The foundation for this novel is its lyrical, lovely and relentless sense of place. Set in a small, history-ridden village outside Boston, Alice Hoffman begins her story with an appropriate yet fanciful description of Massachusetts winters. As intrinsic as the plot and the people, the buildings, homes, streets and trees in which her characters live have lives and essences of their own. This was probably my favorite part of the book. I loved the mystical, folklore element that permeates every page. To illustrate, I just opened one at random and here's a sentence describing the local library:
"Matt especially liked the collections room when it rained; he felt as though he were in a fishbowl, swimming toward knowledge, diving into the journals of the Hathaways and the Elliots and the Hapgoods."
And the aforementioned passage on Massachusetts:
"Anyone born and bred in Massachusetts learns early on to recognize the end of winter. Babies in their cribs point to the brightening of the sky before they can crawl. Level-headed men weep at the first call of the warblers. Upstanding women strip off their clothes and dive into inlets and ponds before the ice has fully melted, unconcerned if their fingers and toes turn blue [...] Who could blame the citizens of Massachusetts for rejoicing when spring is so close at hand? Winter in New England is merciless and cruel, a season that instills a particular melancholy in its residents and a hopelessness that is all but impossible to shake."
Needless to say, it's clear that part of Hoffman's writing style and charm are a result of her exaggerated prose. As a lifelong Massachusetts resident, I'd like to think my life and mood are not entirely defined by the weather. When I look out on the gray, early November sky outside my window and the rapidly thinning trees, however, I can't deny that Hoffman has hit a nerve.
It's not the only time she does so in this labyrinthine and whimsical book. Despite her meticulous attention to physical environment, Hoffman also devotes time and energy to issues intangible: mother-daughter relationships, alcoholism, and death. In fact, her ruminations on death are unwavering and impressive.
The Probable Future is more than a "fairy tale" (The New York Times Book Review) or a "magical escape" (Marie Claire). In ways, it is certainly both of these things, but also more - it has the mysticism of a fairy tale and the distance of a magical escape. But it is very much grounded in reality - of love unspoken, of regrets and dreams unrealized, and of the confusion of youth and the clarity of old age. It is the rarely successful combination of the real and the ethereal that makes Hoffman's novel a real accomplishment - and a special, not easily forgettable read.
0 comments:
Post a Comment