→ June 17, 2019
→ By

Fates and Furies.

Lauren Groff’s Fates and Furies was nominated for a National Book Award in 2015, losing to Adam Johnson’s short story collection Fortune Smiles, and was widely praised as her best work to date. This intricate, profound novel about a marriage as the intersection of two lives presents that intersection from two distinct and often contradictory perspectives, a story that is beautifully told and that gripped me more the further I read.

The first part of the book, titled “Fates” – ten points if you can guess the title of the second part – introduces us to Lancelot, nicknamed Lotto, born in the eye of a hurricane and in some ways a very lucky child. He’s wealthy beyond measure before he’s finished his first cry, and as time passes it will become clear that he’s blessed with good lucks and great talent as a writer, but even someone born lucky doesn’t get a life free of worry, sorry, or even some bad fortune too.

After years of diffident debauchery, with a handful of broken hearts among the many women who sought his company and only got sex, Lotto sees Mathilde walk into a party right near the end of his college years, walks towards her and immediately asks her to marry him. A few weeks later they do indeed wed, and then live as starving artists – his vengeful mother, more fury than fate to be sure, cuts him off when she learns of the marriage – while he tries to find work as an actor and she works in advertising and then in an art gallery to keep them afloat. A real stroke of luck reveals his talent as a writer, and he becomes an acclaimed playwright for going on two decades until the fairy tale and part one both end.

Furies tells the same story from Mathilde’s side, and the trees we could not make out while standing in the forest are clear and sharp when viewed from above. Mathilde’s childhood isn’t what Lotto believed, and much of what he thought was fate was anything but. She’s a stronger character than the subservient wife we see in Fates, and angrier at a life that did not give her any fortune other than perhaps some physical beauty. Mathilde had to scratch and claw for nearly everything she got in life before Lotto, and then had to work twice as hard as he ever did to keep them going during his lean years as an actor, and then plays far more of a role in his writing career than the first part lets on. The first part is the veneer, and the second the solid wood beneath. It is stronger, but it’s not as pretty. Once the revelations start spilling, they come fast, and they frequently upend your impression of one or both main characters.

The parallel structure of the two parts mirrors the dichotomy of the title, but also presents the “two sides to every story” bromide in a new light by giving primacy to Mathilde’s side. The Greek Fates were three goddesses who determined the length of a mortal’s life, but did not concern themselves with what went on during that life. Lotto’s story feels like one mapped out by the Fates – very little of his life appears to be directed by outside forces, and while there’s luck from the circumstances of his birth, reading part one gives you the sense that he is the prime mover in his own universe, right up until the thread spun by the Fates is cut.

That’s not true, of course, but Groff saves the explanation until Furies, when it becomes clear that Mathilde’s machinations were responsible for much of what happened to Lotto, right down to their not-coincidental first meeting, from college onward. So much of her life is driven by vengeance, whether directly aimed at someone else or in the vein of “living well is the best revenge,” which is a major part of the mythology of the Greek Furies. (Wikipedia describes them as underworld deities of vengeance.) Once widowed, she’s determined to become the protagonist of her own life for the first time, yet becomes even more driven by the desire for revenge, especially when she realizes that one longtime acquaintance went out of his way to try to sabotage her marriage to Lotto.

The plot itself is intricate and almost immediately compelling, with so much realistic detail that it’s hard to believe one person conceived both of these characters’ lives. Groff’s character development, even with several of the side characters like Lotto’s family and childhood friends, is superb, both in interest and credibility. Lotto being a playwright is a bit more of the writers writing about writers problem, and I found it hard to buy into the idea of him becoming so financially successful or even moderately famous in that line of work, but if you get past that, much of what follows is plausible, and his vocation allows Groff to work in endless literary references (only a few of which I caught).

Groff ends the novel with a revelation that explains much of what went before, and even casts doubt on some parts of the story, but in a way that also opens up a whole series of questions that you might have felt were answered by the two parts. It’s a gimmick, but she executes it well, and if anything it seemed to underscore some of the questions posed over the course of Furies around the choices Mathilde made in trying to create a far better life for herself than the one lowercase-f fate has offered her. It’s a brilliant, incisive, deeply philosophical work that moves like popular fiction but still has me thinking a few weeks after I finished.

Next up: Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses. Acintya bheda bheda fatwa.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,
→ September 2, 2018
→ By

The Song of Achilles.

Madeline Miller is a scholar of Ancient Greek and Latin and of Greek mythology, so her Orange Prize-winning novel The Song of Achilles seems very on brand for her – she has taken one of the classic myths of antiquity, featuring one of the most famous names to be found in Bullfinch’s guide, and created a stirring novel around it. She mostly hews to the standard myths of the time, adding some notes at the end to explain why, for example, she didn’t use the part of the myth where Achilles’ mother dips him in the water to make him invulnerable, but leaves his heel dry and thus the one place where he can be slain. (It turns out that part of the story came very late to the Greeks and isn’t canon.) Where she does take a liberty is in turning the friendship between Achilles and the exiled prince Patroclus into a romance, one that probably isn’t inaccurate to the norms of Greek society but absolutely changes the very nature of the two characters and why Achilles died the way he did in the original myth.

Achilles was a half-god, half-mortal, conceived during the rape of the sea goddess Thetis, and the godhead within him made him into a fearsome warrior who appeared to be immortal on the battlefield and capable of feats of strength and quickness that were beyond the capacity of any other mortals. In the original myth, he befriends Patroclus, exiled from his own nation after he accidentally kills another boy (who, in Miller’s telling, was attempting to bully him). In this book, Patroclus, the narrator, is quickly smitten with Achilles, and their friendship turns first into an awkward teenage romance between the two boys – one that Miller’s Odysseus remarks isn’t uncommon for the time – but then into a full-fledged relationship not that far from the state of marriage. Miller uses this to put Patroclus right at the center of all of the action, and adds depth to the story of Achilles’ death at the end of a sequence of killings that leave Patroclus and Hector of Troy dead as well.

Miller truly does hew to the story she was given by the gods, and spends more time filling in the details than in trying retell or in any way alter the core myth of Achilles – but that’s part of this book’s problem. It’s a stirring read and moves extremely quickly – I’d guess I knocked this out in under five hours, very fast for a 360 page book, and the last half of it took me two hours on a flight – and yet in some ways felt insubstantial, especially the bulk of the material that comes before the Greeks head to Troy to fight for the return of Helen, the beautiful wife of Menelaus who was kidnapped by Paris (Hector’s brother … seriously, not the best of families there, Mr. Priam). When Miller takes us to war, even though some of the drama there, again drawn from the source myth, has little to do with battle and more to do with grown-ass men (and one demi-mortal) acting like teenagers, the material moves away from dialogue and idyllic scenes in the forest to acquire some actual weight. Of course, by that point, the reader realizes we’re in the place where Achilles and Patroclus will die, so the narrative greed picks up, but there’s also a marked difference in the intensity and realism of the prose between the two halves of the book. So much of the description of the puppy love between the two boys reads more like a bad YA novel with better vocabulary; the interactions among the soldiers and their leaders ring far more true.

There’s also a weird disconnect between how Patroclus perceives Achilles, since the reader sees his inner thoughts, and how Achilles treats Patroclus, which always, even in moments that are supposed to read as tender, come across as distant. It is as if Patroclus idolizes Achilles – which is kind of understandable, since Achilles is a handsome, athletically gifted half-god, sort of a Greek Kris Bryant I suppose – but Achilles is just dabbling in the love that dare not speak its name. Perhaps he is just playing around; perhaps Miller’s Achilles is bisexual, and his brief infidelity is a reflection of a conflict within him that Patroclus faces. By making Patroclus the star-struck gay kid within the story, Miller put the less interesting character of the two in front of the microphone. Had she told the story in another way, and spent a little less time on Achilles’ youth, perhaps she wouldn’t have needed the crutch of war to power the novel through to its conclusion – a conclusion that, by the way, is very sweet and befitting a myth of this magnitude. If only the rest of the book lived up to its ending.

Next up: Donal Ryan’s From a Low and Quiet Sea.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,
→ November 2, 2014
→ By

American Gods.

She smiled at him, looking suddenly, and for the first time, vulnerable. She patted him on the arm. “You’re fucked up, Mister. But you’re cool.”
“I believe that’s what they call the human condition,” said Shadow. “Thanks for the company.”

Author Lev Grossman (The Magicians) also serves as arts critic for TIME magazine, helping assemble their list of the top 100 novels from 1923 with Richard Lacayo. In early 2011, Grossman also put together a list of the ten best novels from the first ten years of the century, of which I hadn’t read two, Lush Life (which I read in 2012 and loved) and Neil Gaiman’s American Gods. This was my first encounter with Gaiman, whose reputation as a fantasy writer seriously undersells both his erudition and his ability as a crafter of plots.

Shadow is just about to get out of jail after serving three years of a sentence for nearly beating two men, who cheated him out of his share of a robbery, to death. He finds out that his wife has been killed in a car crash, and on a much-delayed flight home for the funeral, encounters a strange man who calls himself Wednesday (a nod to G.K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday) and knows more about Shadow than any stranger should.

Wednesday is no ordinary stranger, though; he’s a small-g god, a modern incarnation of Odin, the Norse god and “all-father” who ruled Asgard. It turns out that immigrants who came to the United States and brought their pagan beliefs and superstitions with them brought their gods with them as well – and those gods are about to go to war with the new gods of America, gods of television and computers and other things we worship today. And Wednesday wants Shadow’s help in preparing for the battle, a story that turns out to be as tangled and complex as any culture’s mythology and that involves gods from numerous pantheons, a dead woman who can’t quite stay dead, a lakeside town in Wisconsin, a tree in Virginia, and Rock City in Tennessee.

Gaiman’s assembly of all of these gods and myths into one coherent story by distilling them each into single human characters is brilliant and imaginative, to the point where the novel felt like nothing I’d read before. It’s not magical realism because it’s almost too realistic for it, aside from the whole gods walking around thing; Gaiman plays it all so straight that it’s easy to accept them as regular people, even when they shapeshift or defy the laws of physics. It’s an ensemble cast, with Shadow at its center but not the central character, as his personality matches his name; the plot revolves around him, but he’s never the most interesting man in the room.

As the plot develops, both sides are fighting for Shadow’s allegiance, which allows Gaiman to move Shadow into various orbits and introduce a widening array of his god-characters without creating multiple plot strands. American Gods is mostly linear, which helped make it a quick read, as did Gaiman’s fluid prose and frequent use of dark humor (especially from the mouth of Wednesday, who turns out to be a bit of a cad).

The denouement is just as imaginative as the rest of the book, defying convention and expectations while deftly tying up the various threads of the novel, without short-changing the novel’s themes of mortality, clashes of culture, and the importance of myth. Gaiman’s prose, imagination, and embrace of these big ideas reminded me in parts of Fforde, Vonnegut, Dick, and García Márquez. Grossman’s list turned out to be a tremendous collection of modern fiction; even the titles I didn’t love were worthwhile reads, and the best books on the list rank among my all-time favorites.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,