My Significant Authors: Alison Lurie

For many years, Alison Lurie was the only American author I could say I had read with any thoroughness. I’ve read every single one of her novels and haven’t been disappointed by any. Enjoying her books encouraged me to try Anne Tyler, who quickly became another firm favourite (although there are books in her oeuvre that I care for less than others). I think the two authors are intriguingly alike, and before I began this I found myself wondering about the differences between them. I came to a tentative conclusion that Tyler is a metonymic writer and Lurie a metaphoric one. That’s to say in Tyler’s works, plot is organised by a chain-like process of causality, and its tentacles can spread quite far and wide – across families or through generations. By contrast, Lurie’s characters perform an intricate little choreography on the spot, perhaps because she prefers a more restricted canvas, perhaps because she likes to explore all the repercussions of a central incident. But this is a cautious and imperfect conclusion – they are alike and I’m not convinced I’ve put my finger on the difference.

What both authors share is a similar adherence to what might be called old-fashioned mimesis, or a faithful representation of life as it is lived in a voice that presents reality without extra embellishment. When I say ‘old-fashioned’ I hasten to add that I don’t mean this in any pejorative way. In fact, although many people would disagree with me here, I think the most difficult skill in the writer’s repertoire is to produce clear, lucid prose that describes a recognisable contemporary landscape in which three-dimensional characters live, breathe and feel. To then wrap this around a shapely plot and extract satisfying meaning from the kind of situations people struggle with all the time strikes me as actually being very tricky to pull off. For want of a better term I suppose I’d call it intelligent realism and it’s a very naked way of writing; the slightest flaws in prose style are going to be glaringly obvious in a way they won’t be when an author uses a highly stylised voice. I’ve nothing against stylisation and experimentation – many works of that kind have given me a lot of reading pleasure – but sometimes I’m really grateful to a writer who will tell it to me straight.

So this holiday I took away with me Alison Lurie’s latest novel, Truth and Consequence, and I absolutely loved it. It revolves around the life of a middle-aged couple, Alan and Jane Mackenzie, whose otherwise happy marriage is being slowly corroded by Alan’s chronically painful slipped disc. Lurie is on familiar territory here as her previous novel, The Last Resort focused on Wilkie Walker, a man slowly ruining his quality of life with fears for his own health. In that novel the main protagonist believed he had bowel cancer and was too afraid to get it checked out. In this one, Alan’s slipped disc is a reality that he and his wife must live with every day and the experience has made him selfish, bitter and self-pitying, ashamed of his own behaviour and convinced his useful days are passed. Jane has in turn become a reluctant skivvy, economising on her own needs and desires whilst sadly contemplating the demise of a man she once revered and respected. This intolerable stasis is about to be destroyed by the arrival, with the new academic year, of a visiting professor, the acclaimed author Delia Delaney and her husband, Henry. Delia is a wonderful creation who just about manages to stay on the right side of caricature as the literary diva with endless charm and no scruples whatsoever about using it to get her way. Delia suffers from migraines and chronic disinterest in others, but she is a queen of emotional manipulation and before long her various campaigns secure her Alan as a useful ally. Yet however self-centred her intentions may be, her shameless flirtation gives Alan a new lease of life, and a renewed engagement with his own academic work (it’s unfortunate that the project he was working on when he fell ill concerned architectural ruins – a subject that now has painful connotations).

I found Lurie’s portrait of chronic illness to be particularly interesting, as it’s a topic that doesn’t get much coverage because it’s profoundly unromantic. People who suffer constant pain do not become noble and reach higher degrees of being, Lurie suggests; on the whole they lose all taste for life and drag down those who are forced to suffer alongside them. Yet the ever-resourceful Delia belongs to a long line of artists who manage to find in suffering a source of artistic inspiration:

‘”But you must feel that too, about your pain. It’s there for a reason. I mean, don’t you feel sometimes, when you lie there suffering, that images or messages are coming to you, ones you’d never find otherwise? I know some of my best stories began as those strange kind of half-dreams, half-hallucinations I have late at night, or just before dawn, when I’m totally exhausted with a migraine. Isn’t it like that for you too?”

“Sometimes,” Alan admitted, remembering that the idea of turning the Plaza Fountain into a picturesque ruin had in fact occurred to him as he lay awake in agony one black rainy night last summer.

“When my aura starts there’s no way of knowing what will come. Sometimes there are visions, sometimes nightmares, sometimes just blackness, oblivion.”

“There’s times I could use some oblivion.”

“Yes, but we can’t choose. In the end you have to accept your affliction as a gift. You have to ask, what is it trying to tell you, to give you? What has it saved you from, what has it brought you?”’

All of which led me to wonder whether it were possible for any experience to feed art and creativity, if the sufferer were sufficiently creative with it? There are also interesting implications for illness too; is it always the case that illness has a profound psychological dimension? Is illness always lived as an indication of what a life is lacking? The configuration of illness and art is one of the philosophical enquiries I most enjoyed in this novel, and Lurie adds to this brew the element of selfishness as well. The implication of the story is that artists need to be selfish to work, that in some ways selfishness will out, for any other stance indicates the presence of the amateur, or a performative mask. Illness in this novel brings Alan a level of artistic achievement that he never found in academic research. By the novel’s end his life, and that of his wife too, has radically altered, and I think this is one of the things I enjoy most about Lurie’s plotting; the events of her narratives have impressive, significant consequences, and her characters are always thrust into full-scale (marital, lifestyle) change. Nips and tucks are insufficient responses to life’s uneven progression, Lurie seems to be saying: only engagement and change are adequate answers to the impossible questions we’re faced with.

One final thought: I gave this book to my husband to read, and he enjoyed it but not nearly so much as I did. ‘It’s a woman’s book,’ he said, and when I got that blogging glint in my eye he recanted, changing his position to: ‘it’s written more from a woman’s perspective.’ I thought this interesting when it’s actually written from Alan and Jane’s alternating perspectives. I had never considered Lurie as anything other than a hermaphrodite author, appealing equally to men and women, but perhaps this is not the case? And if Lurie is more ‘feminine’ in her approach, then what makes her different from someone like Richard Russo? I’ll have a think about this myself but I’m very keen to know how other people respond to this….

8 thoughts on “My Significant Authors: Alison Lurie

  1. I’ve never read Lurie, but I definitely should! I’ve read Tyler recently, so I’d be curious to think more about your comparison when I do read Lurie. About “women’s books,” I can’t speak about Lurie, of course, but I’m curious to hear what others say. I think Tyler gets dismissed for similar reasons — domestic and relationship-centered, and so a women’s book. Or perhaps your husband wasn’t being dismissive? I get uncomfortable when people start talking about “women’s” versus “men’s” writing, like we can really isolate characteristics. Kate from Kate’s Book blog has an interesting post on the subject.

  2. Very interesting- I shall look out for Lurie. I have migraines and have sufferred a certain amount of chronic ongoing dental pain from a botched root canal and associated surgery. I don’t know if it made me more creative but I suppose it “deepened” me as a person in that I’ve had to think about it and find ways to make sense of it which I did/do through the Buddhist idea of suffering as a human constant.

    I probably am grossly generalising but I think men and women often do write somewhat differently. I most notice it in the way male authors write about female characters- with a summing up of the sexual attractiveness and potential even if the male protagonist is not planning to succumb. Women often do write more about domestic details and subtleties in interpersonal relationships.

  3. You’re right Dorothy – it’s a very interesting post on Kate’s site. What I feel is that we can’t walk away from gender difference. I commented on Kate’s post that many times feminism has been all about celebrating women’s specificity, and what feels odd to me is the way that culture veers back and forth between celebrating difference and denying it. The reality lies somewhere in the middle. If we can’t play with gender specificity, then can we ever talk about it at all? And if not, doesn’t it just become another taboo, or shadily grey area? I think feeling discomfort means that it’s a good idea to get everything out and have a good look at it – but I realise that may just be me!

    Ms Make Tea – that’s very interesting about the migraines – you have my every sympathy. I’ve certainly had to reconsider my life in every detail since suffering so badly from exhaustion. It does alter you in profound ways, and to be honest I’m glad to have had the chance to reassess.

  4. Thank you for waking me up this sleepy Sunday afternoon. Your questions about illness and creativity are on my mind a lot these days. But I hadn’t thought of Alison Lurie in this context, and now I certainly will. I liked the War Between the Tates and the novel about the biographer (I can’t remember the name of it now), but what I most remember her for is her take on children’s literature. I often think about her preference for the subversive over the didactic and love choosing the latter over the former when I’m buying gifts for children I think might be too tightly regulated. (If only their parents knew!)

    As for illness and creativity, I was not happy to learn I have breast cancer (although delighted to learn I am not going to die from it!) — but I’ll tell you I have been almost giddy about getting to reconsider the way I’m living my life. If being ill means you are shocked into being your truest self, I’ll take that in a moment over what I had before. I’m not sure how all this will shake out, except I’m thrilled to have been able to make more room for the things that matter to me and to have been able to say not to the things that take away from that.

    And now I’m going over to Kate’s to see about that discussion of gender differences in writing.

  5. It strikes me as absolutely true that feminism veers back and forth between celebrating and denying difference — and I think I do myself. The interesting question to me is where differences come from — biology or socialization, or in what combination? I would *prefer* by temperament to deny biological differences beyong the obvious physical ones and think more about the ways gender roles are socialized and thus can be altered, but I don’t want to blind myself to reality (I mean, I do believe gender roles are socialized, but there is biology involved too, to some degree). I’ve heard numerous parents talk about how once you have a kid, you realize built-in gender differences are obviously there. What I wonder is whether gender is the best way to think about difference, or if other factors are more significant — in other words, for example, are differences among women of different classes more significant than differences between men and women?

  6. Yet again, you make me think much more deeply than I otherwise would–you must be fantastic in the classroom. I haven’t read Lurie, but she is now on my list. I am fascinated by your husband’s reaction to the book, as well as your thoughts on feminism, literature, and difference. I will be teaching a course in the fall built around the idea of gender difference, so this is a particularly interesting question for me. When it comes to women writing and men writing, I find it difficult to determine exactly how I want to approach their differences–can I say that there is a specifically female, recognizably female voice, as opposed to a male voice? If so (and this is an extremely debateable point, of course) where does that difference come from. As Dorothy pointed out, there are biological differences, but can we set everything at the feet of DNA? Intuitively, I insist that some of these differences that we perceive must be socially constructed, and therefore our desire to see differences must also be socially constructed. Last semester, I had a student in a class who was quite confident of her ability to determine whether an essay had been written by a man or woman, so, as a spur-of-the-moment class exercise, we challenged her. She was right every single time. So where does this take the discussion? I’m not sure, but the debate is bound to get interesting.

  7. I haven’t read Lurie, either, but, like the rest of the crowd, am now inspired to do so. I’ve always maintained that women do a better job of writing about men than men do of writing about women. However, this isn’t because I think women have an innate ability to understand men and to create male characters that men don’t have when it comes to women. It’s because in our society thus far, women have been raised to read so much more that’s written by men than men have been raised to read what’s written by women. We’ve been inside men’s heads more than men have been inside ours. I’m really hoping this is beginning to change (because it will benefit both sexes by providing us with richer insights), as more and more women’s literature (not to mention historical writings) enters the canon. And I’ve been debating the nature v. nurture argument for as long as I can remember. Still don’t have an answer, except that as more and more is learned about the brain, it seems there are some pretty significant (and quite cool) innate differences. However, that still doesn’t mean that things don’t vary widely or that it’s easy to generalize between male and female differences. I met a cognitive psychologist recently who had the perfect analogy for this. Just because the average height for a man might be 5’10” (or whatever it is. I don’t know what it really is), doesn’t mean you can’t enter a room full of 200 men and find heights ranging from 5’4″ to 6’3″.

  8. Pingback: Everyday I Write the BookTRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES by Alison Lurie » Everyday I Write the Book

Leave a Reply to Emily Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s