Sorrows of an American Book

I did enjoy this book and all the myriad stories and mysteries within but as the end neared, I found myself liking it less and less. That was mainly due to the many narrative anticlimaxes. I wonder if they were meant to effect the reader that way... but it would have been lovely if at least a few of them had shaken the earth, caused a flutter of the heart, or at least aroused some interest or delight. Alas, they did not. I actually wish that one of the two great mysteries -- what was in Max's letters, or what happened between Lars and Lisa -- had been left unsolved rather than giving it an answer as flat as the ones provided were.

The story closest to me, among the many that crisscrossed throughout the narrative, was that of Miranda, the narrator's lodger. I loved reading about her past, her Caribbean roots and heritage, her strange dreams, and the fierce paintings she created with she-monsters from those dreams. However, like Eric, we are left behind a closed door, granted only glimpses of Miranda's existence and wonderful mind.

In a sense, that is a key to the main theme of the novel. This book is as much about loneliness, sadness, the sense of loss, privacy, and that which is hidden and locked away in our past, as it is about family ties and connectedness. We are all alone, and we feel the weight of out past and our ancestors upon our shoulders. The dreams are often the most revelatory parts of the story as is apt for the psychoanalyst narrator, Erik.

Another character that I really liked was Eric's sister Inga, the famous author's widow. One of the reasons why I felt so close to her was her migraine tendency. It'd always given her strange visions, angelic lights, odd sensations and voices... these are phenomena I know all too well, suffering from hereditary aural migraines. Extreme emotions also give me a migraine, be they happiness or pain. That too is a mystery of a kind, a strange illness carried on by blood and relation.

The ending of the book was a real letdown. The part that should have made the reader fall in love with the tale, only served to alienate. Hustvedt tied all the narrative threads completely in vain, explained things that could have been left for the reader to interpret, and carried on the story when it should have ended. The book has three or four different (possible endings, and yet the author carries on with the narrative. It's a rare skill to know when to stop, and some writers can't do it, neither can certain filmmakers. I believe she may have grown too attached her characters (which may or may not be based on her family and herself) and was thus unable to let go, but to drag them behind her, through yet one more emotional trap, was unnecessary and uninteresting, too.

I still enjoyed the novel and would have loved it even more with a different ending, one that came quite a few pages earlier. With less explaining, and a lot more magic.