I knew that as early as page 21 that things were not right with Eliza Peabody. Her letter of Christmas Day ends "I don't feel awfully well these days". But she has no physical ailment. Her next letter starts "I have to ask myself, I suppose, just why it is that I continue to write". She means that her letters to Joan are never answered.
But these are not ordinary letters, they are more like twenty pages of fiction. Nobody can recall all that happens in an eventful day in such detail? Eliza pulls no punches with how she sees herself: "I sensed that in me you saw all that you must at almost any price avoid." In her letters, Eliza conjures up some interesting philosophy. In one she describes a meeting with a group of women. Not all to her taste "But Good. Serious about Bridge. A bit heavy on the Gin".
The prose crackles and is a joy to read. I'm always a sucker for short sentences:
"Nothing has happened since the razzle-dazzle of Oxford, the interesting anthropological behaviour of the Creative Writing Class, except rain. Rain and rain. Soft and soaking. Deeply seeping………. I stand watching the rain and contemplating the silence of God.
What to tell you?
So many kinds of love.
Rain."
As the story unfolds, the letters become more and more bizarre. A late night walk is wonderfully described. Her trips to the Hospice where she has a job are a joy. Finally we are treated to a kind of resolution. I found it better not to try to predict what this novel is all about, but just to go with the flow of the author's story. Heart-breaking.
The meeting of book club last night was held on Zoom, courtesy of Janet who set it all up.
No comments:
Post a Comment