I was genuinely torn by this novella. It is sharp, funny and often beautifully written but but its fractured structure means that whilst I found it endlessly quotable it probably isn’t one for me.
At night, they lie in bed holding hands. It is possible if she is stealthy enough that the wife can do this while secretly giving the husband the finger
Plot in a Nutshell
At its simplest, this is the story of a couple who meet, marry and have a child. The novel follows the early idealism of their relationship through the realities of parenthood and domestic life.
Thoughts
This is really a novella – my copy is 175 pages of fairly large typeface. Each page contains perhaps 3 or 4 paragraphs which regularly are not interconnected. Many are sharp observations, cleverly witty or almost poetic in nature. Offill’s observations on marriage and early motherhood are painfully astute and moving. She captures a sense of claustrophobia, the identity shift, the way love can curdle with an honesty and yes, often, a sharp humour. There are passages here that made me laugh out loud, and others that feel genuinely tender.
Yet I found this slightly disconnected style difficult to read. The plot does not unfold as a purely chronological story. Rather the story is told in short set pieces. This flash of loosely connected scenes felt very jarring to me. There is little emotional connection to the storyline or the characters. Neither husband nor wife is particularly relatable or pleasant.
The regular introduction of quotes from of other artists and authors, e.g. comments like “As Emily Dickinson said,” “When Martin Luther said” did not help. It felt both oddly self conscious but also annoyingly pretentious.
In narrative terms, this is a sadly ordinary little story. There are no dramatic twists beyond the affair itself. What we are shown instead is the slow erosion of expectation. Even before the adultery, there is an undercurrent of thwarted ambition and muted dissatisfaction. The characters, who remain unnamed throughout, seem to be living lives smaller than they once intended. Except for the wife’s fierce, anxious love for her daughter, the tone rarely lifts. The proposed (mercifully unsent) Christmas newsletter struck me as more frustrating than poignant. Surely, I found myself thinking, something good must have happened that year and if not perhaps the end of it all is the right choice.
All of this makes the book interesting rather than moving, quotable but not necessarily memorable.