2023 #39: Glassworks (Wolfgang-Smith)

 

Glassworks by Olivia Wolfgang-Smith
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Honestly, this book is absolutely between 3 and 4 stars for me. I could give each part of the book its own rating. Like Michael Cunningham's Specimen Days, the book has separate sections that almost alone, but are also interconnected. While I appreciate what Wolfgang-Smith tried to do in terms of style (adjusting the narrative style to the time period/circumstances of each section), I did not feel that approach was terribly successful.

In the first section we meet Agnes and Ignace. While slow to build in plot, this is where Wolfgang-Smith's gift for language is on full display. Written with a beautifully archaic elegance, there are moments of stunning simile: "If Ignace heard the menace in her voice, he did not signal it. She curdled in it herself--the spite she had absorbed and music now express to survive, like some blind and slimy subterranean creature." Like a gothic novel, we gain tremendous insights into the dark nights of the character's souls, whether driven by depression, abuse, or just the murky trenches of human existence. Agnes, in particular, is an astoundingly robust character who transforms with a self-consciousness that is honest: "She understood the appeal now, of this brand of abuse. There was an evil comfort in it." While the book could not have ended with the first section, I do wish we had simply extended the story of Agnes and Ignace because what followed really diminished my love for the book.

The second section does tie directly to Agnes and Ignace, who, for reasons not fully explained--but implied--have undergone a transformation from people we might care about to aloof artisans who are terrible parents. That in and of itself might have been interesting, but the section focuses on their son Edward. His lack of self-esteem, obviously a symptom of his upbringing, began to wear thin. At least initially, his love interest Charlotte was a far more engaging character, and just seemed to make Edward's self-disparagement and impulsive behavior all the more irritating. Then, Charlotte, too, transforms. These change of characters are a theme, as it turns out, and I found myself wanting to just gather them all in a room and take stock of where everyone started and where they wound up. That isn't a criticism and was in fact one of the aspects that kept me going. And even in this section of the book, we get wonderful, highlight-worthy sentences: "It was like Edward had traded his soul for seventy-two hours of tin-pan euphoria." Chef's kiss.

Edward's last years provide a quiet, almost invisible, backdrop as we meet his legacy in the third section. Wolfgang-Smith skillfully retraces her steps just enough to answer some questions that are important for everything else that comes later. It is when the character of Novak attends a Broadway play and meets Cecily that I felt things started to unravel a bit. Novak goes from a slightly grouchy realist to an obsessive savior figure and while there are enough psychological clues as to why, I didn't care enough about the focus of her obsession to want to keep following. The end of that section just went a bit off the rails for me.

Finally the book ends with the story of Flip. Here there are some very well crafted "hints" where Wolfgang-Smith drops something in passing, and we only later realize the significance. I loved that part of this final section. Flip and Tabitha are twins, and relate to the other three parts in a less direct, but interesting way. The problem is that Flip is even less likeable than young Edward, so again I was faced with a pathetic and tiresome "protagonist." By the time she transforms, it really didn't feel like enough, and the last section of the book was hard to finish.

Ultimately, however, I'm glad I did finish. I suspect other readers might resonate less with the first part, and more with the last, or the middle two sections. And I applaud the effort here, particularly since I believe this is a first novel--it is a hugely ambitious undertaking to write across four generations, shifting both style and plot directions. I will eagerly pick up Wolfgang-Smith's next novel, because her capacity for crafting beautiful sentences is some of the best I've encountered. The title of the book is fitting on many levels, and the book is very strong in some ways, but even a beautiful kaleidoscope can become too dizzying.

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2023 #38: Lessons in Chemistry (Garmus)

 

Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

As I began reading this book, I was prepared to wind up with a "meh" for an overall review. I was wrong.
Elizabeth Zott is a heroine in her own time, and ours. We need not work hard to translate the sexist transgressions of the 50s and 60s to today. Maybe we don't fully identify with Elizabeth, but Garmus provides Calvin, Harriet, Mad, Walter, and even Six-Thirty to fill in the gaps. Writing omniscient narration for the dog provided something more than whimsy. There's truth in animal sense. Six-Thirty is the sage observer, and the little windows we get into Six-Thirty's mind are sometimes as heart-wrenching as they are smile-inducing.

I am mildly sympathetic to the fatigue expressed by some regarding feminists being cast as social misfits, but I feel this particular character is a real opportunity to understand neurodiversity and how one's calling and focus can shape how they relate to the world. This is why Calvin and Elizabeth find each other. I can also see how some expected an easy beach read, but discovered some really crushing scenes of the terrifying reality that many women face. Garmus owes no one an apology, from my perspective. It is exactly that these scenes are interwoven into more comical and lighthearted engagement that makes this such an excellent book. The cover's mid-century vintage design might belie the true nature of the book, but isn't that the entire point? It encapsulates the status of women in the 1950s it its use of that art.

There are yes, a few bra-burning clichés of feminist narratives, but they are used sparingly and with care toward the protagonist's character, so they seem plausible and less like clichés. What appears at first to be the central relationship of the book, is soon supplanted by a "it takes a village" story that includes villagers with secrets and skeletons aplenty, but who are ultimately so human in their stumbling and bumbling and sometimes successful attempts at growth.

An absolute favorite book for me.

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2023 #37: Other Birds (Allen)

 

Other Birds by Sarah Addison Allen
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This is a really beautiful book, peppered with just enough magical realism to keep things interesting. Zoey, the protagonist, is so very like-able. As is Charlotte. There’s even a Boo Radley type and I’m impressed that this character has one denouement moment, but remains a mystery at the end—she doesn’t change, but the people in her orbit, and how they relate to her, do. That’s nuanced.

These "other birds," joined by Mac and Frasier, create their own flock, and that's ultimately the point of the book. But along the way, there are painful histories, ghosts--real and imagined, and a special "bird" named Pigeon.

There are some artful reveals, and those that should be obvious, but might not be. The book is slightly weakened by an unevenness in narrative--there are times when we aren't quite sure whose story is center stage because there's a bit of stream-of-consciousness jumping from one character to the next. Ultimately, however, the real value is in how Allen doesn't resort to cliché--what typically detonates fizzles out instead, and we are left satisfied with the unanswered questions just as we must be in real life in order to grow and have meaningful relationships.

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2023 #36 The Four Winds (Hannah)

 

The Four Winds by Kristin Hannah
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

As someone who grew up in California, I find it deeply shameful that my education (which was in many ways excellent) did not address nor talk about the horrors of the Dustbowl and the migrants who came West seeking refuge. Sure, there was mention of Cesar Chavez and the Delano Table Grape strike at some point, but other than that, if you had asked me who the "Okies" were, I could not have told you until much later in life, when Dorothea Lange's famous photograph "Migrant Mother" (1936) finally posted on my radar screen. Kristin Hannah's beautiful novel helps to give voice to the Americans who were so mistreated--by local governments, by the Federal government, by private interests--and in so doing unearths a pattern of power that has plagued us since the first colonists oppressed and stole land from indigenous peoples.

The story is generational as well...Elsa Martinelli works hard not to recommit the sins of her unloving and abusive parents, and each new challenge adds dimension and growth to her character. Elsa's daughter Loreda navigates abandonment while also slowly shaping her own sense of justice. Elsa's in-laws represent the deep connection farmers have to the land, and the faith they hold on to that it will provide--even when it does not. Hannah writes of community in the darkest hours--whether it is a kindred soul in a tent-city, a handful of folks with the courage of their convictions, or a librarian surreptitiously providing access to education. Her characters are strong and vibrant, set against beautifully rendered scenery (some of it gorgeous, some of it awful).

[VERY MILD SPOILER IN NEXT PARAGRAPH]
The American Dream is very real, and Hannah exposes the rips and tattered shreds alongside the hope and abundance. The Great Depression is in the past, yes, but it would be folly not to understand the legacy of its narratives. My only true disappointment with the book is the deaths, as there are but two major ones--both women--and I think it (slightly) undermines the celebration of women that is the spine of the story, but it is recompensed by the unresolved disappearance of someone who seems like he might be a major character. Hannah artfully turns the road of the narrative from where it might have gone at the outset and centers it on the story of Elsa.

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2023 #35: These Precious Days (Patchett)

 

These Precious Days: Essays by Ann Patchett
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

"People want you to want what they want. If you want the same things they want, their want is validated. If you don't want the same things, your lack of wanting can, to certain people, come across as judgement." (143).

This is just one of many tremendous insights (this one from "There Are No Children Here") tucked into this marvelous series of essays. Patchett writes with honesty that is neither brutal nor saccharine in its emotion. From "Three Fathers", where Patchett narrates navigating paternal relationships with her mother's three husbands, to "Flight Plan", where she articulates so beautifully the relationship between fear, love, and anger, these essays are as intimate as they are universal in the way they express multifaceted humanity. Patchett makes us want to look more deeply at our own lives, whether it is the mundane stuff we decided to keep or toss ("My Year of No Shopping", "The Nightstand"), or the relationships that just happen, redirecting our lives in ways we don't anticipate. It is this last area where Patchett's writing shines the most. The title essay, "These Precious Days" is the longest essay and tells the story of Patchett's friend Sooki, whom she first met as Tom Hanks's assistant. Much as she often does in her fiction, it is the conversations and the small moments that draw us in, rather than the rhetorical denouements and anticipated endings so common in narratives. The essays are best read in order, capturing what at first glance seems a whimsical curation of musings and soon reveals itself to be a carefully crafted meditation on exactly these (or this) precious days. Fans of Patchett's fiction will find several of these essays particularly enriching, both in providing some back story (particularly about The Dutch House) and illuminating the author's process, devotion to her craft, and relationship with life itself.

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2023 # 34 The Dutch House (Patchett)

 

The Dutch House by Ann Patchett
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This novel succeeds because the characters are believable and in some ways, ordinary. In Danny and Maeve Conroy we have two siblings, the former who grows up in The Dutch House, and the latter who chooses to play the role of mother to her younger brother. This is not a strange and esoteric tale, but the nuances that Patchett weaves into her characters makes this a powerful narrative. Danny Conroy learns how to negotiate his past in all his decisions, and the skillful back and forth of past and present lays bare how much of living is this constant dance with our past. He can't escape his father's paternalism, foisting a house on his wife and children much in the same way his father did to Danny's mother. He's at the mercy of his sister, who sets him on a path that is very much about her desire to get revenge. Maeve is headstrong and rebellious. Their mother makes a deeply misguided decision that impacts their lives forever. Their stepmother, Andrea, is perhaps the most archetypal, although she too gets recast in the latter half of the book. Even with all these traumatic situations, however, Patchett manages to illuminate the messiness of love.

As the main narrator, Danny seems almost unfazed, seemingly a passive participant in his own life. But this is what makes the story so compelling--we are allowed to bring our own backgrounds into the experience. When Danny says, "Thinking about the past impeded my efforts to be decent in the present" (304), I had to stop reading for a bit, reflecting upon when I, too, had this realization. Danny has astoundingly beautiful turns of phrase and uses of metaphor that spring forward without preamble, made all the more potent by the lack of emotional window dressing. Likewise, one of the most tragic losses in the book happens without drama or ceremony--a sentence at the end of a chapter, the final item on life's great checklist.

This is a remarkable book that should be savored and read carefully. Anyone who has a mixed or blended family will likely relate to much of the book and even those that don't should appreciate the multi-dimensional, heart-wrenchingly human characters.

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