Imagination and Structure in “All the Light We Cannot See” and “Lincoln in the Bardo”

Anthony Doerr and George Saunders are accomplished and celebrated authors. As fiction writers, they work from their own imaginations and seek to provoke the imaginations of their readers. In the case of Doerr’s Pulitzer Prize winning All the Light We Cannot See and Saunders’ Man Booker Prize winning Lincoln in the Bardo, they also researched the historical periods and settings in which they placed their characters and incorporated great detail from that research. We may appropriately label both of these novels as historical fiction.

Combining the historical research with the process and product of their fertile imaginations, they then melded stories into novels with unorthodox narrative structures. They are by far not the first to develop structures for their novels that deviate from the traditional linear and chronological format. Sometimes such experimentation works brilliantly, sometimes not so well.

In any novel, it takes a while for us readers to figure out what’s happening, who the characters are, and how they are interacting. Unorthodox structures can make a novel a particularly challenging read especially in the initial stages. In All the Light We Cannot See, Doerr flips back and forth in time and runs multiple storylines in parallel. In Lincoln in the Bardo, Saunders intersperses direct historical quotations with the dialogue of characters and he places the whole novel’s text in stand-alone statements explicitly attributed to specific characters, historic or imagined.

The provocative structure of Lincoln in the Bardo has defeated more than one reader that I know who have given up on the book, finding it just too confusing … and that’s quite apart from the fantastical depiction of purgatory-dwelling spirits interacting with living human beings in the cemetery where Abraham Lincoln comes to mourn the death of his eleven-year-old son Willie.

The lives from childhood to early adulthood of Marie-Laure and Werner are told in alternating chapters in All the Light We Cannot See and it takes a while to figure that out. The challenges for the reader are compounded by many of the fourteen sections of the book each made up of multiple chapters being arranged in non-chronological order: 1944, 1934, 1944, 1940, 1944, 1941, 1944, 1942, 1944, 1944, 1944, 1945, 1974, 2014.

So, Doerr and Saunders are challenging our imagination as readers not only to engage with the characters that they have created but also to do so through complex organizational structures.

Are they successful in challenging us yet keeping us reading until the end?

The more unorthodox of the two was the one to which I responded more enthusiastically. I was totally perplexed initially when I started Lincoln in the Bardo but I was hooked once I figured out what was going on and how the structure and even the page layout contributed to the evolution of the story. Saunders has crafted a story of immense metaphorical complexity and heart-rending poignancy. I loved it.

I appreciate the beauty of the writing in All the Light We Cannot See and the tough yet tender WWII story that Doerr tells. The structure was somewhat problematic for me at the start but I got over that difficulty relatively easily. What I didn’t get was being grabbed in the heart and the intellect. My imagination was provoked but coasted relatively dormant through 530 pages.

I’m glad that I’ve read both of them but it is Saunders’ Lincoln in the Bardo that I’m raving about to friends.

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For information on Anthony Doerr’s books including All the Light We Cannot See: http://anthonydoerr.com

For information on George Saunders’ books including Lincoln in the Bardohttp://www.georgesaundersbooks.com

For information on my books including my recent collection of gay literary short stories Book Tales: http://DavidGHallman.com

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The Comedian Becomes a Humorist

We know Shawn Hitchins as a comedian. He is now a humorist as well.

With the publication of his A Brief History of Oversharing, Hitchins joins the ranks of those who use humor in writing. He continues to perform stand-up but we don’t have to wait to catch one of his shows to enjoy his wit. We can pick up his book.

Hitchins’ humor is multi-facetted. The unpretentious folksy settings and stories in A Brief History of Oversharing carry some of the same tone as the writings of Mark Twain or Stephen Leacock. But Hitchins goes where Twain and Leacock never ventured: raunchyville. His ribald zingers are akin to Dorothy Parker. Except Hitchins is not acerbic like Parker. He can be cutting but not cruel.

As a writer, he is not only a humorist. He is also a memoirist. The subject of A Brief History of Oversharing is Shawn Hitchins. The book is autobiographical. And this is where his humor becomes really interesting. It is highly self-deprecating. There are many laugh-out-loud moments as Shawn Hitchins describes the wacky crazy life of Shawn Hitchins. We are simultaneously laughing with and at Shawn Hitchins. But we don’t laugh too long or too hard because we sense something beyond the hilarity of the scene. There is an unanticipated poignancy that surfaces frequently in his stories. He is sharing (not oversharing) his vulnerability. There’s not a hint of the maudlin in this. It’s clear-eyed tough writing about the scars as well as the successes.

Because of the nature of my own writing, I’m drawn to memoir. There is a robust literary conversation these days about the genre-bending aspects of contemporary memoir-writing, in particular the convergence of autobiography and fiction in memoirs/novels such as those of Karl Ove Knausgaard or Elena Ferrante. Hitchins similarly combines genres — he has written a memoir that uses humor as its principal narrative vehicle. A Brief History of Oversharing is a memoir and a book of humor rolled into one.

There are so many gems in A Brief History of Oversharing. Just a few of my favourites:

  • “I moved to Toronto and quickly learned that living in the Big Smoke is just like living in a small town. Both are full of gossips, bigots, boozers, sluts, addicts, criminals, and Jesus freaks, except living in the city I’m not related to any of them.”
  • “I was raised with an intense sense of belonging and a blind sense of comfort that I’ve been desperately trying to regain since I lost it.”
  • On the thrill of realizing the against-all-odds triumph of the Ginger Pride March in Edinburgh: “Like a cat darting from a litter box, I duck into an alley and begin to laugh so hard and so deeply that I take my sweater and jam it in my mouth to muffle any sound.”
  • On the death of legendary director George Bloomfield with whom Shawn was a personal assistant: “…for the first time I had to negotiate with grief, trying to rationalize loss as if it were an algebraic equation where the sum of permissible feelings would be derived by the number of dinners at the Bloomfields’ multiplied by the number of hours spent on set.”
  • “A succession of memories played in my head, and like Russian dolls they fit neatly within each other, memories dating from adulthood back to childhood where I questioned why I felt like a witness but never the direct object of happiness.”
  • On trying to masturbate to donate sperm to two lesbian friends: “I reach down and knead my genitals while debating what to think about during the next one to twenty-five minutes.”

A common definition of humorist is an intellectual who uses humor in writing. Hitchins has a basket full of insecurities on display in A Brief History of Oversharing, some blatantly and some inconspicuously. While as a person he is about as far from a traditional intellectual as one could imagine, as a writer he is not. A Brief History of Oversharing is a work of considerable intellectual competence in its conception and in its delivery. He should be proud of what he’s accomplished here.

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For information on A Brief History of Oversharing, see: https://shawnhitchins.com

For information on my writings, see: http://davidghallman.com

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Writers Reading

 

“I take it as an article of faith that novels I have loved will live in me forever.” Pat Conroy, author of My Reading Life (and The Boo, The Water is Wide, Prince of Tides, et al)

“People who write books generally read books, and most books carry with them the traces of some of the hundreds or thousands of books the writer read before attempting the one at hand.” Will Schwalbe, author of Books for Living (and The End of Your Life Book Club, Send)

I love to read books. I love to write books. So I decided to write a book about reading books.” David G. Hallman, author of Book Tales (and August Farewell, Searching for Gilead, et al)

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Philip Roth, one of the most renowned American writers and author of Goodbye Columbus and Portnoy’s Complaint, declared in a 2011 interview that, “I don’t read fiction anymore…I wised up.” He apparently prefers history and biography now. But, at least he is still reading.

Virtually every writer that I know, reads, most of us voraciously. It is more than just curiosity about what others are writing, their subject matter, and their style. There is an intellectual stimulation and an emotional nurturing and a spiritual enrichment that we gain by delving into the stories created by others’ imagination and research. But it goes even further. Reading feels as essential for us as food and water. We couldn’t survive without it. And we couldn’t write if we didn’t read.

I’ve read three books recently in which writers talk about the role that reading has played in their lives and about specific books that were particularly important for them: Pat Conroy’s My Reading Life, Will Schwalbe’s Books for Living, and Book Tales by a guy named David G. Hallman.

I take two major insights away from these books, one about life and one about death.

The first lesson is the importance of reading in our lifelong formation as writers and then, by extension, in the creation of our identities as human beings.

Pat Conroy says, “My mother turned me into an insatiable, fanatical reader. It was her gentle urging, her hurt, insistent voice, that led me to discover my identity by taking a working knowledge of the great books with me always…I have tried to read two hundred pages every day of my life since I was a freshman in high school…From the beginning, I wrote to explain my own life to myself…stories are the vessels I use to interpret the world to myself.”

Will Schwalbe puts it, “What follows (in Books for Living) are stories of books I’ve discovered that have helped me and others in ways big and small with some of the specific challenges of living in our modern world, with all its noise and distractions…Many of the books I write about are books I first read when I was young. I’m not just a fifty-something-year-old reader; I’m the reader I was at every age I’ve ever been, with all the books I’ve ever read and all the experiences I’ve ever had constantly shifting and recombining in my brain.”

Rather than quote myself, I’ll quote one of the reviewers: “Book Tales, a collection of short stories by David G. Hallman, explores literature and sexuality as dual forces in the construction of a person’s experience and identity…Often explicitly erotic and always well-written, these stories explore the connection between life and art, from haunted artists to the stories that haunt us…Hallman’s use of books as a recurring theme is always evident…Hallman honors the lives of those who create art as much as the lives of those who consume it. By illuminating the intertwined struggles of sexuality, identity, love, and loss, this collection’s atmospheric style and intimate characterization create seven rich worlds well worth reading to the bittersweet end.”

For Conroy, Schwalbe, and Hallman, reading books has played a key role in how they understand themselves and indeed how they have created themselves from childhood through adulthood. And there are bittersweet ends that they have each experienced in which literature continues to be an active ingredient.

Conroy died of pancreatic cancer on March 4, 2016. My Reading Life was published in 2010. Near the end of the book, he writes, “The subject matter of all writers is the terrible brightness that wards off the ineffable approach of death.”

Schwalbe’s The End of Your Life Book Club is a memoir of his accompaniment of his mother as she dealt with a pancreatic cancer diagnosis and about the books that they read together and discussed during those last eighteen months of her life. In Books for Living, he comments, “During this time we read casually, promiscuously, and whimsically, allowing one book to lead us to another…At times the books gave us something to talk about when we wanted to talk about anything rather than her illness. But they also gave us a way to talk about subjects that were too difficult to address directly. They helped guide and prompt our conversations, so that I could learn as much as I could from my mother while she was still here to teach me.”

I wrote the memoir August Farewell after Bill, my longtime partner, died two weeks after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It is subtitled, The last sixteen days of a thirty-three-year romance. The final chapter in Book Tales is one of the stories with a semi-fictionalized autobiographical component. It concludes, “Patrick lifts himself up out of the chair and goes over to the piano. He runs his fingers lightly over the keyboard. He depresses the keys A-A-A-B flat-F-A, the three first bars of Breathe on Me, Breath of God. And repeats, more softly. He leans over and picks up the ceramic box from the window ledge and returns to his chair. Resting it in his lap, Patrick traces the raised glazing of the fish symbol on the cover. He lifts the lid and stares at the tiny sealed bag of gray dust that he had taken out of the urn before the interment of Evan’s ashes. Poking up ever so slightly from the midst of the ashes is a silver ring. Patrick lifts his right hand to his mouth and rests his lips on its twin on his finger.”

Three writers. Reading and writing. Life, identify, and death.

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For information on Pat Conroy’s My Reading Life, see: http://www.patconroy.com/about.php

For information on Will Schwalbe’s Books for Living, see: http://willschwalbe.com

For information on my Book Tales, see: http://davidghallman.com

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Devastating Beauty and Tragedy: Madeleine Thien’s “Do Not Say We Have Nothing”

Such devastating beauty in the elegant writing, the intermingling of literature and music, the simple poignancy of human connections.

Such devastating tragedy in the violence of repression, the lost opportunities to create, the rupture of relationships.

And the importance of memory, preserving both the beauty and the tragedy.

One of the first things that struck me in reading Madeleine Thien’s “Do Not Say We Have Nothing” was the beautiful writing itself and more specifically her gift for evocative imagery:

  • Their incompatible love made her feel hollow, as if the world had turned out to be flat after all.
  • …it was as if the very air shrouded the buildings in paranoia.
  • …the elongated question mark of his body as he loped down the slippery walks…
  • He leaned toward the child like a comma in a line so that, momentarily, the child, confused, suspended his wailing…
  • The landscape passed in waves of green and yellow as if the country were an endless unharvested sea.

It’s a gift of vision of both the outer eye and the inner eye. Thien draws into her descriptions concepts and pictures from totally different realms offering to us readers a deeper insight into the character and the scene.

There is much beauty in how music and the written word are reflected as two tributaries of the same stream in this novel. They feed into each other becoming something new, and then part and move off on their own though richer now, only to reconnect in a different way later on: Wen the Dreamer’s “Book of Records,” Bach’s “Goldberg Variations,” Sparrow’s unfinished “Symphony No. 3,” Prokofiev’s “Violin Concerto No. 1,” the poetry of Li Bai and Wang Wei inspiring Mahler to write his song symphony “Das Lied von der Erde” (The Song of the Earth), and Thien’s literary descriptions of music itself:

  • Yet Zhuli imagined that she could hear her father’s presence in the music just as clearly as if Wen the Dreamer’s name was written on the page.
  • But what was music? Every note could only be understood by its relation to those around it. Merged, they made new sounds, new colours, a new resonance or dissonance, a stability or rupture. Inside the pure tone of C was a ladder of rich overtones as well as the echoes of other Cs, like a man wearing many suits of clothing, or a grandmother carrying all her memories inside her.

Thien beautifully sketches her characters with a fine brush that projects deeply intimate and yet tortured relationships within families including the narrator Li-ling and her mother, Sparrow and his daughter Ai-ming, Sparrow and his cousin Zhuli, Big Ma and her husband Ba Lute, Big Ma and her sister Swirl, and between lovers and would-be lovers especially Sparrow and Jiang Kai. Her writing is so deft that I was never aware of her developing these relationships. I was inside the story from the first page and living with the characters as they tentatively reached out to the other, faltered, fought, touched fingertips, tore up a loved-one’s manuscript, smiled at a sweet gesture and just as quickly averted their eyes.

And then there is the multi-dimensional tragedy in “Do Not Say We Have Nothing”.

I am a fan of historical fiction such as the novels of Hilary Mantel, Jane Urquhart, Viet Thanh Nguyen. I now add Thien to my list. Through the eyes and experiences of her characters, Thien has graphically and gut-wrenchingly recreated the repression, violence, and social upheaval of Mao Zedong’s attempt to reassert his authority over China’s Communist party through what came to be known as the Cultural Revolution from about 1966 to 1976. I am grateful to Thien for bringing alive a dramatic time in history that affected hundreds of millions of people and allowing me to experience it in the first person, so to speak, through her characters. And that experience is devastating with the forced relocations and separations from family, the shaming and torturing of citizens for what was maligned as “decadent” intellectual interests and artistic competence, the suppression of opportunities to create art, the unremitting attempts at brainwashing, the brutal suppression of dissent that Thien describes graphically in the Tiananmen Square protests of 1989.

Sparrow’s inability to compose for such a long period of time during the Cultural Revolution is the most prominent example of the devastating loss that occurs when art that could have been, isn’t. It is not only that he was essentially forbidden to compose. It was devastating because the repressive environment had silenced the music in his soul. Art was suppressed as well through the closing of the universities and the conservatories and the prohibition to perform works that had not been sanctioned. Sparrow reflects at one point on Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony:

  • This is a fragment, he thought, of something that once existed but that no longer grows here, like a corn field cut down…you could close a book and forget about it, knowing it would not lose its contents when you stopped reading, but music wasn’t the same, not for him, it was most alive when it was heard.

The rupturing of relationships is portrayed by Thien in an under-stated style that ramps up the tension and the pathos to an intensity far greater than had she used a vociferous style. The secret long-term connection between Sparrow and Kai is heart-breakingly written:

  • “Sparrow, remember the classics that we memorized? The words are still true. ‘We have no ties of kinship or even provenance, but I am bound to him by ties of sentiment and I share his sorrows and misfortunes.’ We’ve waited our whole lives and now the country is finally opening up. I’ve been thinking…there are ways to begin again. We could leave.”
  • The possibilities before Sparrow, which should have given him joy, instead broke his heart. He was no longer the same person.

Finally, Thien’s novel epitomizes the essentialness of memory and the active commitment to remembering. The “Book of Records,” with its dual literary and musical connotation, forms the core of this process of preserving memory. At the meta level, “Do Not Say We Have Nothing” serves the same function…and does so brilliantly.

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For more information on Madeleine Thien’s “Do Not Say We Have Nothing,” see: http://penguinrandomhouse.ca/books/259732/do-not-say-we-have-nothing#9780345810427

For more information on my books including my recently-published collection of gay literary short stories entitled “Book Tales” see: www.DavidGHallman.com

 

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The Pace of Writing

Over the past five years I’ve written three books (a memoir, a novel, and a collection of short stories) and the pace of writing has varied dramatically from one to the other. In retrospect, it strikes me that the difference was due to the relationship between the subject matter and my socio-emotional state.

I started writing August Farewell when my partner Bill died two weeks after a totally unanticipated diagnosis of stage-four pancreatic cancer. Those sixteen days between the diagnosis and his death were intense, traumatic and wrenching but also filled with blessed moments. Several weeks after his memorial service, I began to panic that I would forget many of the details of those two weeks as time passed with its inevitable slippage of memories. I wanted to hold on to those details and to be able to revisit in the future the preciousness of those final days that we had together. It was similar to how we value picture albums that contain treasured memories.

I started writing. It was as if my heart had broken open and the material poured out of it. Quite spontaneously, I began to integrate vignettes or flashbacks of experiences that we had over our thirty-three years as a couple. I wrote almost non-stop for six weeks. I had to remind myself to eat and to sleep. I intended it only as a record for myself with no one else ever reading it. A few close friends learned of it and asked to see it. I agreed. Then, with my permission, they started circulating the manuscript more broadly. People kept telling me two things: this could be helpful for others dealing with the death of a loved one, and secondly, this is an incredible gay love story that should be shared. After a year of cajoling from friends, I agreed to have it published. August Farewell has now been read by thousands of people around the world.

Though writing August Farewell had somewhat of a cathartic effect in helping me with Bill’s death, I was still convulsed with feelings of loss. His had been the culmination of a series of family deaths over a relatively short few years including the suicide of my younger brother and the deaths of my parents and Bill’s parents. I was now alone, had time on my hands having recently retired, and had the tranquility and solitude of our home.

Writing had always been a passion of mine and a source of creative nourishment for me. I came up with the idea to write a piece of fiction—something I had never done—through which I could continue grappling with the psychological and emotional challenges of all these family deaths and the end of my professional career with retirement. I thought that tackling fiction would be stimulating for me intellectually and artistically. Indeed it was. I loved the process of working primarily from my imagination—there was a kind of liberation from the strictures of non-fiction work such as the five academic books on environmental ethics that I had written during my working life.

The novel Searching for Gilead was the result. There are autobiographical dimensions in it but more in terms of the themes that it deals with rather than the characters and plotlines. I worked intensely on the writing and, in contrast to August Farewell, I utilized the services of a professional editor. This being my first attempt at fiction, I decided that I could benefit from the guidance that an editor could bring. It took eighteen months and five drafts from when I began to write Searching for Gilead to when I was holding the published copy in my hands.

After the novel came out, I started to experience an intense thirst for other people’s writing. I had always been a voracious reader but during the work on August Farewell and Searching for Gilead I had done almost no reading. All my available time had been occupied with the writing. I now realized how much artistic nourishment I had been missing by not indulging in the rich and diverse stimulation of new and classic literature, particularly fiction. I jumped in with both feet and started to read for several hours a day, occasionally as much as eight or ten hours. It was, and continues to be, a major enrichment to the quality of my life.

In the back of my mind, I was casting around for what my next writing project might be and it occurred to me that I was holding the answer in my hands. As I say in the preface to Book Tales: “I love to read books. I love to write books. So I decided to write a book about reading books.” I wanted to continue pushing myself to develop my skills as a writer so I set myself the challenge of trying my hand at the short story genre. In each of the stories in Book Tales, the plot revolves in one way or another around the characters’ interaction with a piece of literature. Combining fiction, creative non-fiction, and semi-fictionalized autobiography, I crafted tales that hopefully draw readers into my characters’ complex lives using the lens of books such as Paul Bowles’s The Sheltering Sky, John Le Carré’s The Constant Gardener, E. M. Forster’s Maurice, Patricia Nell Warren’s The Front Runner, Robertson Davies’s Fifth Business, and my own memoir August Farewell. Some of the stories focus specifically on the literary work. In others, the role of the book in the plot is quite subtle.

I reread all the novels that I was using in the short stories plus background books on the authors’ lives and times. In addition, I was continuing to read many other books, especially newly published novels, that had nothing to do with my writing project. The net effect of integrating so much reading time into my daily schedule was that the writing of Book Tales took about four years since I was not concentrating on it 24/7 as I had been with August Farewell and Searching for Gilead.

So, six weeks to write the 165-page memoir August Farewell. Eighteen months to write the 375-page novel Searching for Gilead. And four years to write the 175-page collection of short stories Book Tales. Such wide variation doesn’t seem logical but that is how it happened. In each case, the pace of writing felt intrinsic to the specific writing project and appropriate given what was happening in my life personally and socially and how I was feeling emotionally and psychologically.

I love writing and reading and writing and reading and …

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For more information on my writing, please visit my website at: http://DavidGHallman.com

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Parallels in Grief

I have a complicated relationship with Canadian poet and novelist Helen Humphreys’ poignant memoir Nocturne – On the Life and Death of My Brother.

I met Humphreys at a literary event and we had a conversation about the parallels in our lives:

  • She lost her brother to pancreatic cancer;
  • I lost my long-term partner Bill to pancreatic cancer; I also know the grief of losing a brother – my brother (we were only thirteen months apart in age) committed suicide in the same year that Bill died;
  • Music and literature play a big role in Humphreys’ life: she is an author and her brother was a concert pianist;
  • Music and literature play a big role in my life: I am a writer and play the piano and Bill was a teacher of piano and voice;
  • Humphreys wrote Nocturne in part as a way to process her grief on the loss of her brother;
  • I wrote my memoir August Farewell – the last sixteen days of a thirty-three year romance in part as a way to process my grief on the loss of Bill;
  • Humphreys is a lesbian and I am a gay man.

I have highlighted many of Humphreys’ sentences and paragraphs in my copy of Nocturne because of their resonance with my experiences:

  • “One of the things I learned about death is that it makes you behave in ways you never thought you would.”
  • “The music to which you’d given your life sustained you while you were dying.”
  • “We all give our lives to something, and our lives are taken from us at some point. We are lucky if what we devote ourselves to can offer some comfort at the end.”
  • “ ‘I’m not afraid to die,’ you said. ‘I just don’t want to.’ “
  • “I’ve been thinking about the human soul, about the presence of the unseen in our lives, about how, the moment you died, I felt you leave. What was it that left? And why did I feel that you did leave? It wasn’t simply that a light was turned off, that your consciousness stopped, but rather that you moved swiftly from your dead body and went somewhere else. But where did you go?”

Helen Humphreys knows that life goes on.

I continue to write. I continue to read. I continue to listen to and play music. I continue to love. I know that life goes on.

But for both Helen and me, life continues under a shadow.

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Information on Helen Humphreys’ writing is on her website at: http://www.hhumphreys.com

Information on my writing is on my website at: http://www.DavidGHallman.com

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Writing and Reading: Capturing complexity in Anne Enright’s “The Green Road”

“That’s an excellent question! You really grasped the essence of Rosaleen,” Irish writer Anne Enright exclaimed.

I was near the back of the theatre at the 2015 International Festival of Authors in Toronto. The audience Q&A was winding down at the end of a panel session in which Enright and several other novelists had been discussing their recent works.

I got the moderator’s attention and posed my comment/question to Enright: “You have drawn Rosaleen, the mother character in your exquisite novel “The Green Road,” as such a complex character. At least that’s how I experienced her, especially in the final climactic chapters. She relates to her adult children in an irritating passive-aggressive manner hurtling guilt-ridden barbs at each of them for what she perceives as their abandonment of her. As a reader, I identified totally with the frustration that her children were experiencing. And then Rosaleen goes off, disappearing into the countryside, and we see this incredibly vulnerable and fragile woman prepared to lie down and die, not out of vindictiveness toward her family but out of genuine despair at the loneliness and aridness of how her life is shrinking. And suddenly, you have me as the reader, in deep sympathy for her. How did you manage to create such a complex character that we find ourselves simultaneously irritated by and weeping for?”

Enright replied, “That’s an excellent question! You really grasped the essence of Rosaleen.” I was thrilled. Esteemed author Anne Enright, winner of the Man Booker Prize for her previous novel “The Gathering,” was complimenting my perceptiveness. I know… I’m easily flattered. But when a writer whom I hold in high regard talks with me as a peer … well, that’s terrific.

I learned as our conversation continued that for Enright, there was some degree of planned intentionality about creating the complexity of Rosaleen, but by in large it emerged for her spontaneously. Enright said that she had procrastinated writing much about Rosaleen because she knew that the character was going to have to be so multidimensional. She wrote most of the rest of the novel and fleshed out the other characters before tackling her. But when she began with Rosaleen, especially in the climactic finale, it just flowed. She knew what she had to write and how. In one sense, it was already formed in her mind after she had laid down the rest of the story, and in another sense it was emerging spontaneously from her imagination. She did little rewriting of those final scenes. Creating Rosaleen was one of the most satisfying occasions of her writing career.

“Thank you so much for asking your question. I’m glad that I got an opportunity to share that experience.”

As I said, I was thrilled by our little exchange. Reading fine literature is such a source of enrichment for me. Encountering and being able to dialogue with the creators of fine literature deepens my appreciation for the product, the writer and the craft, all of which encourages me further in my own writing. Intellectually and artistically, it doesn’t get much better than that.

The Green Road

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For information on my writing, see my website at http://DavidGHallman.com

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