Here is a story of a suburbia. A middle-aged woman marries a much younger man after her first husband dies, and . . . Never mind the plot, because as the introduction tells us, the author is ‘bored by narrative. ‘
Usually this kind of thing is RED FLAG for me, but Taylor is such a fine writer she makes it work. Try this, of the teenage son coming home late:
Tom walked up the drive, treading silently on the grass verge, let himself in quietly and crept upstairs. The house was night-quiet. They were all as fast asleep as innkeepers of an afternoon. They dreamt their innocent, middle-aged dreams and rested their aging bones
And try this, on his mother’s thoughts when this same son rolls his eyes at her:
They condescend, Kat thought. They behave like people who are trying hard not to be snobbish.. . They are appalled for us that we are middle aged.
Or this, on a son’s reaction to having to talk about his mother:
His fists seemed to be tightened in readiness, lest anyone should find her as absurd as he did . . .
It’s wonderful, sharply observed writing. Particularly heartbreaking is our occasional insights into the mind of the family cook, who is really quite despairing on her life, but somehow carries on cooking. Taylor uses the word ‘courageous’ about how she faces some potatoes in a way that made me want to tear up.
I got up in Wikipedia to try and figure out why a writer of this quality is not more famous. I found no straightforward answer, but I think it is probably down to her being perceived as too mumsy. She lived an almost incredibly bourgeouis life in the London suburbs, and I guess being the wife and mother of bankers is not as interesting as being an actual banker. (Side bar, I am sure this was half the problem for Hilary Clinton too. Fundamentally, people don’t want their mothers to succeed). In any case, it is interesting to see about her process (thanks to the Atlantic for the information):
She said “I dislike much travel or change of environment and prefer the days … to come round almost the same, week after week.”. . . That steady rhythm allowed for her regular and admirable output—although she began to publish only when she was 34, wrote “slowly and without enjoyment, and think it all out when I am doing the ironing,” and regularly put her work aside to attend to her children and household (!), she produced 12 novels, four story collections, and one children’s book in 30 years