Tag: fiction

In this novel a man goes off to live his dreams.  He ends up dead.  Why is this so often the way?  I suspect on some level we don’t want to read about someone leaving their life to do something crazy and it ending well.  Because that raises questions about our own life.

Michael convinces his wife to go sailing for a year with their small children.  He does not know much about sailing, and his wife is resistant at first, and also at last.  But they do it. As the husband says, to the many people who raise objections:

. . I think there’s something wrong with the line of thought that it’s reasonable to defer your modest dream for several decades.  What are we, characters in a Greek myth?  Waiting for the eagle who comes to our liver every day because in a Greek myth, that’s normal?

SEA WIFE is about their year at sea, but also about their marriage.  At first your sympathy is with the wife, because truly the husband does seem kind of crazy, and he apparently voted for Trump.  Over time though, I had to say I came round to his side, because the wife really is useless and whiney.  She is horrified to find they are in debt, because as she explains:   

I never asked questions about money

As if this is a reasonable excuse!  How about you are an adult?  Like what is the guy supposed to do? She also is relentlessly lazy about learning to sail, and then when the husband gets Dengue fever mid-ocean she acts like a lost puppy.  I mean why did Emmeline Pankhurst even bother?

It’s been a long time since I read a book that had a straightforward happy ending.  I enjoyed it: it gave me hope.  Modern literature never ends on “Reader, I married him.”  More like: “Reader, I married him.  And that was the beginning of our problems.”  It’s like we can’t accept that there can be such a thing as happiness – it always has to be equivocal, and coloured by upcoming death. It’s like we think we are too good for happiness.

WRITERS AND LOVERS is about a woman in her thirties who is deeply in debt (student loans), recently bereaved (her mother), recently dumped (poet!), and has been working on her first novel for six long years, with no end in sight.  She pays the bills by waiting tables.  Clearly Lily King has waited tables, because there is a lot of detail on this, and I gained a lot more respect for what is involved in waiting tables. 

Here she is thinking about this ex-boyfriend, or was he a boyfriend, this was part of the problem:

You taste like the moon, Luke said out in that field in the Berkshires. Fucking poet.  On the path a few people are holding hands, drinking from bottles, lying in the grass because they can’t see all the green goose poop. 

For all she is now so miserable she has two competing suitors, and much of the book involves her going back and forth between them.  She also receives rejections for her novel, and I was reminded how many people sacrifice hugely so we eventually get to those few people who manage to do something wonderful.  It’s like the gods of art demand blood.

 At one point she starts to have what appears to be a breakdown.  This for me is always a red flag: here we go with ‘dream sequence’ type writing, but we avoid this.  She sells her novel, she chooses her man: happily ever after. 

Here is an unusual and enjoyable apocalypse.  People are infected by a fungus that slowly removes their higher functions, so that eventually they are only able to go through the routines of their life, repeating familiar loops, till they die of exhaustion/starvation.  It’s weirdly poetic, with – for example – a single Gap store remaining pristine, because one of ‘the fevered’ is stuck in a routine there, endlessly folding and refolding. 

The protagonist, Candace, is just getting dumped by her boyfriend as the book begins.  He wants to be an artist, and doesn’t want to have to have a ‘job.’  Candace also wants to be an artist, and also doesn’t want to have a job, but is more on the realistic suck-it-up end of the spectrum.  The infection comes out of China (this book is really eerily Covid-y), and she agrees to stay as the skeleton staff in her office in New York, enjoying the familiarity of her routines as the city empties. 

Eventually she escapes the city and falls in with a group of survivors, the leader of whom very quickly loses his sense of proportion.  One of the members of their group visits her childhood home and almost immediately gets stuck in a loop.  Apparently familiarity is a trigger:

The past is a black hole, cut into the present day like a wound, and if you come too close, you can get sucked in.

Don’t need a pandemic to learn that. 

So a mysterious and interesting book, albeit with some unnecessary and exceedingly woke sidebars about capitalism and immigration.  This concept of your routine as both comforting and deadly I keep thinking about.  As she says towards the end:

To live in a city is to live the life that it was built for, to adapt to its schedule and rhythms, to move within the transit layout made for you during the morning and evening rush, winding through the crowds of fellow commuters. To live in a city is to consume its offerings. To eat at its restaurants. To drink at its bars. To shop at its stores. To pay its sales taxes. To give a dollar to its homeless.
To live in a city is to take part in and to propagate its impossible systems. To wake up. To go to work in the morning. It is also to take pleasure in those systems because, otherwise, who could repeat the same routines, year in, year out?

I feel there is something important about this, but I can’t quite figure out what it is

In this book, the general principle that you will feel better after a nap is here taken to its extreme.  A young woman is tired and miserable, so she decides to go to sleep.  For a year.  She does this by finding an irresponsible psychiatrist and medicating herself in dangerous ways.

This lady is a major hater, and much of the enjoyment of this book is seeing how she goes about her hating.  Let me make one extensive quotation to give you a flavour:

 “Dudes” reading Nietzsche on the subway, reading Proust, reading David Foster Wallace, jotting down their brilliant thoughts into a black Moleskine pocket notebook. Beer bellies and skinny legs, zip-up hoodies, navy blue peacoats or army green parkas, New Balance sneakers, knit hats, canvas tote bags, small hands, hairy knuckles, maybe a deer head tattooed across a flabby bicep . . . They would come into Ducat, the gallery I ended up working at, with their younger—usually Asian—girlfriends. “An Asian girlfriend means the guy has a small dick,” Reva once said. I’d hear them talk shit about the art. They lamented the success of others. They thought that they wanted to be adored, to be influential, celebrated for their genius, that they deserved to be worshipped. But they could barely look at themselves in the mirror. They were all on Klonopin, was my guess. 

Truly it was hilarious.  There is lots of hating like this.  I haven’t read pure joyful rage like this since LUCKY JIM (side bar, I bet there aren’t too many reviewers connecting those two books). 

Of course the obvious question about this book is about the rent, and how she paid it.  Answer, rich parents.  You got to swallow that one down to enjoy the book, and it’s a tough one.  But there you go: rich people even get to have better misery than poor people.

This aside, I enjoyed MY YEAR OF REST AND RELAXATION, though fair warning, it does not resolve.  At the end of the year, in the last few pages, she wakes up, suddenly feels better, and then, for no reason, 9/11 happens. I mean, I nearly laughed.  Never mind, endings are hard.