udayan’s death, is equally lyrical and powerful in a different way. In sum, this novel was a pleasure to read.
Commonwealth – Ann Patchett
Overall, I enjoyed this novel. The quality of the writing was superb. I felt the characters were distinct and unique, which is an accomplishment in a novel with such a large cast. I was also impressed by the way the author wove together multiple threads of various characters’ stories. As a result, the chapters flowed naturally. I did notice the frequent shifts in point of view throughout the novel, which might have bothered me, but didn’t. I also enjoyed the humor that appeared from time to time, some of it tongue-in-cheek.
Too Many Characters?
In terms of quibbles, I would have preferred fewer characters. Consider chapter one. Who are all these people? Do I care about Bonnie and Father Joe Mike and the many other characters who appear for brief moments? Not really. To a certain extent, I felt that the excess characters got in the way. Fortunately, the novel is overflowing with extraordinarily beautiful sentences. As a result, the excess characters, wandering scenes and pointless digressions can easily be forgiven.
As I think about it, my complaint about the large number of characters stems from one problem. It is that having so many makes it hard for any of them to grow and develop very much. Then again, this approach may, in this book, be the best approach. None of the characters are exceptional enough to carry a novel on their own. None alone possesses a truly engaging story. These are ordinary people living ordinary lives. (Indeed, it is hard to believe that Hollywood could have wrought a movie from Leon’s Commonwealth.)
The Author Does Better
On this point of character and character development, I can’t help compare Commonwealth to The Dutch House. The latter also spans about fifty years. But because there are fewer characters, we get to know them intimately. We get to see how they tick. We become intimate with their tragedy and their beauty. We don’t get any of that in Commonwealth. What we get are several allusions to Cal’s death, which is apparently the focal point of the novel. Still, it’s a flimsy one at best, since none of the other kids or parents were really responsible for it. None learned anything from it. It just happened, it was a fluke. Again, compare to The Dutch House, where each of the Conroy clan is responsible for his or her destiny. Danny and Maeve, in particular, glimpse in one breathtaking moment the truth of how they’ve gone wrong. Both suffer tragedy from the faults in their characters.
Is Something Missing?
One other matter formed a question in my mind—the issue of psychological verisimilitude. Bert and Beverly disrupt two entire families, including six kids, because they can’t keep their mitts off one another. But do they go through any moments of doubt about their sudden love? Do they ever worry about what their affair will do to the rest of the family? Do they incur any guilt over the hurt they cause their spouses? Apparently not, or if they do, the author doesn’t consider it significant enough to merit even the briefest mention. Which leaves me feeling that these are not true, living and bleeding characters. Rather, they are straw characters (though richly appointed ones) created to act out roles in a play. And the point of this play is?
On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous – Vinh “Ocean” Vuong
This is a book I expected to enjoy, based on reviews, and knowing the author to be a successful poet. I imagined finely wrought, lyrical language that would enhance my reading pleasure. Indeed, I found plenty of lovely sentences, such as:
“I scraped and rescraped in firm, steady strokes, the way you taught me, until russet streaks rose from under the white flesh, the welts deepening into violet grains across your back like new, dark ribs, releasing the bad winds from your body. Through this careful bruising, you heal.”
At the same time, there are just as many sentences that fall flat. For example: “It seemed the boy was always looking at a plane wrecking itself midair.” And: “The sun, now waning, must still be stronger somewhere west, I thought, like in Ohio, golden yet for some boy I’ll never meet.”
Language Like the Emperor’s New Clothes
This book seems to be a massive collection of poetic attempts. Some are successful, some not, but all seem to be in service mainly to the attempt. Here and there are smatterings of stories, but the focus is on language. This is risky, because when the language falls flat, the book falls flat. This happens too often.
Lyrical, expressive language, is wonderful when it is in service to the story, not something apart from it. Many literary authors use it well—and sparingly. I think there may be a rule about the effectiveness of poetic language: effectiveness is inversely proportional to frequency.
What is Happening Here?
On a more mundane note, I found it difficult to get grounded in the book. From the very outset, I had no idea who was talking and who they were talking to. Whenever I have to turn to the book jacket or a review to learn what’s going on, there’s a problem. Like most readers, I enjoy being immersed in the “vivid and continuous dream” à la Gardner. It’s hard to become immersed when the story isn’t clear and the language is dancing to its own drum.
The Glass Hotel – Emily St. John Mandel
The Glass Hotel begins and ends with the central character, Vincent, falling into the ocean. In between there is no real plot, but it doesn’t matter. The novel explores a number of interesting themes and ideas in fine prose.
As the novel commences, we find Vincent at a loss for what to do with her life. Bored by school, she takes a job as a bartender at the Hotel Caiette. There she meets the wealthy Jonathan Alkaitis and agrees to act as his wife. Her acting life with Alkaitis seems perfect for her. She questions why she is with him, but decides it’s okay: “Calling it a job seemed uncharitable, because she really did like him. It wasn’t the romance of the century, but it didn’t have to be; if you genuinely enjoy someone’s company…isn’t that enough?” For Vincent it is, though the entré it provides to the kingdom of money clearly helps. Later, when Alkaitis is in prison, she never visits him.
Vincent often comes across as affectless. Throughout, she has a problem with love, and with commitment. She can commit to Alkaitis because she doesn’t love him. When she later meets Geoffrey Bell, she seems to love him but can’t commit to marry him. As the reader eventually learns, her emotional paralysis stems from what happened with her mother, which makes her psychology simple. But like plot, Vincent’s character isn’t a defining attribute of the novel.
Theme: Creating Our Own Reality
The exploration of various themes and the teeing up of interesting commentary seem most central to this book. One theme is the way in which people create their own realities. Alkaitis initially inhabits the kingdom of money, which is wonderfully evoked in the chapter entitled Fairytale. Later, in prison, he immerses himself in an imagined counterlife that doesn’t involve prison. After a time, he begins to lose the ability to distinguish between the counterlife and his memories. Ultimately, he begins to believe he’s losing connection to reality, and sees ghosts.
Another perspective on this theme appears in Vincent’s practice of taking five minute videos of the world. These fragments of reality reflect, in a way, the lack of groundedness, in her life. When her half-brother Paul steals them she is initially upset. He has stolen a part of her life, a part that is highly personal. But ultimately she doesn’t challenge him on it, because the videos are only fragments of her past. As fragments they don’t carry much meaning for her.
More Themes: The Shadow Country and Connections
A different theme involves the shadow country. The shadow country is populated by the many people who do not occupy the usual cubbyholes of society. Leon Prevant is one, after he loses his retirement savings in Alkaitis’ Ponzi scheme. Reduced to living in an RV and subsisting on odd jobs, he has lost his place in society. Nevertheless he accepts his loss, and views himself as better off than many others. Even the shadow country, it seems, has class distinctions.
Another theme seems to be the unexpected ways in which people connect. Vincent becomes Alkaitis’ ersatz wife and, when she disappears from her ship, Leon Prevant is hired to investigate the matter. Leon needs the job because he lost all his money in Alkaitis’ Ponzi scheme. Olivia, a painter and friend of Alkaitis’ older brother, also a painter, invests her only savings with Alkaitis. Alkaitis buys Olivia’s most renowned painting, which is of his brother, who died from drug use.
Ideas to Think About
I particularly enjoyed the way the author inserts thought-provoking ideas throughout the text. Of the many I enjoyed, here are a few that I jotted down:
“Do you have to actually be in love for a relationship to be real, whatever real means, so long as there’s respect and something like friendship?”
“What kept her in the kingdom was the previously unimaginable condition of not having to think about money, because that’s what money gives you: the freedom to stop thinking about money.”
“It’s possible to both know and not know something.”
“Every time you retrieve a memory, that act of retrieval, it corrupts the memory a little bit.”
“Do all the other men have counterlives, too? Alkaitis searches their faces for clues. He’s never been curious about other people before. He doesn’t know how to ask. But he sees them gazing into the distances and wonders where they are.”
More than anything, I felt a sense of mystery throughout this novel. In that respect, the writing reminded me of Laura van den Berg’s two story collections. For me, these are as good as it gets. I am already looking forward to whatever Ms. St. John Mandel produces next.
The Light in the Ruins – Chris Bohjalian
This is the fifth novel by Bohjalian that I’ve read, and the first to disappoint. I haven’t written formal reviews of The Flight Attendant, The Sleepwalker, or Midwives. If I did I’d give them all 3.5 or 4 stars. I reviewed The Guest Room in 2019 and gave it 3.5 stars. This one comes in at 2.5 stars for me.
Problem #1: Characters Aren’t Sympathetic
The biggest problem I had with this novel was that I didn’t find the characters sympathetic. The novel opens with a gruesome murder of Francesca Rosati. This might seem like the kind of dramatic incident that would get a book rolling. But at this point in the novel I don’t know anything about Francesca, so why should I care? Perhaps Bohjalian assumed that providing the shocking detail of removing the heart would offset the lack of a sympathetic victim. It didn’t.
I can’t help thinking of the opening scene of The Flight Attendant, which involves a similarly grisly murder. Yet in that book the murder is discovered by a female narrator who is well developed. Her many faults combine with her physical beauty to make her a complex and attractive character. Immediately, I rooted for her.
A similar lack of development characterizes virtually all of the characters in this novel. They are all one-note and flat. Marco is an engineer, Vittore an architect/art protector, and Francesca is a bitch and mother. That’s all they are. Francesca even tells us that all she cares about in the world are her children and her husband. They give me nothing to care about.
More attention is paid to Christina, but she too is flat. Aside from riding her horse and having a foolish affair with a German, she does nothing. Was there really so little going on in her head, and in her life? Did she ever go to school, read a book, have ambitions or dreams or an inquiring thought? Apparently not.
Serafina is Most Interesting
Serafina is the only character who comes close to coming to life. She has suffered a massive injury, but recovered to earn herself a career as the first female detective in Florence. We are given a few peeks into how she feels about her burns. We see how they act to keep her withdrawn from most personal commitments. The way she continues to administer small burns to herself is clearly significant, but its meaning is ultimately unclear. She seems to be punishing herself, but why? I can’t help thinking that this little detail was just a writerly creation that seems distinctive but doesn’t really fit. Nevertheless, Serafina is the most detailed of the characters, and her relationship with the gay American banker, Milton, is interesting.
Little Tension and Vague Clues Don’t Engage the Reader
Structurally, the novel seems flawed to me, too. For one thing, there was little tension. I did feel some when the murderer was closing in on the marquesa. I felt more when Guilia became frightened in the night, and lowered her children and herself to the ground. But none of the nasty things the Germans did produced any tension, or much interest. Whatever the stakes were, they weren’t made clear. For example, an issue critical to the novel is that Antonio, the marquese, was viewed as a German collaborator. If true, this could explain the murderer’s hatred for the family. But although this issue was dealt with peripherally, it never took center stage. Had it been, I think it would have added drama and tension.
Similarly, the clues a reader looks for in order to participate in solving the mystery were too obscure. Yes, Serafina keeps returning in her thoughts to the time she was severely wounded and hidden in the Etruscan ruins. But none of her reflections ever suggested (to me, anyway) how that incident might have been related to the murders.
I noticed that I was 89.2% of the way through the novel (according to Kindle) before I really felt tension. This occurred when Serafina went to look for Cassini, a fellow officer, in the Etruscan ruins. When she spots his beret, and he doesn’t answer her call, it becomes clear that danger is at hand. It was only then, nearly at the novel’s end, that the story became compelling.
As always with Bohjalian books, the sentence-level writing was fine. But overall, in my judgment, this novel wasn’t up to the high standards of his others.
The Red Lotus – Chris Bohjalian
The Red Lotus begins with Alexis worrying about where her travel partner/boyfriend is. The fact that he is missing naturally generates tension from a get-go, and drew me in.
I also appreciated the description of Vietnam, which is detailed and convincing. I was surprised that a country which was so horrifically treated by Americans could now be welcoming American tourists. For the same reason, the fact that their police cooperated with the FBI surprised me. I would expect more animosity on the part of the Vietnamese. -This is not a criticism, just a comment.
Flat Characters and Missed Opportunity
As always with Bohjalian novels, the writing was smooth, and the reading effortless. The protagonist, Alexis, was complex, well developed and believable. The other major characters—Austin, Douglas, Sally and Oscar—were relatively flat. They seemed entirely governed by an interest in making a lot of money. The fact that none of them had qualms about selling a biological weapon to North Korea was not entirely credible. It also seemed like a missed opportunity. Had one of the others had doubts or a change of heart, that character would have gained substantial depth and become interesting. The plot, too would have gained interest.
Important Issues Add Depth
In lieu of developing characters, the novel focused on describing how new pathogens arise and corresponding vaccines are developed. I came away with the feeling that more pandemics are inevitable. Horror stories about super rats also took up much of the novel. I had the feeling that the author was trying to warn the reading public about very real issues. The subject matter of the novel was serious, and for that I commend him.
Aside from the connections to Vietnam and the pandemic issues, the novel didn’t engage me. It seemed to move relatively slowly, and wasn’t much of a page turner. By telling the story through multiple points of view, the reader gets enough information to easily anticipate the plot. Moreover, it was a pretty simple, straightforward plot. In the end, the novel was satisfying but not memorable.
Origin – Dan Brown
This was one of those books that, after a while, I started to speed read. About three-quarters of the way through, I began to read only the first sentence of each paragraph. I just wanted it to be over.
The author began with a great hook. Edmond Kirsch, Robert Langdon’s scientist alter-ego, has made some amazing discoveries. He plans to announce to the world where we come from and where we are going. In doing so, he will undermine all the religions of the world.
Sucker that I am, I kept reading because I wanted to know what these amazing discoveries were. Now, I can’t even remember what they were. That’s how un-amazing they were.
Humdrum Plot and Overdone Art References
Although this book followed the formula of other Langdon mysteries, this one never took off. Unlike The DaVinci Code, this one didn’t promise to expose a 2,000 year-old secret. There was no massive historical context (the Church) or secret societies threatening Langdon. Langdon’s nemesis wasn’t some deranged religious nutcase or competitor after the secret. He was just a washed up old navy guy who couldn’t even out-muscle a wimpy nerd like Langdon. As a result, I found little of interest in the novel, and not much tension, either.
And all those references to art and architecture, a staple of the Langdon series, were simply overdone and tiresome.
I could go on and talk about the flatness of all the characters, but this too is a staple of the Langdon novels, and one everybody already knows about.
At one point in the novel the author did offer some thoughtful commentary on religion. For that reason I’ll round my 2.5 stars up to three.
Recent Comments