Sorry, I had to get that out. This is the 2nd book that I’ve read this year. TWO, DOS, NUMÉRO DEUX. 1/3 YASSSSSSS!!!! I DID IT. I AIN’T NO QUITTER!!!
Sorry, I had to get that out. This is the 2nd book that I’ve read this year. TWO, DOS, NUMÉRO DEUX. 1/3 of the year down and TWEE. This is reprehensible. I am a sea anemone but not as cute. I am shamed.
BUT I DID IT! I finished what amounts to ¾ of a George RR Martin book with a lot less characters! Yay on me!
This was one book that I was indecisive on. Should I read it? I mean it won a Nobel prize, but then again, hype. My friends are talking it up, but I hated The Secret History. I don’t know… nail biting really (a testament to my awesome social life). Then, there it was, on the $1 table at the local library sale. This whopping hardcover in the age of kindles. Ok. Fate has spoken.
Then it sat in my bag for months. I wouldn’t take it out, I would carry it but never start it. Almost my albatross… not that I was reading anything else, but basically, not that I was reading. (frowny face)
I was skeptical, I still felt the agony of TSH… the trauma and dashed hopes but I plundered on… and it took a good 40 pages for me to say.. ‘oh, this is kinda neat’. Neat meaning that someone would actually choose to (view spoiler)[bomb the Metropolitan Museum of Art (hide spoiler)]. Who does that? Why didn’t they go into that? My god! Now I had to read on.
Ok, I liked Theo. I know he was a whiny asshat (with reason)Anthony . I get that. I can see the privilege being a sore spot. I can see someone slapping the back of his head with a ‘get over it, kid’ but I can see the other side. The trauma, the agoraphobia, the tinnitus, the flashbacks that you don’t really hear about but can obviously witness. This is what I liked about Tartt’s writing this time. She made you look for it. Each character is so perfectly molded and so layered that you can re-read passages and psycho-analyze it and it turns out different each time. At least for me.
I love Boris. I really do. I found myself reading his dialogue in choppy Russian accents (which I would NEVER do aloud) and loving him even more. He is so.. I guess Theo called him fearless… he will throw himself into any situation and not care of the outcome. It is what it is. That, my friends, is a talent. I can personally say that I map out everything that I do in fear of retribution, perception, judgment, blah blah blah. What it must be like to be fearless. I imagine your life is not very long.
“Well—I have to say I personally have never drawn such a sharp line between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ as you. For me: that line is often false. The two are never disconnected. One can’t exist without the other. As long as I am acting out of love, I feel I am doing best I know how. But you—wrapped up in judgment, always regretting the past, cursing yourself, blaming yourself, asking ‘what if,’ ‘what if.’ ‘Life is cruel.’ ‘I wish I had died instead of.’ Well—think about this. What if all your actions and choices, good or bad, make no difference to God? What if the pattern is pre-set? No no—hang on—this is a question worth struggling with. What if our badness and mistakes are the very thing that set our fate and bring us round to good? What if, for some of us, we can’t get there any other way?”
Here is where we get into what Theo is saying in the last 20 pages ( Sarah!! Peeking!!!). That old knowledge that we don’t want to acknowledge. Life sucks. It really does. It’s not fair, we learn this fairly early and then we swallow it and we find shiny things to occupy ourselves so we don’t have to think about the shit we’re going through. Ooh, I’m an orphan, can I please get an American Girl doll? It’s about surviving and if we have to survive something, then it mostly like sucks.
Pippa is beautiful. I think that the relationship between Theo and Pippa is so tragic. Screw Catherine and Heathcliff. They have NO IDEA. Imagine surviving such a trauma.. imagine being linked by that and all that it represents. I see how Theo feels Pippa is his salvation, his one true. I see how Pippa can’t let herself do that because of the instability that all that entails. I love that Theo can’t see that until much later, at least he had that light to hold on to. I love that she’s not like Kitsey… although I think I get where Kitsey is coming from. I’m not saying there isn’t hardships with privilege. (minor eye rolling)
Hobie. Oh, Hobie. Everyone should have a Hobie. He is such an amazing character, his charm, his bluster, his naiveté, his grounding. I’m Team Hobie.
“His reassuring hand on my shoulder, a strong, comforting pressure, like an anchor letting me know that everything was okay. I hadn’t felt a touch like that since my mother died—friendly, steadying in the midst of confusing events—and, like a stray dog hungry for affection, I felt some profound shift in allegiance, blood-deep, a sudden, humiliating, eyewatering conviction of this place is good, this person is safe, I can trust him, nobody will hurt me here.”
So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m NOT going to use the ‘Winners never Quit… ‘ line but if you gave up on this, you might want to try again. The writing is elegant, the characters are stunning and the tale will stick with you. My daughter is in NYC this weekend and one of the plan events was a tour called ‘Strange and beautiful things’ and I thought how awesome is that? They were going to tour Chelsea and a folk museum, and go to the Strand… it sounded so lovely. Only 3 people signed up for it so it was canceled. Life sucks.
“That life - whatever else it is - is short. That fate is cruel but maybe not random. That Nature (meaning Death) always wins but that doesn’t mean we have to bow and grovel to it. That maybe even if we’re not always so glad to be here, it’s our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open. And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn’t touch.”
Someone might see what I'm actually thinking during that moment of road rage where my knuckles turn white and my jaw clenches and I start to laugh and laugh and laugh....
The worst thing in the world would be to pretend t know the people whose lives I step through. They cannot be homes to me. They must be hotel rooms.
LeThe worst thing in the world would be to pretend t know the people whose lives I step through. They cannot be homes to me. They must be hotel rooms.
Levithan is revisiting A, the character he introduced us to in Every Day. I suppose this is a prequel that needs to be read as a sequel so you understand A, you can see, be, the six different people that A has chosen you to glimpse.
Again, such beauty. One day does not ever seem enough and to stay detached, to try to not disrupt, to always have to be thinking of the person you are squatting in and not yourself... I don't envy A.
"It's the secret smile you get from knowing that, somewhere, there is someone who is yours. Not in the sense that you own her, or control her. She is yours because you can say anything to her."
Too often we realize this too late.
"The desire to be heard is as deepply seeded as the desire to be loved. So much of the technology we spend our time on is geared toward this. For some people, it doesn't matter who's on the other end."
I want to hug David Levithan. I have since I met A, Nick, Nora... and now I want to meet all of his creations. I may even go back and find which Baby Sitter's Club books he wrote.
I'm a geek.. I'm nerd... I have no life.. but if not living means I can throw myself in a Levithan world, then I'm okay with that. I feel lighter after one of his reads.
This is my first Wally Lamb. I kind of feel bad giving it 3 stars but I kind of can't justify 4. I'm not a fan of first person narrative. I suppose itThis is my first Wally Lamb. I kind of feel bad giving it 3 stars but I kind of can't justify 4. I'm not a fan of first person narrative. I suppose it's because I'm really not sure who the character is talking to. Is it us? Are they just reminiscing and we are the intruders? I spent the first part of this book thinking "Is Annie just hanging around her Soho apartment telling all these things to herself? What is the point?
Then I started to doubt myself as a reader. How many books have I read that are like this and why hadn't I questioned this before? Is this how books are written? Why am I so focused on this? Whenever they come back to the present after some long retelling, it seems like it's only been like five minutes their time. Is this just zoning out? Do I do this?
Yeah. Lots of confusion.
Then I started to actually care about the characters, and boy, can Wally do character development. whoa. How long is this book anyway? So, yeah... I started to like them, Orion mostly, because he's the kind of guy that you want but when you get you sort of resent because he wants to be the protector and the teacher and who is he to think that you need to be taught? It's one of those stupid girl burdens... it looks good on paper but once we have it we treat it like shit. I also liked the back story, the 1950s/60s flashbacks. I wish we had more of Josephus Jones... because he does feel like the thread through all of this and his paintings seem to show a story that really needs telling. It's a shame that he wasn't more developed. So, I really don't have much more to say about this. It was good. I've got a Wally Lamb under my belt. I enjoyed the story even though I didn't know where it was going for the first three parts.
Yep.
Oh wait.. I thought of something else. Another reason for the detachment. I never had adult relationships with parents so this really is fiction for me. I always tend to remove myself from that because it is so foreign. So, there's that. ...more
If I were a less stable person (!!) I could seriously develop an apocalypse complex. It’s the end of the world, and I would not feel fine. I am not a If I were a less stable person (!!) I could seriously develop an apocalypse complex. It’s the end of the world, and I would not feel fine. I am not a doomsday prepper or what have you. I would lie down and submit. You would not find me hunkering down with spam and automatic weapons waiting to meet the ‘end’ head-on. No, no, no… I would not go to there. Fight or flight? I’m outta here.
Yes, the dystopian genre is a draw right now… ever wonder why? Is it generational? I mean.. the cold war kids are all grown… maybe that’s it… maybe they passed it down. Maybe duck and cover drills were like Monopoly night or something. Maybe it’s ingrained in our genes. It’s anybody’s guess, neurosis, prediction, affliction.
I did not realize that The Dog Stars was a post-apocalyptic story. I don’t think that would have hindered my decision to read it, but it wasn’t what I was expecting. The delivery is broken, much like the man. I’d be surprised if there was a sentence longer than 10 words in the first 5 pages. I like that, I think like that. It’s like drum taps. “I am young enough, I am old enough.” Huh. I like that.
Where this differs from other post-apocalyptic novels is that 1) there’s no strong female lead with 2 hotties gunning for her 2) there are no zombies, aliens, vampires, mutations, monsters, fairies, trolls, etc, etc, etc. No, it’s believable. A flu that kills off most of the world’s population, a ‘blood disease’ that kills off another whole bunch and there are the survivors… the in-betweens… the lost. Here is where I start to worry… yeah, this COULD happen. (I’m still not stocking up on dry good, btw.)
Hig, the main character, is definitely lost. He dwells in an abandoned airplane hangar, his only neighbor, companion, local psycho-path, is Bangley. Bangley is what everyone wants around during a world wide epidemic like disaster and no one wants around any other time. He is good with a gun, or let’s say, 100 guns and he has no empathy.. well, almost none. He seems to like Hig. At least Hig hopes he does.
Hig also has Jasper, his dog. Of course, bring in a dog to make this all the more angsty. I’ve seen I am Legend. I know the drill. How he does this, surviving, I do not know. ‘The Fear is like a memory of nausea. You can’t remember how bad it was or that you just about asked to die instead. But I do. ‘ There is a poignancy in Hig’s story and I definitely contribute that to the writing. Many times, I stopped and sighed after a particular sentence, image, retrospection. His loneliness is so significant, I ache for him.
“I used to love to fly like this. Twisting through a canyon fifty feet off the water. Now I don’t feel anything. I feel the way my unwadered legs felt after ten minutes in the snowmelt. Numb and glad to be. Glad to be numb. The difference maybe between the living and the dead: the living often want to be numb the dead never do, if they never want anything.”
I was often reminded of McCarthy’s The Road while reading this. It has the same despair and the same feel in the words. Better to not name things because you don’t know how long they will be there. I get that. I usually swallow that feeling and go a bit Pollyanna, but it’s there. Duck and Cover, my friends.
“Grief is an element. It has its own cycle like the carbon cycle, the nitrogen. It never diminishes not ever. It passes in and out of everything.”
“An old panic rose in my chest. The panic of nightfall, of storm, of being alone on open ground. Surprised the shit out of me.”
“I was a troll who lived at the base of a tree. Looked at the world through a scratchy scrim of needles and branches. Lived on rain, on bits of song and memory.”
Words that can make the goose flesh rise are a rare thing. Something to be treasured. I found myself thinking in Heller’s words and a melancholy would surface. It probably wasn’t a good idea to talk to me while I was reading this.
It’s funny though, there is a hope in all this despair. I mean, he keeps going right, he feels that there is some worth in living, even if he’s not sure of what that might be. I envy him that. I believe that I would not be so strong.
“And in the long evening we’d take the two single gear bikes up the paved road to a stone pothole with a little sluicing waterfall, the water always freezing, and we’d strip and jump in. This was our ritual while we waited for our lived to truly begin and I think now that maybe true sweetness can only happen in limbo. I don’t know why. Is it because we are so unsure, so tentative and waiting? The not knowing anything really, the hoping, the aching transience: This I not real, not really, and so we let it along, let it unfold lightly. Those times that can fly. That’s the way it seems now looking back.”
Hindsight sucks, eh?
I feel like a better person for reading this. I still wouldn’t survive a week in a pandemic situation, but at least I have this under my belt. ...more
"We're not the first, I hope we're not the last. 'Cause I know we're all heading for that adult crash. The time is so little, the time belongs to us. "We're not the first, I hope we're not the last. 'Cause I know we're all heading for that adult crash. The time is so little, the time belongs to us. Why is everybody in such a fucking rush? Make do with what you have. Take what you can get. Pay no mind to us. We're just a minor threat. We're just a minor threat.
Ahh.. sweet memories of stomping around my room raging (as loud as a 15 year old can rage in suburbia without upsetting the ‘rents) Good times. Good times.
Joe Meno has got it down. He’s in the zone. Angst, derived from the german word angst or the dutch word angst. Wiki says:” the word angst is not a loanword as it is in English, but has been in existence long, and is used regularly to express fear.”
In long existence. No shit. Hairstyles of the Damned is centered in Chicago, circa 1991. Anthony, you remember that, right? Brian, the protagonist is around sixteen/seventeen..that normal, hormonal, acne-laden, erection-erupting mess of self doubt. We all remember that..right?
Brian’s scene is the punk/metal crowd. More metal than punk so it was easier for me to distance myself from him, no literary crushes happening here, and that is what made this book more than your average angst story to me. I lived in that crowd.
We took the greyhound to Boston every Sunday to attend all ages punk shows. I was 15, these shows were at 1pm, it all worked out.. catering to the youth. That time is such a staple for who I am now.. so so many bands, so much moshing, so much drama.
Meno gets it right, we were worse than the jocks/cheerleaders.. we were much harsher on each other.. ‘Your uniqueness is not cool enough for us’. There was one group of punks that always caught my eye. They were definitely part of the cool crowd. The hung outside the club in their leather jackets and torn fishnets, with just the right hair and makeup. The boy was beautiful.. blonde, dreadlocked, pale.. I always looked forward to seeing them and sort of mulling around their coolness. Well, this one weekend, we were staying at a friend’s dorm and didn’t have to worry about curfew or anything, after the show, Robyn met up with this cool crowd outside. SHE KNEW THEM! I was so freaking nervous, I hid behind my bangs while she talked to them… Next thing, we’re going to hang with them. No. Freaking. Way. We followed through the streets of Cambridge at one point cutting through a office building, I’m not sure the point of this.. but they wanted to take the elevator.. just to do it, I suppose.. so, there we are, waiting. The doors open and they jump in and block the entrance for me and my friend. ‘Only people wearing leather can ride in this elevator’.
Huh? Wait. Um… what about the unity, the common hatred for the bland? Meno gets it: “We were the lucky ones we had it all figured out. We had somehow managed to avoid being brainwashed by reckless corporations and it was our right-our destiny-to help by eliminating every bad cassette in the mall parking lot, tape by tape, car by car, day by day.”
My thickly black eyelinered eyes were opened. We were mall rats who liked to dress up and think we were better than everyone else. We spent hours, and hundreds of cans of Aquanet, making sure our hair stood just right. We spent our allowance on the new Misfits album, or the new Dead Kennedys.. we danced and roared and understood none of it. God, I hate my punk rock self.
“I think a lot of these punk kids we know are fucking poseurs,” I said. “I think most of them, they just do whatever, you know, to fit in. It’s like a totally mindless act. Like Kim, it’s all about fucking fashion.”
"What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how you two guys are like the most close-minded people I know, I said “you don’t even know what punk is about, you know? You just dress like it because you were like a loser and it, like, gave you someone to be after junior high, something to belong to, you know?”
Wow. Slap in the face. This is so sad.. I want to hit my 15 year old self with my black light but she’d probably like it and like write a poem about it.
I wasn’t lying when I said that this time in my life formed who I am. Those shows… watching Kevin Seconds make the moshing pit push back so a little punk girl wasn’t crushed against the stage.. seeing Ian Makaye yell at a bunch of assholes who were cheering during “Suggestion”.
I learned a lot about myself and what I wanted my life to be about. These bands gave me inspiration and made me study events or movements that mattered to them.. that should matter to all. I wouldn’t change it.. even the ‘x’s that I shaved into the sides of my head to announce my straight edged-ness.
The reason that I only gave this book 3 stars (should really be like 3.8) is that I felt that Meno was getting all Breakfast Clubby up in my face. I need no moral tale; I just liked the re-visitation of that slice of life.
He does mention this one scene when Brian is watching Night of the Living Dead and he’s describing the scene:
“ There was this one scene where the hero, this young black dude, and the heroine, this kind of high-strng white girl, are like hiding out in this old farmhouse trying to avoid being strangled by hundreds of zombies, right , and it turns out that in the cellar or basement of the farmhouse, well there are all these other people, white people, and they were hiding down there and they knew what the fuck was going on upstairs but they didn’t help the back guy and white chick, and so the black guy starts yelling at this dude who is kind of middle-aged and blue collar, the leader of the white people who were all chicken-shit, and the whit dude says something like “We were in a safe place. Are you telling me we were supposed to leave our safe place just to help someone out?”
I am a horrible person (ME.ME.ME.ME.ME.ME). I am worse than a horrible person. I am a killer. I am worse than a killer. I am a killer of dreams.
My dau I am a horrible person (ME.ME.ME.ME.ME.ME). I am worse than a horrible person. I am a killer. I am worse than a killer. I am a killer of dreams.
My daughter, Marley, was about 3 when she introduced me to Hartluv. At first I thought that there were some hippy parents who subjected their child to this moniker. Maybe someone in her pre-school class but then I thought, we live in Manchester, NH. No one is that bright or weird in Manchester, NH. (we were planning our escape). It went like this:
Marley: Mom, Hartluv wants to go to the park. Me: Wha? Marley: Hartluv.wants.to.go.to.the.park. Me: Harley? Marley: (rolls eyes) Heart. Love. Me: Is that a person? Marley: She is my friend. Me: From school? Marley: (sighs) No. She lives with us. She’s right here. Me: (blank face)
Okay. I handled it well from there on. I played a long with Hartluv. I let her swing on the swings; I made a cake for her birthday, ½ birthday, sad day, etc… Hartluv told Marley she was a superhero, so Marley would introduce herself as Marley Doubleday, MD, Superhero. (she wanted to be a doctor, it was a compromise). Hartluv was a constant for about 2 years. Marley actually had 101 imaginary friends, including PianoTalk, Treeko (her stuffed animal but very prominent) . Then, one day I was upset/bad day/tired/stressed—typical mom stuff—and I didn’t set a place for Hartluv at dinner. Marley was upset and I couldn’t take it..
“Hartluv is NOT REAL!”
Quiet. Even Emily, the older sister who always made fun of Hartluv stopped. Marley looked at me and started to cry. Great. I suck. I tried to make it up to her, but Marley didn’t talk about Hartluv very much anymore, I know she was still around because I would hear Marley playing with her, but she didn’t mention her. When Marley was 7, I asked her about Hartluv. “She’s gone.” Then walked away. I asked her about Hartluv when she was 13 and she rolled her eyes. I killed Hartluv.
I don’t think I had an imaginary friend. I kinda hate myself for that. Was I not imaginative enough? Did I have one and forget? I feel like I missed out. Matthew Dicks takes this concept and molds it in a being, Budo, who is an imaginary friend to Max, who is autistic. Budo helps Max live on the outside, when all Max wants is to live inside. He helps him choose what color shirt to wear, what kind of soup to eat; he helps him fall asleep at night. Budo is as real as Max, he was imagined smart, he looks human, and he can walk through doors and windows because Max wants him to. Some imaginary friends that Budo meets are not so human. Wooly is a paper doll, Teeny is a fairy, Klute is a bobblehead. Spoon is a spoon. But they are real to their imaginers and to each other and they die. They are not needed anymore and they begin to fade away and then they die. I freakin’ cried buckets each time one was lost. I think that everyone should have an imaginary friend forever so they can live and help you and guard you and tell you what to wear. I want my own Hartluv.
I want my own Budo, Klute, Oswald, Graham, Teeny, Spoon, Summer, Puppy. I want Blu.
I want them to be remembered always, to love ‘em and hold ‘em and squeeze and never stop.
I love this story. I love the way it speaks, the way it holds you, the beauty of the friendships.
I remember the first time I read Self-Help and when I picked up Lust and Other Stories. There was this intimidation, this contempt, this other sadness I remember the first time I read Self-Help and when I picked up Lust and Other Stories. There was this intimidation, this contempt, this other sadness. I wanted to be this good. I wanted to crawl, to burrow into the reader and make myself known.
Dammit.
Gaitskill's collection creeps in like that... at first I was kind of bored. I wasn't impressed with the beginning stories.. it was what I had been experiencing this entire year with the books that I've chosen to read. Meh. But, with Mirror Ball I began to feel that clenching, that annoying jealousy. With an opening line "He took her soul--though, being a secular-minded person, he didn't think of it that way." I was right back at that growling, mewling MINE stage.
Seriously, this sucks.
I am not a good person, I want to applaud these women, I want to feel some sisterly bonding with them, but I know that if I had the chance, I would so pull their hair and scratch at their eyes.
I am the effaced soul on the musician's floor, I am the agonized face, I am the monsters, the demons, the Alzheimer's, the malaria ridden day laborer, the stupid trysts.
Once again, I am reminded of how lucky I am that I shuffled off this dysfunctional family coil. There are times, I admit, that I feel I might have den Once again, I am reminded of how lucky I am that I shuffled off this dysfunctional family coil. There are times, I admit, that I feel I might have denied my children the opportunity of Rockwellian holidays but then I presently slap myself in the face and say ‘Right… Griswoldian, if I’m fucking lucky, would be more appropriate.
“Tragedy rewritten as farce” is a phrase that Franzen uses within the story. Yes, this is so. I found myself giggling and then wanting to flog myself because ‘it’s not funny’ not if this is your family. I was spared/robbed/spared of dealing with my parents as an adult. I don’t even want to think about what kind of relationship I would have had with them… I can’t see myself being very patient with their ignorance or blindness or wondering why I left New Hampshire (seriously? You ask have to ask?)
On the whole, I like The Lamberts. I like Alfred and the kids, Gary, Chipper, and Denise. Enid. Yeah, well… not so much. Until she is loaded up on illegal meds, then I can tolerate her. Franzen’s depictions are solid. Their stories are just shy of incredible that they have to be believable. The writing, oh the writing… I almost wanted to use my Gen X defensiveness and call him a ‘hipster’ but when someone can say this: He turned to the doorway where she’d appeared. He began a sentence: “I am---“ but when he was taken by surprise, every sentence became an adventure in the woods; as soon as he could no longer see the light of the clearing from which he’d entered, he would realize that the crumbs he’d dropped for bearings had been eaten by birds, silent deft darting things which he couldn’t quite see in the darkness but which were so numerous and swarming in their hunger that it seemed as if they were the darkness, as if the darkness weren’t uniform, weren’t an absence of light but a teeming and corpuscular thing, and indeed when as a studios teenager he’d encountered the word ‘crepuscular’ in McKay’s Treasury of English Verse, the corpuscles of biology had bled into his understanding of the words, so that for his entire adult life he’d seen in twilight a corpuscularity, as of the graininess of the high-speed film necessary for photography under conditions of low ambient light, as of a kind of sinister decay,; and hence the panic of a man betrayed deep in the woods whose darkness was the darkness of starlings blotting out the sunset or black ants storming a dead opossum, a darkness that didn’t just exist but actively consumed the bearings that he’d sensible established for himself, lest he be lost; but in the instant of realizing he was lost, time became marvelously slow and he discovered hitherto unguessed eternities in the space between one word and the next, or rather he became trapped in that space between words and could only stand and watch as time sped on without him, the thoughtless boyish part of him crashing on out of sight blindly through the woods while he, trapped, the grownup Al, watched in oddly impersonal suspense to see if the panic-stricken little boy might, despite no longer knowing where he was or at what point he’d entered the woods of this sentence, still manage to blunder into the clearing where Enid was waiting for him, unaware of any woods---“packing my suitcase,’ he heard himself say. This sounded right. Verb, possessive, noun. Here was as suitcase in front of him, an important confirmation. He betrayed nothing.
Fuck. Hate him.
And that… that… was describing the onset of Parkinson’s….. holy shit. I really wanted to hate him. I wanted to take his Shopenhauer references and stick them in Al’s phantasmagorian growth. Hellz yeah, I be jealous. Tots.
Franzen’s care in giving just enough illumination of each of the children to relate back to their parentage is incredible. How Chip’s distrust and disgust for capitalism and the corporate world’s hold on the average joe’s superego leads him to sleep with an underage student… a ‘trust fund product of hippies’ that leads to his demise and decision to write bogus economic advertisements to mislead Americans to send money to Lithuania for the opportunity to have streets named after them. All normal.
Gary’s story… Gary’s concern with being labeled ‘depressed’ is my favorite. Gary is the oldest, the one that is supposed to succeed… supposed to be the carbon copy of what the next generation does…and drink himself into that belief.
“he estimated that his levels of Neurofactor 3 (i.e.; serotonins: a very very important factor) were posting seven day or even thirty day highs, that his Factor 2 and Factor 7 levels were likewise outperforming expectations, and that his factor 1 had rebounded from an early-morning slump related to the glass of Armagnac he’d drunk at bedtime. He had a spring in his step, an agreeable awareness of his above-average height and his late-summer suntan. His resentment of his wife, Caroline, was moderate and well contained. Declines led advances in key indices of paranoia (e.g.; his persistent suspicion that Caroline and his two older sons were mocking him), and his seasonally adjusted assessment of life’s futility and brevity was consistent with the overall robustness of his mental economy. He was not the least bit clinically depressed.”
Denise, the youngest, the most guilt ridden of the three, is also quite interesting. Her motivation in life seems to be centered on the fact that she was beautiful, talented, want-for-nothing, and hated herself for it. Her never-ending unknowing quest to destroy herself by sleeping with people who she feels would never otherwise have what she has leads her down paths near lunacy… all the while holding herself up as a world renowned chef and all around nice girl.
I can’t do these descriptions justice. I’ve read so much Franzen that words are stringing themselves together on their own and not nearly at the fluency or perspicacity that he can give us.
Enid… now Enid, I can tell you I despise… I have read and seen too many Enids in my time (read more than seen since I am a booknerd). She is manipulative, she sees herself blameless, she concocts stories to impress neighbors, she has that tone.. that tone of vindictiveness that makes me want to wrap my hands around her oil of O’lay laden neck and squash.
“To Enid, at this moment came a vision of rain. She saw herself in a house with no walls; to keep the weather out, all she had was tissue. And here came the rain from the east, and she tacked up a tissue version of Chip and his exciting new job as a reporter. Here it came from the west and the tissue was how handsome and intelligent Gary’s boys were and how much she loved them. The wind shifted, and she ran to the north side of the house with such shreds of tissue as Denise afforded: how she’d married too young but was older and wiser now and enjoying great success as a restaurateur and hoping to meet the right your man! And then the rain cam blasting up from the south, the tissue disintegrating even as she insisted that Al’s impairments were very mild and he’d be find if he’d just work on his attitude and get his drugs adjusted, and it rained harder and harder and she was so tired,, and all she had was tissue----“
Maybe I’m afraid that I will become Enid. That I will hold my regrets and hostilities in until I feel justified in making others carry it. God, I really hope not. I don’t want to be Alfred either, with his woods and his hallucinations and just out of reach is since sense of what is right and wrong. Yes, this book made me afraid. If my kids grow up feeling that immediate family is the ONLY family, I will understand. Because, I’m sure at about that time, my Enid like alter ego will be making an appearance and that middle school CDC education will regurgitate out and my poor poor grandchildren will suffer. No way, Jose… keep them away.
“I leave it to your discretion” was Alfred’s go to sentence and I will use it here. I leave it to you to delve into this maladjusted family. Beware of the self-insight that follows, the neurosis, the sense of failing, the relief, the combustion of tears, the guffaws.
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