Amy and Isabelle is an intense dissection of a mother's relationship with her daughter. This book is so beautifully written, it sometimes takes your breath away. At the beginning I was less than enthused about what seemed to be another boring family drama, but gradually the author pulls you in to the depths and detail of their day to day lives. Isabelle, the mother, has no husband and no friends. Sometimes she seems far too melodramatic for her own good, and far too fixated on her sixteen year old daughter Amy for that relationship to thrive. Even though her father had told her "you have to be friendly to have friends", this may be beyond her capabilities. So, apart from Amy, she is alone.
The story is told in the third person alternating mainly between the two women. There are a couple of very short pieces from the view of male characters. The father of Amy's best friend contemplates why his daughter hates him so much, and later on an even shorter one by the janitor of the school. Both equally devastating. But in the end, we find how true is the saying "like mother, like daughter".
I liked how Strout picked on experiences that any reader would feel they had shared in the past. "Shyness is often mistaken for unfriendliness". Then after twenty devastating pages later in the book, the next chapter starts "Daisies and pink clover grew alongside the back roads of Shirley Falls. There were wild sweet peas too etc. " Typical of the lyrical descriptions of the landscape and seasons of this small community, particularly the long hot summer that dominates the story.
My first Muriel Spark novel and what a joy it has been. Wonderfully entertaining. I loved the conversational aspect of the book, this was taken to a new level as the narrator speaks directly to us: "It's fun. You should try it." and on the subject of willpower: "I offer this advice without fee- it is included in the price of the book.".
Set in 1954/5 in South Kensington. I was ten and living in West Kensington, so there was much for me to enjoy. The house where our narrator, Mrs Hawkins, lives is described as a "rooming house" where a three storey terrace is divided into tiny apartments, really no more than rooms. The attic reminded me of where Bob Owen and I shared on Airedale Avenue in Chiswick in 1965.
The author describes "espresso bars", but in 1955 I'm sure they were called simply coffee bars. At least ours in Braintree was. And 1955 was a little early for one of the character's boyfriend managing a rock and roll band. Although Bill Haley was storming the charts, Elvis and Lonnie only made it a year later, with Cliff and Marty Wilde in 1958. But who cares. The book was brilliant.
Much as I enjoy the plays written by Harold Pinter, I'm afraid I couldn't get on with his writing. The first of the three sections was the best: letters, speeches and other bits of prose. But the poetry, which was a particular love of the writer, left me cold. Although I have to say that most poetry does. But like those pieces earlier, the poems on cricket were the most accessible. Then the last section on political writing was not for me and I skipped most of it. If only they had saved the first for last.
No comments:
Post a Comment