we are kept in suspense (sort of) as Helen and Aldred's lives seem to diverge beyond hope. but this is, after all, quite simply an uninspired romance novel, and of course the curtain comes down on Leith and his underaged lover finally, and oh so delicately, falling into bed together, gazing into each others' eyes, planning, or hoping anyway, to live happily ever after.
Hazzard won the National Book Award for this book, a mystery worth pondering. there is no doubt she's an amazing writer, and throughout the book there are passages that caught my breath with their force, or beauty, or spirit. but the book is ultimately lacking in force, beauty and spirit, let alone plot or meaning. there is such vagueness everywhere, such elliptical references to people, situations, motivations. various reviewers have compared the writing to Henry James, Elizabeth Bowen and E.M. Forster, all of whom can drive one mad with the same meandering vagueness. there is no universal agreement on the book among reviewers, and even the best one i've read (in The Guardian) begins by saying it's only a few strokes of the editor's pencil away from greatness. i'd have liked to see more than a few strokes.
1 comment:
Everybody was indeed gushing about this book but after perusing some of its pages in Amazon, it never did inspire me to pick it up. Which is surprising because I vaguely recognize my writing pattern in hers (I tend to meander a bit myself, given the chance). But thanks for the review; you made up my mind to definitely not read it.
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