As a working* mother, I’ve found my literary tastes have changed. Not drastically, I still lean towards 19th century English novels (or whatever of them I still haven’t re-read at this point), but I’ve found that:
- I have almost completely dispensed with reader quitter guilt
- I have a very hard time stomaching suspense, descriptions of pure evil reveling in pain, or any descriptions of child abuse
The latter came quite naturally as my pregnancy hormones increased, as did a propensity to weep at the texts in Hallmark cards in the CVS aisle or during a particularly moving Grammarly commercial on YouTube, which caused a flood of tears in my work cubicle. The former, learning how to stop reading a book that I don’t find enjoyable, was a more organic process born out of a lack of novel-reading time and an increasing sense that my leisure time was a rare and precious commodity, no longer to be squandered. Still, there reverberated in me the sense that I owed an author the chance to fully understand and appreciate their book, the fruit of both an introverted reader childhood and a major in English literature. The sunk cost fallacy also came into play. However, recently, I’ve been able to more easily relegate books to the ‘never to be finished’ pile, which used to hold the lone copy of “Moby Dick”. (Has anyone ever read it till the end and enjoyed it? If so, please tell me how/why.)
On a work trip to Charleston, a local librarian (amidst the many who were milling about at the librarian conference I attended) recommended I check out the work of Pat Conroy, the great stalwart of late 20th century Southern literature, or so I was told. Admittedly, I had read nothing of his before, so I chose a particularly hefty-looking volume, The Prince of Tides, in hopes that it would sustain me on the plane ride home and draw me in as completely as had Ann Patchett’s Commonwealth on the way out.
However, it was not to be. The novel was engaging and lyrically written. The characters were well-drawn and sharp, fighting through depictions that in the pen of a lesser author would have hinged on stereotypical (for instance, a beautiful and brilliant Jewish New York City psychiatrist). The dialogue flowed well, although at times was a bit drawn-out. The setting – an island off the South Carolina coast – could also have played a significant role, almost as a character itself. But there was too much violence and too much horror. After the first hundred pages filled with flashbacks to a childhood that could not possibly have been more traumatic (which included physical, verbal and emotional abuse of children, graphic descriptions of a giant stalker, etc.), I drew the line at the stillborn children being placed in the freezer before they could be found a place of rest. An additional nail to the coffin was the fact that these horrible parents were atypically Catholic, and I feel the author could have spared himself some cheap shots at the religion whose tenets the parents obviously did not actually practice. Perhaps the author and the characters redeem themselves at some later point in the book – I don’t have enough capacity, curiosity or strong stomach to find out.
In contrast to that is the book Commonwealth by Ann Patchett. It touches on a few dramatic and traumatic events, essentially stemming from the breakdown of two families marred by an infidelity and ensuing divorces. The novel, while lengthy, is a masterpiece of a story, with each character’s perspective serving to further dissect the family dynamics and slowly unravel the central mystery of the novel. While the childhoods described are also far less than idyllic, they are not over-exaggerated. The sadness of broken family ties and the tedium of a romance gone flat, boring, and overwhelmed with the minute details of life with kids are hinted at, rather than clearly drawn. An example of this is the scene were the ‘cheater’ mom waits in the summer heat for her stepkids’ luggage to show up on the luggage carousel – only to find that their mother had spitefully sent them without any for their summer visit to her ex-husband. In a way, without moralizing or preaching, Patchett shows the utter destruction that infidelity and divorce can wreck on not just the original families involved, but on the romance itself. Ennui, frustration, disillusionment, some measure of guilt, and the practical implications of blowing up six children’s daily lives eat away at the newly-formed couple, slowly, unspectacularly, like moths attacking a closet until one day the owner finds no piece of clothing unmarred, and some items completely disintegrating upon touch.
The attention to detail and slowly steady build up of drama do not mean that Commonwealth is boring. Far from it. Readers get intimately introduced to the characters’ thoughts and dreams, and their way of relating to each other and reality, and pulled into a world that is imaginary but feels oh so real. Patchett is at her best when describing a reality that she herself partly lived (her father was also a policeman whose marriage got blown up by his wife’s infidelity), and the details just serve to make the novel’s happenings seem plausible, tangible and slightly terrifying, as they could really happen to any of us who get married, have kids, go to birthday parties, get stung by bees, take the bus…. any of us who are human.
I don’t know about you, but I prefer to spend my free time with a novel that emphasizes our common humanity (Commonwealth) rather than uncommon inhumanity (Prince of Tides).
*mostly outside the house, although sometimes from my desk, for an employer that pays me every two weeks. All mothers work.
Where Is My Suitcase 