"Interventions," by Richard Russo

I am a big fan of Richard Russo’s fiction. His novels, such as “Empire Falls,” “Bridge of Sighs,” and “That Old Cape Magic,” are to me examples of the best that fiction has to offer: they are deeply engaged with humanity, families, the big questions of life; they are engaging; they are funny (especially "Straight Man," a hilarious academic novel); they make readers feel connected to the larger world; they are well written. I have always felt (perhaps irrationally) that Russo himself must be a good person, and his memoir “Elsewhere” (which I posted about here on 11/10/12) seemed to confirm that impression. I have just read a slightly odd assortment of Russo’s fiction and memoir, published in four little booklets gathered in one boxed set titled “Interventions: A Novella & Three Stories” (Down East Maine, 2012). I say “odd” because one of the four is a novella, two are short stories, and the fourth is a mini-memoir. One of the stories has been published before; the others have not. Each booklet’s cover is by the author’s daughter, the artist Kate Russo. The covers are beautiful and the whole boxed set is, as the back cover states, “handsome.” The stories themselves are, unsurprisingly to me, compelling and definitely worth reading.

"The Priory," by Dorothy Whipple

The fiction of Dorothy Whipple was one of my big “discoveries” of the past couple of years. I have posted about several of her novels already, when I went on a sort of Whipple binge (1/24/12, 1/30/12, 2/10/12, 7/24/12, 8/14/12), and now have just finished reading “The Priory” (Persephone, 2003; originally published 1939). As with the other novels, this one focuses on life in England circa the 1930s amidst the upper class, or aspiring-to-the-upper class, but often struggling characters and families. Also, even more than in some of the other novels, this one focuses on, and sometimes explicitly discusses, the dilemma of women’s being completely dependent on men for their living. Poor Aunt Victoria still lives with her widowed brother, “the Major,” and his family, and is resented for the money it takes to keep her, especially by the Major’s new wife Anthea, who wants to be sure of support for herself and her twin babies. One of the Major’s young daughters from his first marriage, Christine, marries Nick, a man from a well-off family who is completely dependent on his wealthy father; the father, although he is generous, uses his money as a way of controlling Nick. Matters become worse for Christine when she feels the need to separate from him, and refuses to be dependent on his father or on her own family; she soon finds out how very hard it is for an upper-class but poorly educated woman to find a job and support herself and her baby. Whipple conveys well the desperation women felt when they saw no way to be independent, all because of the way society raised and treated women at the time. This theme is a powerful one in “The Priory,” but I don’t want to give the impression that it is a didactic novel. The main attractions of this novel, as with Whipple’s other novels, are her insightful portrayal of her characters and their relationships with each other, and her accomplished writing. Oh, and there are those gorgeous Persephone endpapers…

Sisterhood is....Melodramatic?

I am fortunate to have three wonderful brothers whom I love dearly, but I have sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a sister. Since my women friends are so important to me, I have imagined that a sister would be like a very very good friend, but even closer because of growing up together and because of the family bond. So I have been a little bit envious of my friends who have sisters. Some of them are very close to those sisters, sharing experiences and supporting each other through the years. Others are not so close, with various rivalries and differences dividing them. In any case, I find the topic of sisterhood a very appealing one in novels, so I thought I would enjoy Lucinda Rosenfeld’s “The Pretty One” (Little, Brown, 2013). It is in fact a fairly enjoyable novel, as light entertainment, but its problem is that it is too much ABOUT sisterhood, with capital letters. Its tagline, written almost as a subtitle on the cover, is “A Novel about Sisters,” and the novel itself is too explanatory of that relationship, in a schematic, predictable way. Three sisters are at the same time close and competitive, and each has her own label, given to her by their mother early on, and perpetuated into the sisters’ thirties, their current age in the book. Perri is the organized, traditionally successful one with the good job, husband and three children, and beautiful home in the suburbs. Pia is “the pretty one” of the title, but has trouble in both her work life and her love life, never being able to settle down to one job or one man. The youngest, Gus, is a successful family rights lawyer and activist, and a lesbian whose partner has left her. In a short period of time, the three sisters and their parents go through various dramatic (actually melodramatic, in a sort of breathless, OMG style) crises and problems that test and even threaten the sisters’ relationships to each other. Or at least that is the ostensible import of these events, but at no point is it even a little believable that the sisters will become estranged, or that any of the problems that arise will be serious enough to permanently harm any of them. A couple of flirtations, a couple of job problems, some halfhearted speculation about the father of Pia’s young daughter, Gus’ short lived fling with a man … none of these comes to much after all. Even when there is a revelation toward the end of the novel about a suddenly appearing new family member, there is very little of the shock and angst one might expect; the person is unrealistically easily absorbed into the family. Perhaps the novel does make some points about sisterhood, family bonds, family problems, and the truism that family trumps everything else, but these points are made too explicitly, too predictably, and worst of all, in a sort of lukewarm style that makes the reader feel that even the author’s heart wasn’t completely in this story.

My Ambivalent Reading of Books on India

For many years after I came back from India, where I lived as a child and teenager, I looked for books in English by Indian authors and/or about India. Starting in the late 1970s, there was a wonderful outpouring of such books available in the U.S., the U.K. and elsewhere; this was part of the blossoming of literature from other nonwestern countries becoming widely available in the West. At first, I tried to read each one that came across my path. I even wrote a column about “India books” for my school’s alumni newsletter. Soon there were far too many such books to read, but I kept reading some portion of those being published. I always preferred novels, but read some nonfiction as well. Now when I run across a new title, I sometimes feel – rather than being excited and getting the book as soon as possible – that I “should” read this new book, but don’t automatically actually want to. It is a wonderful dilemma to have such a wide variety to choose from. But it is strange to feel almost jaded now. The widely praised “Behind the Beautiful Forevers” (Random House, 2012), by Katherine Boo, is a case in point. I felt I “should” read it, resisted reading it, and finally did in fact read it. This book provides an unprecedented insight into a Bombay slum and the people who live there; it is also beautifully written, almost novelistically so. But I must admit I had to push myself to finish the book. I fully admit the reasons were within me, not with the book: a kind of cowardice in the face of acknowledging close up the poverty, the corruption, and the oppression of the poor and of women. Boo was embedded in this world for several years in order to write this book; her project and this book are amazing achievements. She has opened up, just a little, but more than anyone else I know of, a small window into a world full of pain, uncertainty, and sadness, very occasionally intermixed with some of the joys that, fortunately, most humans experience despite everything. The people she spent time with are portrayed so well, so realistically (or at least so it appears), so movingly. She doesn’t condescend or sentimentalize. “Behind the Beautiful Forevers” certainly deserves all the accolades it is receiving, and I am glad I have read it.

"Swimming Across the Hudson," by Joshua Henkin

It is always interesting to follow a writer’s work over many years, seeing how she or he develops and changes (or not…). Once I have read and liked an author’s work, I tend to look for each following book. But since I often “discover” an author after she or he has become more well known, I also sometimes go back and look for the author’s earlier books. So in effect, I am watching the development process in reverse, like rewinding a tape (OK, I know there aren’t tapes any more...). I often still like the author’s work, but it is evident (naturally) that the work is less mature, less developed. My reading of Joshua Henkin’s work is one example. First I read his 2012 novel “The World Without You” (which I posted about on 8/19/12); then his 2007 novel “Matrimony” (see my 9/13/12 post); and now I have reached still further back to read his first novel, “Swimming Across the Hudson” (G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1997). This book feels like a first novel; I can’t quite explain why, but it has to do with topics being too explicit, and with a certain nakedness and lack of finish in the development, like a spindly plant that hasn’t quite grown up or blossomed all the way. And this makes sense, of course, because it IS a first novel. Even in this novel, I like Henkin’s writing very much; his characters are realistic and appealing, and they face important dilemmas. In this case the dilemmas have to do with adoption (especially), family, the meaning of being Jewish (or not), and a certain inertia and paralysis that some young privileged young people feel as they try to figure out what their lives are all about and what should come next. Now, having read all three of Henkin’s novels in the past few months, I am eager to read his next one, whenever it appears.

How Good is "The Good House"?

Ann Leary’s novel “The Good House” (St. Martin’s, 2012) is about a small community on Boston’s North Shore; about living in a community where everyone thinks she or he knows everyone else’s business, but sometimes is very wrong; about affairs old and new, some of which go very, very awry; most of all, it is about alcoholism. The life of the main character, Hilda Good, a realtor, is – despite her love of her business and town – dominated by her love of drinking. As the story opens, she has just come back from rehab, but makes an exception for herself by secretly drinking increasing quantities of wine in the evenings at home, with the classic self-deluding excuse that drinking wine isn’t the same as “real” drinking. There is much in this novel about the eccentricity of some of the characters, the interactions between the oldtimers in town and the new arrivals, and the deceptiveness of appearances, but Hilda’s alcoholism is the thread throughout, the dominant story. Hilda thinks she manages fine, but her blackouts, forgotten phone calls, dangerous drunken drives through the countryside and town, and epic hangovers say otherwise. Alcoholism and its consequences is of course an important topic, and the author describes the condition of alcoholism well, but it overshadows everything else in a novel that is also meant to be, I believe, a mystery, a story of small town life, and a story of obsessive love. Whether this is a good thing or not I leave to the reader.

"News from Heaven," by Jennifer Haigh

Jennifer Haigh writes about places and people that are less commonly found in mainstream American novels. Instead of taking place in New York or San Francisco or Los Angeles, or in college towns, much of Haigh’s fiction is set in places such as Bakerton, Pennsylvania, a coal town that is past its prime and where most residents are struggling financially and otherwise. “News from Heaven” (Harper, 2013), Haigh’s new collection of interlinked short stories, tells us about the lives of various of those Bakerton residents. The author writes without condescension or pity; she simply draws us into the very realistic world she has created. The stories range back and forth through the 20th century, mostly toward the mid-to-later part of that century, and the same characters, or their relatives, turn up in more than one story; the reader has to pay attention to make the connections. The stories are beautifully written and the characters are compelling. The author describes those characters in an empathetic yet matter-of-fact manner. And perhaps partly because of the economic troubles in the U.S. today, these stories ring very true as “American” stories, steeped in American concerns, travails, values, and truths.

"The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D," by Nichole Bernier

Nichole Bernier’s “The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D” (Crown, 2012) is her first novel. I must admit that when I read that she is “a writer for magazines, including Elle, Self, Health, Men’s Journal, and Boston magazine,” I wondered how “literary” her novel would be. I fully acknowledge that this is an unfair reaction, as many good and great writers have written for magazines, and as I myself very much appreciate the wonderful writing to be found in many magazines. But then the premise – a woman (Kate) reading the journals of her friend (Elizabeth) after her sudden death (as authorized in Elizabeth’s will) – and the setting on an island famed for its summer season, where Kate is on vacation, led me to feel the novel might be typical “chick lit” and/or “beach reading” (both of which I have been known to enjoy at times, despite my dislike of the terms, especially the first one). Again, this was unfair, and the quality of the novel and the writing turned out to be much better than those expectations predicted. The novel is a sort of meditation on how we don’t really know some of our closest friends, and how a placid exterior may conceal many depths and much unrevealed experience. As Kate works her way through the journals, she struggles with a sense of disorientation and even hurt feelings at Elizabeth’s concealing so much of her self and her life. Kate also has to deal with Elizabeth’s widower Dave’s concern about what the journals might reveal, and his resentment (although he tries to stay upbeat and polite) about Elizabeth’s leaving the journals to Kate rather than to him. Overall, this book engages the reader’s attention and provokes thought about friendship, marriage, the unknown qualities in our closest friends and family members, and our legacies. I was particularly interested in the idea of journals left behind, and what they say about us, and was reminded of a (far less interesting!) journal story of my own. A few years ago, I read through and then destroyed my journals from my teenaged and college years, not because there were any surprising or significant revelations written there, but because I was embarrassed about the self-involvement and angst (typical of the age) they displayed, and didn’t see any good reason for anyone else to read them. At the time, they served a good purpose: they allowed me to express my feelings, and thus were therapeutic, but they definitely did not have literary value that outlasted those purposes. I have not kept journals since that time. So now all my writing energy goes into my academic writing (which includes some personal narrative) and into this blog!

"The Edge of Marriage," by Hester Kaplan

The stories in Hester Kaplan’s collection, “The Edge of Marriage" (University of Georgia Press, 1999; winner of the Flannery O’Connor Award for Short Fiction) provide clear-eyed, unflinching looks at families with deep divisions amidst terrible, mostly unfixable problems. I seldom employ the overused word “heartbreaking,” but these stories are indeed heartbreaking; they force readers to face the awful pain of family tragedies. Family members love each other (at least part of the time) but something stands between them that is impossible to surmount: some intolerable condition or behavior, whether it be a damaged child or an unfaithful spouse. The man with one hand and his wife’s response; the couple with the son who is incorrigibly broken; the couple whose own marriage is at risk because of the husband’s and wife’s differing responses to their daughter’s disintegrating marriage; the son who is at odds with his elderly father’s caregiver; the marriage that is threatened by the wife’s grief over her best friend’s death; the couple who become enchanted with the wife’s ex-lover who reappears in their lives when he is gravely ill and needs them to be his family – each of these characters and situations is sharply and unforgettably etched on the reader’s consciousness. The powerful effectiveness of these stories comes from the devastating situations that visit these characters in the midst of their everyday lives, and the way they must go on, must deal with these afflictions even as they feel it is impossible to do so. Readers cannot help but be reminded that these situations could happen to any of us at any time, and we too would be forced to deal with what we think we could not possibly deal with. What makes reading these stories an enriching experience, despite the sadness of the situations depicted, is the humanity of the characters and the truth of the writing. Kaplan has a new book just out, "The Tell," and I will definitely read it as well.

"She Matters," by Susanna Sonnenberg

When Susanna Sonnenberg published her first memoir, “Her Last Death,” I read the reviews and decided not to read the book; that story of her fraught relationship with her very difficult (narcissistic, drug-addicted) mother sounded extremely depressing. (I know that should not be a reason not to read a book, but I confess that for me, sometimes that IS a reason.) But when I saw that Sonnenberg had written a new memoir, “She Matters: A Life in Friendships” (Scribner, 2013), I was drawn to the book because it was about female friendships, a favorite topic of mine. I thought that it would be about how the author’s friendships helped and healed her after the trauma and sadness of her relationship with her mother, and that it would be a love song to the wonderful friendships that women are able to create, and that so sustain us. Certainly there is some element of that in the book. The author herself states that she has been constantly looking for replacements for her mother, in one shape or another. And Sonnenberg has had many close relationships with women over the years, often very intense, full of shared confidences, mutual support, and much time spent together. But somehow most of these friendships -- from those of her youth and college years through those of her young adulthood and of mothering young children, and beyond -- end. Sometimes they end because the friends drift away, and in one case because the friend died, but very often they end more dramatically, with a sudden break, a fight, or a statement of rejection that rings with finality. These breaks often come as a complete surprise to the author, and are beyond painful for her. This happens over and over again, and the author does not seem to develop much understanding of why it happens, although she does acknowledge that she has been told that she is too intense, and demands too much of her friends. I give Sonnenberg much credit for her candor and courage in telling these stories, stories that often do not show her at her best. And I feel very sad for her, both because of her terrible mother (their relationship ended in estrangement and finally in her mother’s death) (and her relationship with her father was better but quite fraught as well, right up to his death), and because of these many failed friendships. Once again, as in so many memoirs, this memoir shows what a huge handicap it is in life not to have had during childhood (and later as well) the unconditional love and support of one's parents, that love that the more fortunate among us have had. I also admire that the author did develop more self-awareness along the way, and did work on herself and tried to teach herself how to live a more normal and fulfilled life than her mother had prepared her to do. My disappointment with the book’s not being the story of happy, fulfilling friendships is unfair, in asking the reality – and the book -- to be something it is not and could not be; it is Sonnenberg’s story, after all. I must say that the author was able to make it a compelling read that caught me up in its twists and turns, and I never considered not reading it to the end. Still, the main feeling I left the memoir with was that “She Matters” is an deeply unsettling and unhappy book.