[or
The Book of Whines]
To be specific within the “novel” genre, this is a fictional memoir –
all first-person, very introspective (which I like), but written a bit too
garbled for my liking. It’s well edited
and the plot and major themes were fine, but the rambling sentences drive me to
distraction. Others may find this style
comforting, more realistic, almost like a dialogue with the reader. I found it whiny. I’m an optimist: for me, her self-deprecating
insecurities are boring. I wanted to
say, “Get over it!”
Whining is not an
endearing quality - not a quality at all -a severe fault. Clair Messud opens this book with the whine
of all whines. The author basically
outlines on the first page, paragraph two, what will follow in the next 300
pages.
More whining. She whines about her mother, she whines about
her father, and her brother. She whines
about aging, about her job and her boss.
She whines about her artwork and about her girl-friends. She whines about every aspect of her life.
It somewhat reminded
me of Durrell’s Quartet or a Day in the Life of. No heady stuff such as that though – she’s a
plain, boring spinster lady who has the chance to mingle with bright
people. Everything’s in her head, as it
is for all of us: fantasies, dreams, fears, wishes -- all the creations of our magnificent brain
– what a wonder we are: the pinnacle of evolution on this planet.
Messud lays on “the woman
upstairs” clause a bit too thickly and too often – once was probably
sufficient. But she uses it a few dozen
times. Live long enough and everyone
becomes the old person upstairs -- I think George Burns had a line about eventually
there’s no one left to talk to, peer to peer.
I’m worried about my ex off in Turkey struggling to get on a bus, and my
sister unable to breathe in San Jose.
Two bad e-mails and I could be out of peers to talk to.
The art projects
were interesting to read about. It’s
always amazing to me what a large percentage of humanity is devoted to the arts. Nora’s efforts at her miniatures were a
hobbyist’s project in scrap-booking.
This was in juxtaposition with Sirena’s masterpiece of performance art. The author, Messud, appears to know a thing
or two about the art world and has deftly portrayed the two artists as
opposites.
And Nora? Nora is consistent – consistently angry and
whiny.
