March 24, 2007

• i finally finished reading after this by alice mcdermott.  it was a great book, and at only 279 rather small pages, a breezy read.  it's much different than other novels i've liked -- it tells the story by giving you snapshots of an irish-catholic family over a 30 year period or so.  it's not a continuous narrative, but rather it picks up in sometimes momentous (like when clare is born), sometimes random (one day after church) places in these people's lives.  it's third person, although the point of view is constantly shifted from omniscience to the experiences of one particular character.  and at critical moments, you are completely deprived of one character's point of view, left only to guess at his feelings based on the effect of what happens to him on the rest of the family. 

  sadness permeates every page of the book.  a dark cloud hangs over even the happier times, because in every event -- even the most mundane -- there's a fear of death, a recognition that every moment of life is fleeting, that people float in and out of our lives and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.  that heading into our future necessarily involves letting go of the past.  even though it's not the future's fault, even though the passage of time is a natural thing, you can't help being a little angry.

  for it's easier to relive something old than to find something new.  easier to cling to old friends and lovers than to find new ones.  what is left after this?  after this life?  heaven or nothingness?  what's left after you finish school?  a lifetime of working?  family?  a house in some awful planned community, or a big city apartment?  i want to hang onto THIS, whatever it is, but what this refers to is constantly shifting.  one moment after another, until finally you die.  at which point either nothing comes after or something comes after for eternity.  (how we wish it's the latter but fear it's the former.)

  it's a compelling novel partly because it reminds me of what i feel my life is lacking because it's never had, partly because it reminds me of what i've been forced to let go of even though i wanted to hold on a moment longer, and partly because it makes me think of how i might frame my life in a similar way.  how i could write an autobiography that's nothing but short scenes, particular evenings, which would give an eerily accurate portrait of me.

  because you'd like to think that every second of your life means something; that someone can't know YOU without knowing every detail, every heartbreak, every childhood memory, every success, every failure.  but that's not so!  i could pick one evening of freshman year and sum up everything that changed about me then, capture everything i did wrong, every mistake i made.  i could pick one random day at work and sum up what it's like for me to be a lawyer.  the moments are all so interchangeable!  and that's frightening.

  time marches on.  you get to a point in your life when you're 25, and where you are isn't where you saw yourself.  you may be happy.  but can you let go of the way things were supposed to be?  do you make a new plan or pursue the original one?  maybe it's all just the same anyway.

  • 9:14 pm
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