Sunday, November 25, 2007

The Almost Moon by Alice Sebold

"When all is said and done, killing my mother came easily." That’s the stunning opener of Alice Sebold’s new novel, and the rest of the book bears out the auspicious beginning.

The main character, Helen Knightly, has lived her life being a rock, or perhaps a martyr, for her mother, her father, her husband and her daughters. She has habitually sacrificed herself for some idea of a bigger or greater good, and unlike the trajectory of thousands of women who do just that until they die, she finally responds to the welling inner rage and suffocates her helpless mother with a towel.

Surely nobody’s relationship with their mother can be that bad? It’s a hugely gratifying aspect of this book that over the ensuing 300 pages the layers of hurt over a lifetime are laid bare, incident after shocking incident, in a way which makes the reader conclude that any woman, in these circumstances, would do the same. Alice Sebold’s central project – that violence is commonplace, that victims and perpetrators are all of us, that it effects everyone – is explored in all three of her books (Lucky, The Lovely Bones and this one).

Sebold herself says that Almost Moon is about; “the relationship between love and duty, what you owe to others versus what you must do to have your own identity in the world. It is a book very much about the dangers of self-erasure.”

So, does she speak particularly to this current generation of women in their forties and fifties? Those of us who have carried the torch of feminism, have had careers (and often, children), been domestic goddesses and bread-winners, but who perhaps still haven’t worked out where the boundaries are when faced with looking after other people? Taking care of others makes the world go around, and is a feminine trait we would surely want to keep (and wish that it extended to more men). But we also know it’s a trap – and the younger women in this book, Helen’s daughters, reject that unconscious, routine caring which ultimately destroys the carer.

The book is also about the legacy of family. Helen asks; “When was it that you realized the thread woven through your DNA carried the relationship deformities of your blood relatives as much as it did their diabetes or bone density?” It’s a thought that hits in the middle of the night, months after a messy relationship break-up or a tricky interaction with an adult child. Alice Sebold wanders through that emotional space where the partner and the children have gone, where what’s left is the necessity to re-group, and the search for the optimism and energy to do so.

There were times reading this book when I had to drop it on my lap and simply marvel at her skill with words. Most notably, her writing is often very funny (and I reveal my own prejudices about Americans having no real sense of humour, or at least, irony). In her head Helen congratulates elderly neighbours for winning the longevity competition, curses young men’s fumbling sex, accepts the inevitable in the ravages of aging on her body and others.

The title of this book is a bit wishy-washy. I would’ve preferred something with a bit more bite – like Don’t clean ‘em up – knock ‘em down or even Shit Happens. But overall, a great read.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For a very different view of The Almost Moon, read Joan Smith’s review in the Sunday Times Online – a wonderful hissy fit against melodrama and a lack of moral backbone! How brave – the damning (or even critical) review is so rare these days.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Two Lives; Gertrude and Alice by Janet Malcolm

Janet Malcolm is a writer to admire. Notwithstanding her long court case against Jeffrey Masson (who I have a great deal of respect for, particularly after hearing him speak at the recent Cruelty Free Festival at Petersham Town Hall – but that’s another very happy story) Janet Malcolm applies her dazzling intellect through a psychoanalytic lens to other people’s lives - Chekhov, Sylvia Plath and now Gerty & Alice.

The partnership of Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas has been raked over so much that we could be forgiven for thinking that the earth is now bare. But the fact that scholars continue to debate their significance is a mark of success for Gertrude. She was a genius because she said so, and a pox on anyone who said differently. For her, and for Alice, living their lives was a work of brilliance in itself. And Gertrude had the money to ensure that all her contemporary artists and writers maintained the image. They were forerunners of modern vacuous superstars – Paris Hilton comes to mind, but I expect that is sacrilegious.

The central question of the book asks how Gertrude and Alice, a pair of elderly Jewish lesbians, lived through the Second World War in bucolic, if straitened, style in a village in Vichy France. How did they survive the Nazis? Why was their survival so scantily covered in their copious, and in Gertrude’s case, immensely egocentric writings of the time? What was the meaning of Alice’s involvement, after Gertrude’s death, with an escaped ex-Nazi?

Gertrude and Alice don’t emerge smelling of roses. Which poses the problem of dislike, or perhaps even distaste, for the subject and how it effects the reader (and the writer) You won’t like Gertrude and Alice when you finish this book. But you will be enlightened about the methods and vagaries of literary research and the position of the biographer in relation to her subject. More importantly, you will be taken aback by the unoriginal but mind-numbing truth that if a person doesn’t want to see something (to wit – 6 million Jews, homosexuals, disabled people and dissidents being slaughtered on their doorstep) they won’t.