What Were We Thinking?

The Dud Avocado by Elaine Dundy.

New York Review Books, 2007.  260 pages.

This precocious little book with a provocative little cover traces the insipid little misadventures of spoiled little American Sally Jay Gorce as she experiences expatriate life in 1950s Paris: i.e. she hooks up with married men and beatniks and generally confirms herself as a silly naïf in various social situations.  Years later, it is KMJ's recollection that she is the only Cellar Door Book Society member who enjoys this greenish book; however, she cannot recall why she finds it pleasant-- or why everyone else finds it so unpleasant.

Le Divorce by Diane Johnson.

Plume Books, 1998.  309 pages.

Some of us finish the book; some of us do not finish the book.  We are all disappointed by the book, a discomfiting comedy of manners chronicling the Parisian escapades of American cinema-school dropout Isabel, who  lallygags into the City of Light to support a pregnant and divorcing sister.  Not surprisingly, all that lallygagging and supporting prompts Isabel to strike up a made-for-silver-screen relationship with an artsy-and-sophisticated older man, thus opening our heroine's eyes to continental social life, transatlantic customs, and romantic love. Même histoire d'amour ancien, il n'est pas?

We engage in brief speculation that Diane Johnson somehow capitalizes on pre-existing literary connections and pre-fabricated artistic celebrity: we do not feel that the critical acclaim heaped upon the author and slathered across the book jacket is justified.  Case in point:  Malcolm Bradbury, via The New York Times Book Review... "an excellently observed social and moral comedy... a genuinely wise and humane novel, by a very good writer."

We do not find the novel to be excellently observed.  We do not find the novel to be genuinely wise and humane.  We do not find it to be particularly amusing, either... until Cellar Door Book Society member KMJ treats us to a passage that is-- on paper-- marginally humorous but becomes infinitely more diverting when she reads it to us.  Perhaps Le Divorce has always been destined to be "a major motion picture," a chic-lit-read-aloud for grownups.

We agree that the characters and their behaviors are unnecessarily crass, offensive, and stereotypical: in total, a shallow and distasteful lot.  We recall that authors like Henry James and Edith Wharton and F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway wrote sympathetic, satisfying, and more nuanced novels of the American experience abroad. Le Divorce seems dry and flaky-- like a stale croissant-- when compared to worthier expatriate novels.  It leaves us yearning for excellence... and a swig of Perrier.

Swamplandia! by Karen Russell.

Alfred A. Knopf, 2011.  316 pages.

Let's begin with something that few of us find opportunity to exclaim in the course of our lifetimes: Oh no! Our island family home -- and our dilapidated beloved adjacent family-owned and operated alligator-wrestling theme park-- are threatened and besieged from all sides! But that's what's happening here, and that's the beauty of swamp fiction, we suppose.  Our Everglade heroine, tween-going-on-forty Ava, struggles to deal with her alligator-wrestling mother's death and works herself into an Underworld of mythical, mystical trouble in the process. Other members of the regionally famous Bigtree clan of alligator wrestlers-- Ava's sister, her brother, and her father-- address their grief in similarly troubling, irritating, and inexplicable ways.  Swamplandia! makes us feel all brackish! and sweaty! and reptilian! But it is well-reviewed, critically acclaimed, and it will undoubtedly receive some big tootin' award for achievement in swamp literature that will prompt us to move it to another page and to think of it in more positive terms.  What the heck.  That's what we're thinking.

Prep: A Novel by Curtis Sittenfeld.

Random House, 2005.  420 pages.

Enticed by a glossy promotional brochure and a burnished academic reputation, precociously curious and preternaturally intelligent Midwesterner Lee Fiora secures a need and merit-based scholarship to the glossy and burnished Ault School somewhere-in-Massachusetts.  The story follows Lee's awkward matriculation, her exhausting socio-academic exertions, her simultaneous attraction to and repulsion by  similarly needy and merit-based peers.  Not so curiously, Lee morphs into a Completely Different Needy and Meritless Person by Graduation Day... from the Top of Her Banded Head to the Tip of Her Top Siders. 

General consensus: all feel curiously uncomfortable inhabiting the ill-fitting skin of a whiny, insecure, angst-ridden promiscuous prep school scholarship student.  Having said that—and resisting the urge to whack Lee upside the head with a lacrosse stick even as we drape a strawberry-colored cardigan with tiny pearl buttons very very tightly around her neck—we acknowledge and appreciate that this bubble gum-flavored survival story is, at moments, a poignant observation of the general human condition and a curiously intelligent commentary on the specific adolescent condition of being a Midwestern scholarship student at a glossy and burnished New England preparatory school.

Prep: A Novel, incidentally, is written by a precociously intelligent and curiously named American author of fiction who became famous when she won a Seventeen magazine writing contest when she was only sixteen.

As we ponder high-achieving teenagers, unanimous enthusiasm is expressed for curious and precocious sleuthing teenager Nancy Drew.  Fictional and famous since 1930, our favorite girl detective has been stalking nefarious characters and solving perfect crimes for decades—but has recently taken to driving a hybrid electric roadster and ringing up Ned, her revised and updated beau, on a smart phone.  We imagine that she plays Words with Chums on Facebook with Bess and George.

Finally, KMJ delights one and all with a triumphant wearing of the Highly Contested Apple Green Capri Pants. MH is sporting attractive green pants, too, but we’re pretty sure she paid full price and that her acquisition did not devolve into a consumer skirmish-for-the-ages at the point of purchase, a spirited shouting contest with an aggressive size-match doppelgänger.

Nota bene: Would it advance The Cellar Door Book Society’s National Ranking if we instituted a dress code?  Something simple… green capri pants paired with crisp pink polo shirts, an embroidered book emblazoned on the left breast where the polo pony generally prances?  And plaid headbands with Velcro bookmarks attached.  Should pursue this concept.  We're thinking JKL will really go for it!

A Little Life: A Novel by Hanya Yanagihara.

Doubleday, 2015. 720 pages.

We were thinking we’d gather poolside at the Chatham Fish and Game Club. But not in the cushioned seating area—no food, drink, or damp clothing allowed there, per a politely-worded placard. And goodness gracious, we had to consider all three in the course of this meeting: the first two, kindly delivered by KMJ; and the last, possibly created during vigorous, aerobic discussion of this month’s reading selection. SC shared a list of (hyperbolic, infuriating) words culled from five-star-reviews (who are these people!) of A Little Life.  It seems as if all in attendance periodically turned from reading the book to reading about the book and its author—in desperate, futile attempts to collect thoughts and calm down. 

KMJ recounted the shared experience of delving into A Little Life with optimism, enthusiasm, and good will… a middle-aged-upper-middle-class-white-woman optimism, enthusiasm, and good will that, page-after-excruciating-page, devolved into disappointment, exasperation, and revulsion. CS expressed a right level of righteous indignation—not only regarding subject matter but also regarding authorial/editorial arrogance of subjecting the reading public to this subject matter for seven-hundred-plus pages.  She seemed more than happy to abandon the book on the poolside table, a more mature exit strategy than our briefly considered sink-it-to-the-bottom-of-the-highly-chlorinated pool notion. 

We appreciate one of GW observations: God-with-a-lower-case-g may begin to summarize what’s wrong with A Little Life.  These characters are operating in a lower-case universe, a universe where faith, hope, and love-beyond-self do not come into play.  Oh sure, the five-star reviewers (who are those people!) would say, hold on there, middle-aged-upper-middle-class-white-women-readers, this is the most astonishing, challenging, upsetting, and profoundly moving book in many a season. An epic about love and friendship in the twenty-first century that goes into some of the darkest places fiction has ever traveled and yet somehow breaks through into the light. Truly an amazement!  Love and friendship in the twenty-first century.  Or is it self-absorption and enabling operating in a Modern Moral Vacuum? And light? Didn't see it. A discouragingly dim light.  All the Light We Really Truly Cannot See.

Speaking of more satisfying reading, interesting comparisons/contrasts with The Goldfinch, Life after Life and, for reasons not yet expressible, all of Steinbeck, continue to rattle around our middle-aged-upper-middle-class-white-woman-reader brains.  Tick-tock.  Tick-tock.  Tick-tock.  We don’t have time for this!  And yet, it takes a noble measure of reading courage to take a principled, reasoned stand against a work, to fly in the face of the five-star reviewers (who are those people) and to invest some time in talking about what is wrong with the book and what, by extension, may be wrong with the way we’re all heading. Nonetheless, we move forward, newly resolved to walk through a world where we and those nearest and dearest to us carry a Little Faith, a Little Hope, and a Little Love for Something beyond Ourselves.  And hoping beyond hope that there is not a seven-hundred-plus page sequel, A Little More Life.