If last year was any indicator — which it probably was — this may be the last fiction book I read with any kind of efficacy for about 9 months. Sniff. There aren’t many complaints I have about grad school, but at the top of a very short list is this: my reading is taken up by articles and nonfiction, which taxes the brain and the soul. I need my fiction, people! I don’t know when most of you read books during the day, but before bed has always been a favorite for me, with quiet afternoon a close second. Bedtime after a long day though is disastrous for remembering plot points and characters, no matter how poignant or abrasive or thrilling the story. The Paris Wife is next on my list, so let’s hope I don’t let poor Mrs. Hemingway languish for months and months as I read one page per day.
Swamplandia! had all the weirdness I want from a book — a story about a family of alligator wrestlers who fall on hard times when a rival theme park moves in and takes away their customers. It really turned out to be three sections — the first section about the family members finding outlets for their grief after the mother’s death (not a spoiler), the second an unintentional group of short stories going back and forth between Ava and Kiwi’s respective journeys, and the third a “dark night of the soul” type ending that culminates suddenly in the most Pollyanna way I could imagine.
I liked the quirkiness of the first section. The family history and the set up of the Swamplandia! park and especially the descriptions of the mother were heartening with just the right amount of darkness to them. Russell created a family that was wacky, quintessentially American, and easy to love. Then in the second section everything falls apart, and although the humor is still pushing around in the peripherals, it just seems like nothing is actually going to go right for anyone and the whole book becomes hopeless and dismal. The reader watches characters make choices that seem not only weird, but are definitely bad. It’s not uncomfortable exactly — dismal really is the right word.
And then every bad thing you imagined might happen to the characters after their bad decisions (which, by the way, work because they are adolescents. I didn’t feel any kind of sympathy for Chief Bigtree, the father, because there’s just no world that exists in my head where a parent should make the decision he does) DOES happen to them. But suddenly! The great Deus ex machina to the rescue! And abruptly everything’s back to the tone of the first section again — the family is going to make it through this together, yo ho ho, isn’t the world funny?
I haven’t read anything else by Russell, and I did really enjoy her writing early in the story. I just appreciate consistency in the books I read. If I should be ready for a long deep look into the evils of the human psyche, I can do that and appreciate that. If I should be ready for a lovely story about the strengths of families and the storms they can weather together, I can do that and appreciate that. But I can’t switch back and forth between the two.
I hear good things about Russell’s first book, St. Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised By Wolves, as if that title wasn’t enough to make me want to read it. And although this is largely a complainy post, I really did enjoy the book — just not as one unit. So I will check out this other novel, if only to see how many girls are raised by wolves and whether St. Lucy makes it through alive.
In about 20 minutes, I’m off to my first class of fall quarter. Good bye, summer! Good bye, fiction books! It’s me, not you! I’ll try to keep in touch, novels!