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The Sorrows of an American
After their father's funeral, Erik and Inga Davidsen find a cryptic letter from a woman among his papers, dating from his adolescence in rural Minnesota during the Depression. Returning to his psychiatric practice in New York City, Erik sets about reading his father's memoir, hoping to discover the man he never fully knew.
306 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2008
236 people are currently reading
2849 people want to read
About the author
Siri Hustvedt
90 books2,509 followersHustvedt was born in Northfield, Minnesota. Her father Lloyd Hustvedt was a professor of Scandinavian literature, and her mother Ester Vegan emigrated from Norway at the age of thirty. She holds a B.A. in history from St. Olaf College and a Ph.D. in English from Columbia University; her thesis on Charles Dickens was entitled Figures of Dust: A Reading of Our Mutual Friend.
Hustvedt has mainly made her name as a novelist, but she has also produced a book of poetry, and has had short stories and essays on various subjects published in (among others) The Art of the Essay, 1999, The Best American Short Stories 1990 and 1991, The Paris Review, Yale Review, and Modern Painters.
Like her husband Paul Auster, Hustvedt employs a use of repetitive themes or symbols throughout her work. Most notably the use of certain types of voyeurism, often linking objects of the dead to characters who are relative strangers to the deceased characters (most notable in various facits in her novels The Blindfold and The Enchantment of Lily Dahl) and the exploration of identity. She has also written essays on art history and theory (see "Essay collections") and painting and painters often appear in her fiction, most notably, perhaps, in her novel, What I Loved.
She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband, writer Paul Auster, and their daughter, singer and actress Sophie Auster.
Hustvedt has mainly made her name as a novelist, but she has also produced a book of poetry, and has had short stories and essays on various subjects published in (among others) The Art of the Essay, 1999, The Best American Short Stories 1990 and 1991, The Paris Review, Yale Review, and Modern Painters.
Like her husband Paul Auster, Hustvedt employs a use of repetitive themes or symbols throughout her work. Most notably the use of certain types of voyeurism, often linking objects of the dead to characters who are relative strangers to the deceased characters (most notable in various facits in her novels The Blindfold and The Enchantment of Lily Dahl) and the exploration of identity. She has also written essays on art history and theory (see "Essay collections") and painting and painters often appear in her fiction, most notably, perhaps, in her novel, What I Loved.
She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband, writer Paul Auster, and their daughter, singer and actress Sophie Auster.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 496 reviews
December 2, 2024
This first contact with the work of S. Husdvedt served me and came out respectful of the documentary power of this novel, mixed with quotes from his father's diary (.... a mixture full of talent). The springs, especially the hero's feelings, are analyzed in the smallest detail, a Remarkable exercise, especially since it is about a man's intimacy. In short, it's the neurotic New York psychoanalysis atmosphere à la Woody Allen, but much more severe and infinitely more detailed. Seemingly innocuous at first, the story slowly fades away, and you must hang on to see the height of the author's reflections. You feel small but never overwhelmed.
July 5, 2020
I really enjoyed reading this book, this is literature at its finest. It contains no spectacular story and although it is a bit less captivating than the novel that I previously read from Hustvedt What I Loved, this book is much more balanced. The focus lies almost completely on the inside of men and women, our psychological relation with the world and other people (the main character is a male psychiatrist). Hustvedt outlines very fragile people struggling with all kinds of issues, trauma and secrets, - sometimes validly, sometimes not at all (though that, of course, always is the view of an outsider). What is striking, is how much people keep silent about those issues, they keep them hidden, shielding them off.
While reading, I often had to think of the novel The Echo Maker by Richard Powers, which I read half a year ago. This novel also outlines how strange the human brain works. But the book of Hustvedt is much better managed and balanced.
Hustvedt processed a number of autobiographical elements (her Norwegian origin, she also uses verbatim passages from the diary of her father), and one of the side figures is also traumatized by the attacks of 11 september 2001, but fortunately that does not get too much attention (though the title might suggest otherwise), it isn’t the real focus, but then again those few pages are really poignant.
I especially love the very balanced style of Hustvedt and her subtle way of looking at people, stressing the fragility of human beings. Some passages (such as psychiatrist Eric dealing with the little daughter of his downstairs neighbour) are captivatingly beautiful and endearing. What’s more, – but maybe it's just my personal interpretation – I have the impression that Hustvedt's message is: each of us struggles with issues and disappointments in life (and sometimes outright trauma), but the most effective medicine for this is not so spectacular: some attention, care, and affection. Perhaps they don’t offer a real cure or solution, but at least some relief and leniency. Or is that too much asked for?
While reading, I often had to think of the novel The Echo Maker by Richard Powers, which I read half a year ago. This novel also outlines how strange the human brain works. But the book of Hustvedt is much better managed and balanced.
Hustvedt processed a number of autobiographical elements (her Norwegian origin, she also uses verbatim passages from the diary of her father), and one of the side figures is also traumatized by the attacks of 11 september 2001, but fortunately that does not get too much attention (though the title might suggest otherwise), it isn’t the real focus, but then again those few pages are really poignant.
I especially love the very balanced style of Hustvedt and her subtle way of looking at people, stressing the fragility of human beings. Some passages (such as psychiatrist Eric dealing with the little daughter of his downstairs neighbour) are captivatingly beautiful and endearing. What’s more, – but maybe it's just my personal interpretation – I have the impression that Hustvedt's message is: each of us struggles with issues and disappointments in life (and sometimes outright trauma), but the most effective medicine for this is not so spectacular: some attention, care, and affection. Perhaps they don’t offer a real cure or solution, but at least some relief and leniency. Or is that too much asked for?
November 1, 2008
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.
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.
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July 10, 2023A história faz-se de amnésia.(...)O trauma não faz parte de uma história; é outra história. É aquilo que recusamos que faça parte na nossa história.
Quando peguei em Siri Hustvedt, desconhecia que era casada com quem é (até porque não conheço a obra de Auster), pelo que a minha leitura não foi, de modo algum, contaminada por comparações, diminuições, preconceitos ou conhecimento anterior, de qualquer espécie, sobre autora e obra. E ainda bem porque aquilo que encontrei neste Elegia Para Um Americano foi um trabalho literário louvável.
Se me perguntarem, não é pelo enredo ou pelas personagens que este livro agarra o leitor, mas pelo desfiar de memórias, pelo entrecruzar de reflexões e o destrinçar de uma lógica médica e psicanalítica que acompanha a narrativa de forma delicada, conscienciosa e comovente:
A memória presenteia-nos apenas quando o presente a sacode. Não é um armazém com imagens e palavras fixas mas uma rede dinâmica de associações que nunca está parada e é sujeita a revisão sempre que recuperamos uma velha imagem ou palavras antigas.
O processamento a que Siri submete o herói da sua história, fazendo-o atravessar passado, presente e futuro como através de uma lente de autoanalise, é simultâneamente brilhante e enternecedor:
(...)como Kant dizia, nunca temos acesso às coisas em si; o que não quer dizer que não haja um mundo lá fora. O problema é que todos nós somos cegos, dependentes de representações predeterminadas e o que acreditamos que vamos ver. É o que acontece na maior parte do tempo. Não experienciamos o mundo. Experienciamos as nossas expectativas acerca do mundo.
Ao escolher não o alhear de uma sociedade e um tempo comuns e contemporâneos a quem a lê, onde segredos e memórias ecoam preocupações e desejos de todos nós, Hustvedt cria uma galeria de personagens credíveis, perdidas numa urbe selvática que preda as emoções de cada um de nós e nos amputa da capacidade de interagir com os outros e connosco:
Já muitas vezes pensei que ninguém é como se imagina, que todos normalizamos a terrível estranheza da vida íntima com várias ficções convenientes.
Entre os conflitos familiares, o silêncio, a morte e a solidão, as personagens de Siri Hustvedt vão-se movimentando ao sabor das emoções, sensações, traumas e histórias que as fazem quem são...
À medida que foi envelhecendo, sofria com a desintegração da vizinhança que conhecera, e uma vez disse que um dos maiores males no mundo e a que menos atenção se dava era a solidão.
... até descobrirem as portas do diálogo, da compreensão, da partilha, da autoaceitação como uma resposta para a fragmentação pessoal e coletiva do mundo moderno...
Falar une. Nós queremos um mundo coerente, não um mundo todo fragmentado, aos pedaços.
Levando as suas personagens a ponderar as suas preocupações, ansiedades, medos, alegrias e desejos, a autora acaba por oferecer um retrato irónico, mas sentido, dos nossos dias em que a lógica parece ter abandonado a vida em sociedade, mas ainda permanece ao alcance de qualquer um, guardada bem no seu íntimo:
Enquanto o acelerava pela FDR Drive, olhei pela janela para o imenso símbolo da Coca-Cola, suspenso no vazio no outro lado de East River, e achei-o bonito. Nesse momento, o emblema cintilante de uma forma algo passada de capitalismo americano estava inundado de um sentimento de perda, como se reflectisse um desejo colectivo que já se tinha desvanecido. Era tolice sentir alguma emoção em resposta ao anúncio de um refrigerante popular, mas enquanto a imagem se distanciava, pensei para mim: Estão todos a morrer, os nossos pais, as nossas mãe os imigrantes e os exilados, os soldados e os refugiados, os rapazes e as raparigas de "antigamente".
É maravilhosa a forma como Siri Hustvedt escolhe contar esta história: com respeito, finesse, sentido de humor, e um domínio absurdo da narrativa. Foi a forma perfeita de começar, e será a forma perfeitamente de continuar pela sua obra fora.
Antes de me deitar pensei numa história característica da sabedoria popular russa que um professor me contou um dia: se alguma vez te encontrares com o Diabo, a única maneira de te livrares dele é rires na sua cara.
Quando peguei em Siri Hustvedt, desconhecia que era casada com quem é (até porque não conheço a obra de Auster), pelo que a minha leitura não foi, de modo algum, contaminada por comparações, diminuições, preconceitos ou conhecimento anterior, de qualquer espécie, sobre autora e obra. E ainda bem porque aquilo que encontrei neste Elegia Para Um Americano foi um trabalho literário louvável.
Se me perguntarem, não é pelo enredo ou pelas personagens que este livro agarra o leitor, mas pelo desfiar de memórias, pelo entrecruzar de reflexões e o destrinçar de uma lógica médica e psicanalítica que acompanha a narrativa de forma delicada, conscienciosa e comovente:
A memória presenteia-nos apenas quando o presente a sacode. Não é um armazém com imagens e palavras fixas mas uma rede dinâmica de associações que nunca está parada e é sujeita a revisão sempre que recuperamos uma velha imagem ou palavras antigas.
O processamento a que Siri submete o herói da sua história, fazendo-o atravessar passado, presente e futuro como através de uma lente de autoanalise, é simultâneamente brilhante e enternecedor:
(...)como Kant dizia, nunca temos acesso às coisas em si; o que não quer dizer que não haja um mundo lá fora. O problema é que todos nós somos cegos, dependentes de representações predeterminadas e o que acreditamos que vamos ver. É o que acontece na maior parte do tempo. Não experienciamos o mundo. Experienciamos as nossas expectativas acerca do mundo.
Ao escolher não o alhear de uma sociedade e um tempo comuns e contemporâneos a quem a lê, onde segredos e memórias ecoam preocupações e desejos de todos nós, Hustvedt cria uma galeria de personagens credíveis, perdidas numa urbe selvática que preda as emoções de cada um de nós e nos amputa da capacidade de interagir com os outros e connosco:
Já muitas vezes pensei que ninguém é como se imagina, que todos normalizamos a terrível estranheza da vida íntima com várias ficções convenientes.
Entre os conflitos familiares, o silêncio, a morte e a solidão, as personagens de Siri Hustvedt vão-se movimentando ao sabor das emoções, sensações, traumas e histórias que as fazem quem são...
À medida que foi envelhecendo, sofria com a desintegração da vizinhança que conhecera, e uma vez disse que um dos maiores males no mundo e a que menos atenção se dava era a solidão.
... até descobrirem as portas do diálogo, da compreensão, da partilha, da autoaceitação como uma resposta para a fragmentação pessoal e coletiva do mundo moderno...
Falar une. Nós queremos um mundo coerente, não um mundo todo fragmentado, aos pedaços.
Levando as suas personagens a ponderar as suas preocupações, ansiedades, medos, alegrias e desejos, a autora acaba por oferecer um retrato irónico, mas sentido, dos nossos dias em que a lógica parece ter abandonado a vida em sociedade, mas ainda permanece ao alcance de qualquer um, guardada bem no seu íntimo:
Enquanto o acelerava pela FDR Drive, olhei pela janela para o imenso símbolo da Coca-Cola, suspenso no vazio no outro lado de East River, e achei-o bonito. Nesse momento, o emblema cintilante de uma forma algo passada de capitalismo americano estava inundado de um sentimento de perda, como se reflectisse um desejo colectivo que já se tinha desvanecido. Era tolice sentir alguma emoção em resposta ao anúncio de um refrigerante popular, mas enquanto a imagem se distanciava, pensei para mim: Estão todos a morrer, os nossos pais, as nossas mãe os imigrantes e os exilados, os soldados e os refugiados, os rapazes e as raparigas de "antigamente".
É maravilhosa a forma como Siri Hustvedt escolhe contar esta história: com respeito, finesse, sentido de humor, e um domínio absurdo da narrativa. Foi a forma perfeita de começar, e será a forma perfeitamente de continuar pela sua obra fora.
Antes de me deitar pensei numa história característica da sabedoria popular russa que um professor me contou um dia: se alguma vez te encontrares com o Diabo, a única maneira de te livrares dele é rires na sua cara.
June 11, 2019
This book has further cemented Siri Hustvedt's place as one of my favourite writers, and this book is one of her best.
Part of the story is based on, and quotes, her father's memoirs of life among Norwegian immigrants in rural Minnesota and his experiences in the war - this is interwoven with a complex modern story centred on the narrator, a psychotherapist in New York. Hustvedt's characters are fully realised, flawed and human. The book is largely concerned with loss, memory and how perceptions of even the closest family and friends can be affected by secrets.
As in several of her other books (notably What I Loved and The Blazing World), her interest in psychology, philosophy, literature and art shine through, and it is compulsive, readable, moving and thought provoking. To finish with a quote:
"There is music in dialogue, mysterious harmonies and dissonances that vibrate in the body like a tuning fork."
Part of the story is based on, and quotes, her father's memoirs of life among Norwegian immigrants in rural Minnesota and his experiences in the war - this is interwoven with a complex modern story centred on the narrator, a psychotherapist in New York. Hustvedt's characters are fully realised, flawed and human. The book is largely concerned with loss, memory and how perceptions of even the closest family and friends can be affected by secrets.
As in several of her other books (notably What I Loved and The Blazing World), her interest in psychology, philosophy, literature and art shine through, and it is compulsive, readable, moving and thought provoking. To finish with a quote:
"There is music in dialogue, mysterious harmonies and dissonances that vibrate in the body like a tuning fork."
February 19, 2022
I'm always intrigued by narratives of family survivors going through a loved one's things after their death, which is how this novel begins. Erik, a psychoanalyst, and his sister Inga, a philosopher, find their deceased father Lars's unpublished memoir of his life during the Depression and World War II. Hustvedt uses excerpts of her own deceased father's actual memoir for these passages, with his permission. The children uncover a mystery - hints of a death of someone Lars was acquainted with - which turns out to be not all that interesting.
In the present, Erik develops a big crush on his new lodger Miranda and a fondness for her precocious daughter Eglantine. All the time, he thinks about boning Miranda - this got tedious. Miranda's estranged husband Jeffrey is stalking her and Erik, taking photos of them and leaving them outside the house. One night Jeffrey breaks into Erik's house through a skylight, surprises him in his hallway, and snaps photos. Erik is furious....but does nothing, not even call the police. Soon he sees Miranda and Jeffrey making out.
Another story line involves the death of Inga's husband Max, a well-known novelist and filmmaker. Inga and her daughter are still reeling from the tragedy, which is complicated by the discovery that Max had had an affair with a young actress in one of his films and fathered a child with her. Now biographers are circling Inga wanting the skinny on Max. The actress has personal letters from Max she wants to sell, which Inga is trying to prevent.
Hustvedt writes well, so none of this is a chore to read, but my interest in the plot lines waned. The most absorbing passages were about Erik's sessions with his patients, and all their neuroses. And of course, I wanted to hear much, much more about going through Lars's paperwork, filing cabinets, and clutter.
July 27, 2020
3.5, niemal 4
Kurczę, fajna ta Siri. Podobało mi się mniej, niż "Lato bez mężczyzn" (z kilku powodów, o których zaraz napiszę), ale poziom jest taki sam. Wysoki. Dojrzała, mądra, zmuszająca do refleksji proza, wspaniale napisane postaci (tu nawet trzecioplanowi bohaterowie zapadają w pamięć, zwłaszcza kobiety), genialny wgląd w ich psychologię, i tematyka, która kręci mnie najbardziej ze wszystkiego: nasza tożsamość. "Kim" jesteśmy, dlaczego tym, a nie czym innym, oraz jak nasze ja wchodzi w prawdziwe lub urojone relacje z tożsamościami innych. Główną rolę grają tu upiory i tajemnice z przeszłości (czasem bardzo odległej, czasem są to duchy odziedziczone po przodkach), które rzucają cień na teraźniejszość bohaterów. Dodatkowo klimat, który jest moim ulubionym, czyli: Życie jest piękne, no ale niestety smutne, a my mamy niewielki wpływ na cokolwiek.
Co mi się nie bardzo podobało: zakończenie (znów), trochę przesadne nagromadzenie wątków (ze szkodą dla Głębi), oraz to, że głównym bohaterem i narratorem jest facet! Na dodatek samotny nowojorski psychoterapeuta. Z całym szacunkiem: ja już mam szczerze dość czytania takich postaci. Nie mam pojęcia dlaczego Hustvedt, której przekleństwem jest to, że jest przede wszystkim "żoną Paula Austera", a dopiero potem samodzielnie istniejącą jednostką i pisarką, zdecydowała się na coś takiego. Dlaczego nie dała przemówić bohaterce? Nie wystarczy, że faceci piszą facetów?? Być może jest dla tego jakieś logiczne wytłumaczenie? Z chęcią je poznam, zwłaszcza że ta powieść najwyraźniej porusza tematy osobiście ważne dla autorki, więc zawiera sporo jej "prawdziwego ja" (i nie chodzi tylko o to, że pamiętniki ojca głównego bohatera opierają się na wspomnieniach ojca Siri).
Dobra książka, ale raczej nie rozrywkowa. I raczej dla tych siedzących, gładzących się po siwej brodzie i dumających nad (bez)sensem życia i nad zbliżającą się starością (jak ja, haha). I śmiem twierdzić, że mąż autorki jest zdecydowanie przereklamowany, a ona zdecydowanie nie doceniona. Typowe.
Kurczę, fajna ta Siri. Podobało mi się mniej, niż "Lato bez mężczyzn" (z kilku powodów, o których zaraz napiszę), ale poziom jest taki sam. Wysoki. Dojrzała, mądra, zmuszająca do refleksji proza, wspaniale napisane postaci (tu nawet trzecioplanowi bohaterowie zapadają w pamięć, zwłaszcza kobiety), genialny wgląd w ich psychologię, i tematyka, która kręci mnie najbardziej ze wszystkiego: nasza tożsamość. "Kim" jesteśmy, dlaczego tym, a nie czym innym, oraz jak nasze ja wchodzi w prawdziwe lub urojone relacje z tożsamościami innych. Główną rolę grają tu upiory i tajemnice z przeszłości (czasem bardzo odległej, czasem są to duchy odziedziczone po przodkach), które rzucają cień na teraźniejszość bohaterów. Dodatkowo klimat, który jest moim ulubionym, czyli: Życie jest piękne, no ale niestety smutne, a my mamy niewielki wpływ na cokolwiek.
Co mi się nie bardzo podobało: zakończenie (znów), trochę przesadne nagromadzenie wątków (ze szkodą dla Głębi), oraz to, że głównym bohaterem i narratorem jest facet! Na dodatek samotny nowojorski psychoterapeuta. Z całym szacunkiem: ja już mam szczerze dość czytania takich postaci. Nie mam pojęcia dlaczego Hustvedt, której przekleństwem jest to, że jest przede wszystkim "żoną Paula Austera", a dopiero potem samodzielnie istniejącą jednostką i pisarką, zdecydowała się na coś takiego. Dlaczego nie dała przemówić bohaterce? Nie wystarczy, że faceci piszą facetów?? Być może jest dla tego jakieś logiczne wytłumaczenie? Z chęcią je poznam, zwłaszcza że ta powieść najwyraźniej porusza tematy osobiście ważne dla autorki, więc zawiera sporo jej "prawdziwego ja" (i nie chodzi tylko o to, że pamiętniki ojca głównego bohatera opierają się na wspomnieniach ojca Siri).
Dobra książka, ale raczej nie rozrywkowa. I raczej dla tych siedzących, gładzących się po siwej brodzie i dumających nad (bez)sensem życia i nad zbliżającą się starością (jak ja, haha). I śmiem twierdzić, że mąż autorki jest zdecydowanie przereklamowany, a ona zdecydowanie nie doceniona. Typowe.
January 9, 2025
William Faulkner escribió una vez una frase que se me quedó grabada en la memoria: “El pasado nunca está muerto; ni siquiera es pasado”. Y no hay mejor resumen para lo que Siri Hustvedt hace en Elegía para un americano. Cada página de esta novela está impregnada por esa idea: cómo los ecos de lo que fue siguen moldeando lo que somos. Aquí los legados emocionales y los secretos familiares no son solo un trasfondo, son casi un personaje más, tan vivos como Erik Davidsen, el protagonista que nos lleva de la mano por este viaje de memoria, duelo y reconciliación con el propio origen.
Erik, un psicoanalista neoyorquino, se encuentra en el ojo del huracán tras la muerte de su padre. Entre cartas y diarios familiares, descubre secretos que no esperaba y, junto con su hermana Inga, se lanza a desentrañar esas sombras que han estado acechando a su familia. Pero este no es el típico viaje del héroe para desenterrar secretos familiares jugosos. Aquí no hay esqueletos en el armario que te hagan quedarte sin aliento. Lo que hace Hustvedt es poner el foco en el proceso, en el dolor de enfrentarte a los ecos del pasado cuando no puedes decidir si abrazarlos o cerrarte los oídos para siempre. ¿El resultado? Una historia introspectiva y profundamente emocional, en la que Hustvedt disecciona con precisión los vínculos entre el pasado y el presente, la identidad y el dolor en una compleja madeja de identidad, culpa y dolor heredado.
Lo que más me fascina de esta novela es cómo Hustvedt toma algo tan abstracto como los “fantasmas” emocionales y les da forma hasta que parecen tan reales como los propios personajes. Su prosa es como un susurro: elegante, contenida, pero cargada de emociones. Hay una melancolía constante que nunca llega a ser opresiva, como el sonido de la lluvia detrás de una ventana. Es una novela que pide tu paciencia, que te obliga a quedarte quieto y escuchar.
La narración es íntima y reflexiva, pero lejos de volverse pesada, Hustvedt logra que todo fluya gracias a la voz analítica de Erik. La estructura de la novela, que va alternando entre recuerdos de una infancia en Minnesota y una vida adulta en Brooklyn, refleja de manera brillante el proceso interno de los personajes: fragmentado pero lleno de significado. Hay algo en su estilo que recuerda a esa sobriedad escandinava, una especie de belleza que no necesita gritar para que la escuches.
La tensión aquí, más que en giros sorprendentes —que no los hay—, está en las luchas internas: la relación de Erik con su hermana, sus pacientes y hasta con una inquilina cuya vida no ha sido precisamente sencilla. Hustvedt nos lleva de la mano por esos temas que a primera vista parecen demasiado grandes para caber en una novela: el peso del legado familiar, la forma en que los traumas se filtran de generación en generación, y cómo construimos nuestra identidad en torno a las cicatrices que llevamos.
Pero lo que realmente eleva esta novela es su trasfondo intelectual. Inga, la hermana filósofa cultural, y Erik, con su bagaje de psicoanalista, nos regalan conversaciones que son una delicia para cualquiera que disfrute reflexionando sobre identidad, dolor y las capas más complejas de la mente humana. Y no te preocupes, no se sienten forzadas ni pretenciosas. Hustvedt teje estas reflexiones con tanta naturalidad que terminas cuestionándote tus propios fantasmas y raíces mientras lees. ¿Quién necesita terapia cuando tienes una novela así?
Eso sí, un aviso: si esperas grandes revelaciones o catarsis, es posible que termines con una sensación de “¿y ya?”. Y eso no es malo. Porque, al final, esta es una historia sobre cómo lidiamos con el pasado, no sobre cómo arreglarlo. A veces, lo importante es la búsqueda, no el hallazgo. Y eso, aunque puede ser un poco frustrante, también es lo que hace que esta novela se sienta tan honesta.
Hay una cita del texto que me parece el corazón de esta historia: “El trabajo del psicoanálisis puede convertir fantasmas en ancestros”. Y no puedo pensar en una metáfora más hermosa para el proceso de aceptación y reconciliación que plantea Hustvedt. Ese es el verdadero viaje de los personajes. No es solo sobre aceptar pérdidas, sino también entender que esos fantasmas que arrastramos pueden convertirse en parte de quienes somos, y que, en el mejor de los casos, terminamos en paz con ellos.
En resumen, Elegía para un americano es una novela que no solo se queda contigo, sino que se instala en ese rincón donde guardas tus preguntas sin respuesta. Con su prosa poética y observaciones psicológicas precisas, Hustvedt convierte los legados familiares en espejos que nos devuelven nuestras propias sombras. Si lo que buscas es una historia que te haga sentir, reflexionar y cuestionar tus propios fantasmas, este libro es para ti. No hay acción trepidante ni desenlaces redondos, pero sí un viaje emocional que, como el pasado, nunca termina del todo cuando cierras la última página.
Erik, un psicoanalista neoyorquino, se encuentra en el ojo del huracán tras la muerte de su padre. Entre cartas y diarios familiares, descubre secretos que no esperaba y, junto con su hermana Inga, se lanza a desentrañar esas sombras que han estado acechando a su familia. Pero este no es el típico viaje del héroe para desenterrar secretos familiares jugosos. Aquí no hay esqueletos en el armario que te hagan quedarte sin aliento. Lo que hace Hustvedt es poner el foco en el proceso, en el dolor de enfrentarte a los ecos del pasado cuando no puedes decidir si abrazarlos o cerrarte los oídos para siempre. ¿El resultado? Una historia introspectiva y profundamente emocional, en la que Hustvedt disecciona con precisión los vínculos entre el pasado y el presente, la identidad y el dolor en una compleja madeja de identidad, culpa y dolor heredado.
Lo que más me fascina de esta novela es cómo Hustvedt toma algo tan abstracto como los “fantasmas” emocionales y les da forma hasta que parecen tan reales como los propios personajes. Su prosa es como un susurro: elegante, contenida, pero cargada de emociones. Hay una melancolía constante que nunca llega a ser opresiva, como el sonido de la lluvia detrás de una ventana. Es una novela que pide tu paciencia, que te obliga a quedarte quieto y escuchar.
La narración es íntima y reflexiva, pero lejos de volverse pesada, Hustvedt logra que todo fluya gracias a la voz analítica de Erik. La estructura de la novela, que va alternando entre recuerdos de una infancia en Minnesota y una vida adulta en Brooklyn, refleja de manera brillante el proceso interno de los personajes: fragmentado pero lleno de significado. Hay algo en su estilo que recuerda a esa sobriedad escandinava, una especie de belleza que no necesita gritar para que la escuches.
La tensión aquí, más que en giros sorprendentes —que no los hay—, está en las luchas internas: la relación de Erik con su hermana, sus pacientes y hasta con una inquilina cuya vida no ha sido precisamente sencilla. Hustvedt nos lleva de la mano por esos temas que a primera vista parecen demasiado grandes para caber en una novela: el peso del legado familiar, la forma en que los traumas se filtran de generación en generación, y cómo construimos nuestra identidad en torno a las cicatrices que llevamos.
Pero lo que realmente eleva esta novela es su trasfondo intelectual. Inga, la hermana filósofa cultural, y Erik, con su bagaje de psicoanalista, nos regalan conversaciones que son una delicia para cualquiera que disfrute reflexionando sobre identidad, dolor y las capas más complejas de la mente humana. Y no te preocupes, no se sienten forzadas ni pretenciosas. Hustvedt teje estas reflexiones con tanta naturalidad que terminas cuestionándote tus propios fantasmas y raíces mientras lees. ¿Quién necesita terapia cuando tienes una novela así?
Eso sí, un aviso: si esperas grandes revelaciones o catarsis, es posible que termines con una sensación de “¿y ya?”. Y eso no es malo. Porque, al final, esta es una historia sobre cómo lidiamos con el pasado, no sobre cómo arreglarlo. A veces, lo importante es la búsqueda, no el hallazgo. Y eso, aunque puede ser un poco frustrante, también es lo que hace que esta novela se sienta tan honesta.
Hay una cita del texto que me parece el corazón de esta historia: “El trabajo del psicoanálisis puede convertir fantasmas en ancestros”. Y no puedo pensar en una metáfora más hermosa para el proceso de aceptación y reconciliación que plantea Hustvedt. Ese es el verdadero viaje de los personajes. No es solo sobre aceptar pérdidas, sino también entender que esos fantasmas que arrastramos pueden convertirse en parte de quienes somos, y que, en el mejor de los casos, terminamos en paz con ellos.
En resumen, Elegía para un americano es una novela que no solo se queda contigo, sino que se instala en ese rincón donde guardas tus preguntas sin respuesta. Con su prosa poética y observaciones psicológicas precisas, Hustvedt convierte los legados familiares en espejos que nos devuelven nuestras propias sombras. Si lo que buscas es una historia que te haga sentir, reflexionar y cuestionar tus propios fantasmas, este libro es para ti. No hay acción trepidante ni desenlaces redondos, pero sí un viaje emocional que, como el pasado, nunca termina del todo cuando cierras la última página.
April 29, 2024
CRITIQUE:
Narrative Gender
Two of the principal characters in this novel are brother (Erik) and sister (Inga).
This suggests that Siri Hustvedt clearly had a choice as to who would be the narrator - the male or the female character.
It's often argued that authors of one gender cannot credibly write from the perspective of the/an other gender. For example, it's said that a male author cannot write from the point of view of a female, and, less often, a female author cannot write from the point of view of a male.
This argument started off as a feminist argument. A male author would be prone to dress a female narrator in the clothing or persona of a male, so that they spoke and thought like Norman Mailer. The suggestion that the same argument would apply to female authors wasn't based so much in an analysis of actual literary practice as a misguided quest for some sort of gender reciprocity.
In this novel, Hustvedt chose Erik as her narrator in an environment largely populated and dominated by women. As a result, her choice gave her the opportunity to investigate a number of male-female relationships from the point of view of a male: son/mother, brother/sister, husband/wife, uncle/niece (Erik doesn't have a daughter), lover/partner, therapist/patient.
Relationships are perceived through the prisms of art, design, film, photography and symbolism.
Secrets are hidden in the past, in the closure of the mind, memories and letters, thus averting or mitigating sorrow:
It's the role of therapists to work through a "process of discovery" with their patients. You could argue that the novel itself takes the reader (and perhaps the characters) on the same process of discovery. However, that doesn't mean that the therapist/author constitutes "a genius, a divine mother/father/doctor/friend."
Narrative Empathy
That said, Erik still seeks out and/or has a sexual relationship with some of the women.
The women are fully described as people, rather than just sexual or desire targets. However, we're also told several times about the size of the breasts of a woman (Lara Capelli), who wonders whether Erik regards her as no more than his fuck buddy. This is clearly not the case, because they have a professional affinity and rapport (she's "a fellow analyst and Park Slope neighbour...who has a voluptuous body and [a] broad smile"), and Erik often seeks advice, comfort or corroboration from her.
When they first meet at an Empathy Conference, she flirts with him and hands him her business card, quipping:
Unlike the characters and narrators of Norman Mailer (who are often personae of the author himself), Erik is no alpha male. He displays genuine empathy with the other characters.
This is partly a product of his professional background (Erik describes himself as "the renegade doctor, psychiatrist, and psychoanalyst who lives in New York City"). New York City, itself, is "a town loaded with the vibrant, the eccentric, and the outré."
When a tenant's daughter describes him as a giant, he responds, "Well, I come pretty close to being as tall as a giant, but I'm not like the ones in fairy tales."
Erik is six feet five inches tall, and his sister, Inga, is six feet, a relative giant, so to speak.
Erik describes the girl's mother, Miranda Casaubon, in almost professional terms: he feels "a strong reserve" from her, "a proud distance that I rather admired, but which made conversation difficult". She had grown up in Jamaica, but now lived in Brooklyn:
One night, Erik sees through Miranda's front window. Her bathrobe falls open at the neck while she is drawing a picture, and Erik detects "the curve of her breasts as she leaned over a large piece of paper, her hand moving as she drew...That momentary view of the bestial woman remained with me."
Much later (page 78), we learn that Miranda is black. Skin colour is not a high priority in the terms of assessment of a patient, tenant or neighbour, or even a prospective lover.
Erik describes his sister at the time of her marriage (she is now a widow, while he is divorced) as "a twenty-five-year-old blond beauty, brilliant, fierce, and aware of her seductive power." There is something admiring about this description, which hints at why Hustvedt did not choose Inga as her narrator. There is something/much of Hustvedt herself in Inga, and it might have sounded egotistical or conceited to describe herself in these terms.
If there's anything lacking in this novel, it's a captivating plot that matches its metafictional concerns. Plot is almost secondary to the metafiction.
SOUNDTRACK:
Narrative Gender
Two of the principal characters in this novel are brother (Erik) and sister (Inga).
This suggests that Siri Hustvedt clearly had a choice as to who would be the narrator - the male or the female character.
It's often argued that authors of one gender cannot credibly write from the perspective of the/an other gender. For example, it's said that a male author cannot write from the point of view of a female, and, less often, a female author cannot write from the point of view of a male.
This argument started off as a feminist argument. A male author would be prone to dress a female narrator in the clothing or persona of a male, so that they spoke and thought like Norman Mailer. The suggestion that the same argument would apply to female authors wasn't based so much in an analysis of actual literary practice as a misguided quest for some sort of gender reciprocity.
In this novel, Hustvedt chose Erik as her narrator in an environment largely populated and dominated by women. As a result, her choice gave her the opportunity to investigate a number of male-female relationships from the point of view of a male: son/mother, brother/sister, husband/wife, uncle/niece (Erik doesn't have a daughter), lover/partner, therapist/patient.
Relationships are perceived through the prisms of art, design, film, photography and symbolism.
Secrets are hidden in the past, in the closure of the mind, memories and letters, thus averting or mitigating sorrow:
"Memory offers up its gifts only when jogged by something in the present. It isn't a storehouse of fixed images and words, but a dynamic associative network in the brain that is never quiet and is subject to revision each time we retrieve an old picture or old words"
It's the role of therapists to work through a "process of discovery" with their patients. You could argue that the novel itself takes the reader (and perhaps the characters) on the same process of discovery. However, that doesn't mean that the therapist/author constitutes "a genius, a divine mother/father/doctor/friend."
Narrative Empathy
That said, Erik still seeks out and/or has a sexual relationship with some of the women.
The women are fully described as people, rather than just sexual or desire targets. However, we're also told several times about the size of the breasts of a woman (Lara Capelli), who wonders whether Erik regards her as no more than his fuck buddy. This is clearly not the case, because they have a professional affinity and rapport (she's "a fellow analyst and Park Slope neighbour...who has a voluptuous body and [a] broad smile"), and Erik often seeks advice, comfort or corroboration from her.
When they first meet at an Empathy Conference, she flirts with him and hands him her business card, quipping:
"If we get low on empathy, we can always refuel on guilt." (possibly the best line in the novel)
Unlike the characters and narrators of Norman Mailer (who are often personae of the author himself), Erik is no alpha male. He displays genuine empathy with the other characters.
This is partly a product of his professional background (Erik describes himself as "the renegade doctor, psychiatrist, and psychoanalyst who lives in New York City"). New York City, itself, is "a town loaded with the vibrant, the eccentric, and the outré."
When a tenant's daughter describes him as a giant, he responds, "Well, I come pretty close to being as tall as a giant, but I'm not like the ones in fairy tales."
Erik is six feet five inches tall, and his sister, Inga, is six feet, a relative giant, so to speak.
Erik describes the girl's mother, Miranda Casaubon, in almost professional terms: he feels "a strong reserve" from her, "a proud distance that I rather admired, but which made conversation difficult". She had grown up in Jamaica, but now lived in Brooklyn:
"She was still, relaxed, and alert...She was polite, reticent, and well-spoken, nothing more, but I began to dream that I would someday crack her coolness."
One night, Erik sees through Miranda's front window. Her bathrobe falls open at the neck while she is drawing a picture, and Erik detects "the curve of her breasts as she leaned over a large piece of paper, her hand moving as she drew...That momentary view of the bestial woman remained with me."
Much later (page 78), we learn that Miranda is black. Skin colour is not a high priority in the terms of assessment of a patient, tenant or neighbour, or even a prospective lover.
Erik describes his sister at the time of her marriage (she is now a widow, while he is divorced) as "a twenty-five-year-old blond beauty, brilliant, fierce, and aware of her seductive power." There is something admiring about this description, which hints at why Hustvedt did not choose Inga as her narrator. There is something/much of Hustvedt herself in Inga, and it might have sounded egotistical or conceited to describe herself in these terms.
If there's anything lacking in this novel, it's a captivating plot that matches its metafictional concerns. Plot is almost secondary to the metafiction.
SOUNDTRACK:
August 11, 2016
Readers of Hustvedt's novels will recognize the themes in this novel: the nature of art (including photography and the issue of privacy, which reminded me of The Blindfold and a diorama with dolls reminding me of Bill Weschler's box art creations in What I Loved); small-town life (the same cafe as in The Enchantment of Lily Dahl appears, as well as a couple of eccentrics, which The Enchantment of Lily Dahl is full of) versus New York City (What I Loved); the nature of "I" (with this, and maybe even in part of a subplot, I also thought of her husband's novels, specifically, Leviathan); and gender roles are also touched on briefly, though not nearly to the extent as they are in The Blindfold.
Even the narrator of What I Loved makes a cameo appearance in this novel.
These repetitive themes and issues are what she does. (Her husband Paul Auster does similar.) I don't have a problem with that. But I didn't like this book nearly as much as her other novels. I wasn't drawn in or engaged in it as I was with the others. I think the narrative voice may have had a lot to do with that, especially in the beginning. I don't think this one will stay with me.
The narrator's father was only interesting to me, because (except for the sorrow and moodiness) he was a lot like my own father. Her description of him as someone the hospital staff loved because of his being a humorist and a stoic fit my own father perfectly. Even their deaths were somewhat similar. But without that connection, I wonder if I would've found him interesting at all, as I thought much of his story was rather dull or, at least, rendered dully.
Even the narrator of What I Loved makes a cameo appearance in this novel.
These repetitive themes and issues are what she does. (Her husband Paul Auster does similar.) I don't have a problem with that. But I didn't like this book nearly as much as her other novels. I wasn't drawn in or engaged in it as I was with the others. I think the narrative voice may have had a lot to do with that, especially in the beginning. I don't think this one will stay with me.
The narrator's father was only interesting to me, because (except for the sorrow and moodiness) he was a lot like my own father. Her description of him as someone the hospital staff loved because of his being a humorist and a stoic fit my own father perfectly. Even their deaths were somewhat similar. But without that connection, I wonder if I would've found him interesting at all, as I thought much of his story was rather dull or, at least, rendered dully.
January 4, 2011
In a word, awful.
In a few more words...
Secrets, bloody secrets. I should have given up when the first few lines warned me that the book was based on lots of secrets. Oh yes, we have secrets. Lots of silly secrets. Mysteries too. Hidden things. Dark stuff that will keep you reading.
Well not me. The style, setting and turgid plot meant that I couldn't even be bothered to turn to the last pages to find out what the "truth" was before casting the book aside at p65. And I hate giving up.
Also couldn't believe the lead characters gender. I am not at all wanting to suggest that the book is about gender but frankly he was just not like any man I know. His motives and behavior were all so very different from what I know of men (myself included). In my experience, men don't generally desire a woman by wanting to nuzzle the back of their nose. Or perhaps I am just some sort of unreconstructed gorilla.
So, secrets can be good plot devices. But they are no substitute for a plot.
In a few more words...
Secrets, bloody secrets. I should have given up when the first few lines warned me that the book was based on lots of secrets. Oh yes, we have secrets. Lots of silly secrets. Mysteries too. Hidden things. Dark stuff that will keep you reading.
Well not me. The style, setting and turgid plot meant that I couldn't even be bothered to turn to the last pages to find out what the "truth" was before casting the book aside at p65. And I hate giving up.
Also couldn't believe the lead characters gender. I am not at all wanting to suggest that the book is about gender but frankly he was just not like any man I know. His motives and behavior were all so very different from what I know of men (myself included). In my experience, men don't generally desire a woman by wanting to nuzzle the back of their nose. Or perhaps I am just some sort of unreconstructed gorilla.
So, secrets can be good plot devices. But they are no substitute for a plot.
June 17, 2013
El nombre de Siri Hustvedt siempre va acompañado de la coletilla "mujer de Paul Auster", algo que me molesta y de lo que desconfiaba. Tras leer 'Elegía para un americano', lo primero que leo de esta escritora, he descubierto que Siri es una autora con personalidad propia y tiene derecho a ser reconocida por quien es y por lo que escribe, y no por con quien está casada.
Este libro habla de la memoria y de los recuerdos, de los secretos del pasado y de la melancolía del presente. Dos hermanos, Inga (escritora) y Erik (psiquiatra), descubren, entre los papeles de su padre recientemente fallecido, una misteriosa carta de una tal Lisa que habla sobre algo acaecido en 1937. La novela, narrada en primera persona por Erik (y aquí hago un inciso para alabar el gran trabajo de Siri al meterse en la piel de un hombre), trata sobre la investigación de este hecho, pero también sobre la fascinación que ejercen en él sus nuevas inquilinas, Miranda, una joven negra, y su hija de cinco años. Todo esto, más el acoso que sufren Inga y su hija adolescente por unas revelaciones sobre su difunto marido, un escritor de éxito, hacen que la historia no decaiga en ningún momento. Quedas atrapado desde la primera página, por la trama y por los personajes. Es un novela excepcional de una escritora con mucho talento, con una lectura a muchos niveles, inteligente, con corazón y muy bien narrada, que recomiendo fervientemente a todos aquellos que amen la buenas historias.
Este libro habla de la memoria y de los recuerdos, de los secretos del pasado y de la melancolía del presente. Dos hermanos, Inga (escritora) y Erik (psiquiatra), descubren, entre los papeles de su padre recientemente fallecido, una misteriosa carta de una tal Lisa que habla sobre algo acaecido en 1937. La novela, narrada en primera persona por Erik (y aquí hago un inciso para alabar el gran trabajo de Siri al meterse en la piel de un hombre), trata sobre la investigación de este hecho, pero también sobre la fascinación que ejercen en él sus nuevas inquilinas, Miranda, una joven negra, y su hija de cinco años. Todo esto, más el acoso que sufren Inga y su hija adolescente por unas revelaciones sobre su difunto marido, un escritor de éxito, hacen que la historia no decaiga en ningún momento. Quedas atrapado desde la primera página, por la trama y por los personajes. Es un novela excepcional de una escritora con mucho talento, con una lectura a muchos niveles, inteligente, con corazón y muy bien narrada, que recomiendo fervientemente a todos aquellos que amen la buenas historias.
December 11, 2013
Siri Hustvedt's new novel is difficult to summarize and hard to recommend. Its intricate plot -- in two different time frames -- splinters in complicated, creepy, even absurd ways. Its narrator is stuck in a state of "anhedonia" -- an inability to experience joy or pleasure. Its themes bombard us with psychoanalytic theory, avant-garde films and Kierkegaard.
But I think I'm in love.
Despite everything about The Sorrows of an American that makes it sound repellent, this is one of the most profound and absorbing books I've read in a long time. Hustvedt pushes hard on what a novel can do and what a reader can absorb, but once you fall into this captivating story, the experience will make you feel alternately inadequate and brilliant -- and finally deeply grateful.
Her thoughtful protagonist, Erik Davidsen, is a psychiatrist in New York, divorced, childless and chronically lonely. His father, a history professor, has recently died in Minnesota, leaving behind several boxes of personal papers, including letters and an unpublished memoir. While sorting through these effects a few days after the funeral, Erik and his sister, Inga, find a short, vague note that seems to implicate their father in a woman's death at least 50 years ago.
Tracking down the details of that event -- a tragedy? a crime? -- becomes a low-level crusade for Erik and his sister when they return to Brooklyn. Their father's mystery, however, is quickly subsumed by other complications. In a frenzy of intellectual insight, Inga begins a new book about the history of philosophical breakthroughs, but she's being harassed by a seedy journalist who reveals lurid details about her late husband, a prominent writer and filmmaker. "I've suddenly discovered that I've lived another life," she tells Erik. "I mean, now I have to rewrite my own story, redo it from the bottom up." The challenge is how to do that while protecting her teenage daughter, who's still haunted by the horrors she witnessed on Sept. 11.
Erik is determined to help his sister and niece, but crushing loneliness threatens to disrupt his practice, which is shown in a series of fascinating sessions with his patients -- more people desperate to rewrite their life stories. "My solitude had gradually begun to alter me," he tells us, "to turn me into a man I had not expected, a person far more peculiar than I had ever imagined." On top of all this, he's falling in love with a single mother named Miranda who rents his first-floor apartment. She doesn't return his affection, but she needs him: Her deranged ex-husband is leaving stacks of defaced photos at the door -- images that document her life and eventually include Erik, too, in private, unguarded moments.
All these complications sprawl out in ominous, often exciting ways. Hustvedt seems unwilling to turn away any tangential character; she practices a kind of authorial hospitality that gives the book an ever-growing list of side stories. Not the least of these is told in arresting excerpts from the memoir by Erik's father that describes his childhood during the Depression and his experiences as a soldier in World War II. Erik studies this manuscript with rapt attention, knowing it contains the best chance of understanding his heritage and perhaps his own troubled soul as well.
Hustvedt reveals in the acknowledgments that these stirring passages from the senior Davidsen's memoir were, in fact, taken almost verbatim from her own late father's memoir, making The Sorrows of an American a striking demonstration of its own theme: the blending of fiction and nonfiction that gives coherence to our lives. "Telling always binds one thing to another," Erik thinks. "We want a coherent world, not one in bits and pieces."
This, of course, is what Erik's father was trying to find -- or create. "By becoming a historian of his own immigrant past," Erik explains, "he had found a way to return home again and again. Like countless neurologists, psychiatrists, and analysts I know who suffer from the very ailments they hope to cure in others, my father had relieved the raw sore inside him through the work he had chosen. He had archived innumerable diaries, letters, newspaper articles, books, recipes, drawings, notebooks, and photographs of a dying world. . . . His was an illness that besets the intellectual: the indefatigable will to mastery. Chronic and incurable, it afflicts those who lust after a world that makes sense."
To demonstrate that point, Hustvedt elegantly knits together these subplots, often from different genres: elements of the thriller, the hospital drama, the historical novel and even the spy caper and noir film, along with autobiography, philosophy, letters, case studies and art criticism. Even Miranda's little girl gets in the act, winding kite string around the apartment, striving, with disastrous results, "to tie everything together."
This is a radically postmodern novel that wears its po-mo credentials with unusual grace; even at its strangest moments, it never radiates the chilly alienation that marks, say, the work of Hustvedt's husband, Paul Auster. The remarkable conclusion of The Sorrows is a four-page recapitulation of the story's images racing through Erik's mind -- and ours. It's a stunning, Joycean demonstration that invites us to impose some sense of meaning on a disparate collection of events, to satisfy our lust for "a world that makes sense." I reached the end emotionally and intellectually exhausted, knowing how much I'll miss this book.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/...
But I think I'm in love.
Despite everything about The Sorrows of an American that makes it sound repellent, this is one of the most profound and absorbing books I've read in a long time. Hustvedt pushes hard on what a novel can do and what a reader can absorb, but once you fall into this captivating story, the experience will make you feel alternately inadequate and brilliant -- and finally deeply grateful.
Her thoughtful protagonist, Erik Davidsen, is a psychiatrist in New York, divorced, childless and chronically lonely. His father, a history professor, has recently died in Minnesota, leaving behind several boxes of personal papers, including letters and an unpublished memoir. While sorting through these effects a few days after the funeral, Erik and his sister, Inga, find a short, vague note that seems to implicate their father in a woman's death at least 50 years ago.
Tracking down the details of that event -- a tragedy? a crime? -- becomes a low-level crusade for Erik and his sister when they return to Brooklyn. Their father's mystery, however, is quickly subsumed by other complications. In a frenzy of intellectual insight, Inga begins a new book about the history of philosophical breakthroughs, but she's being harassed by a seedy journalist who reveals lurid details about her late husband, a prominent writer and filmmaker. "I've suddenly discovered that I've lived another life," she tells Erik. "I mean, now I have to rewrite my own story, redo it from the bottom up." The challenge is how to do that while protecting her teenage daughter, who's still haunted by the horrors she witnessed on Sept. 11.
Erik is determined to help his sister and niece, but crushing loneliness threatens to disrupt his practice, which is shown in a series of fascinating sessions with his patients -- more people desperate to rewrite their life stories. "My solitude had gradually begun to alter me," he tells us, "to turn me into a man I had not expected, a person far more peculiar than I had ever imagined." On top of all this, he's falling in love with a single mother named Miranda who rents his first-floor apartment. She doesn't return his affection, but she needs him: Her deranged ex-husband is leaving stacks of defaced photos at the door -- images that document her life and eventually include Erik, too, in private, unguarded moments.
All these complications sprawl out in ominous, often exciting ways. Hustvedt seems unwilling to turn away any tangential character; she practices a kind of authorial hospitality that gives the book an ever-growing list of side stories. Not the least of these is told in arresting excerpts from the memoir by Erik's father that describes his childhood during the Depression and his experiences as a soldier in World War II. Erik studies this manuscript with rapt attention, knowing it contains the best chance of understanding his heritage and perhaps his own troubled soul as well.
Hustvedt reveals in the acknowledgments that these stirring passages from the senior Davidsen's memoir were, in fact, taken almost verbatim from her own late father's memoir, making The Sorrows of an American a striking demonstration of its own theme: the blending of fiction and nonfiction that gives coherence to our lives. "Telling always binds one thing to another," Erik thinks. "We want a coherent world, not one in bits and pieces."
This, of course, is what Erik's father was trying to find -- or create. "By becoming a historian of his own immigrant past," Erik explains, "he had found a way to return home again and again. Like countless neurologists, psychiatrists, and analysts I know who suffer from the very ailments they hope to cure in others, my father had relieved the raw sore inside him through the work he had chosen. He had archived innumerable diaries, letters, newspaper articles, books, recipes, drawings, notebooks, and photographs of a dying world. . . . His was an illness that besets the intellectual: the indefatigable will to mastery. Chronic and incurable, it afflicts those who lust after a world that makes sense."
To demonstrate that point, Hustvedt elegantly knits together these subplots, often from different genres: elements of the thriller, the hospital drama, the historical novel and even the spy caper and noir film, along with autobiography, philosophy, letters, case studies and art criticism. Even Miranda's little girl gets in the act, winding kite string around the apartment, striving, with disastrous results, "to tie everything together."
This is a radically postmodern novel that wears its po-mo credentials with unusual grace; even at its strangest moments, it never radiates the chilly alienation that marks, say, the work of Hustvedt's husband, Paul Auster. The remarkable conclusion of The Sorrows is a four-page recapitulation of the story's images racing through Erik's mind -- and ours. It's a stunning, Joycean demonstration that invites us to impose some sense of meaning on a disparate collection of events, to satisfy our lust for "a world that makes sense." I reached the end emotionally and intellectually exhausted, knowing how much I'll miss this book.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/...
October 30, 2017
ԱՄՆ-ում հաստատված նորվեգական մի ընտանիքի պատմություն է, որտեղ հոգեբան-հերոսը փորձում է հասկանալ ինքն իրեն, իր հորը, իր պապուն, իր քրոջը և քրոջ դստերը: Հետաքրքիր է, որ գրքում կան հատվածներ հերոսի հոր օրագրից, որը հեղինակը վերցրել է հենց իր հոր` Լլյոդ Հուստվեդտի նոթերից: Վեպը մի տեսակ շատ սկանդինավյան է. խելացի մտածված, մանրամասն ու համոզիչ գրված, չափավոր զգացմունքային, սթափ ինքնավերլուծությամբ: Գրքում բավականաչափ հետաքրքիր են երկխոսությունները մարդկային հոգեբանության և նեյրոհոգեբանության մասին: Սա գիրք է դանդաղ ընթերցանության համար, երկար մտածելու: "Ամերիկացու թախիծը" իսկապես փոխանցում է բոլոր հերոսների տխրությունը, կարոտը և անհաղթահարելի մենակությունը: Որակյալ վեպ է, բարեխիղճ գրված, բայց մի տեսակ շատ թախծոտ:
October 2, 2016
Although it is very obviously a very different book, I often found myself thinking of Richard Powers' The Echo Maker as I read this. Both deal with the way the mind works, the tricks it plays on us. Both make mention of Capgras' syndrome (it's the key plot element in Powers but is mentioned in Hustvedt). Both are post-9/11 books. Both make at least veiled references to The Wizard of Oz. It is also true that Hustvedt writes intelligently and beautifully, as does Powers.
There are a lot of characters in this book. A few times I was glad I was reading it on my Kindle where I could simply press on a character's name and see all the previous references to them: it helped me keep characters and their part in the story clear and I think I might have got confused in a paper version. Chalk one up for the Kindle.
It's not just because of the multiple characters, but you really do have to keep your wits about you as you read this book. The structure jumps between different plot elements quite freely and often without giving away the change of focus immediately. It also jumps around in time with excerpts from the narrator's father's journal mixed in with the other story lines. These journal entries gain extra poignancy when an afterword explains they are genuine extracts from Hustvedt's father's journal copied into the book with barely any changes. Hustvedt also discusses some intellectual topics which mean you need to concentrate as you read.
But the joy of the book is the characters that Hustvedt creates. They all have their own characters and voices, they all draw the reader in and become very real. I've only read one other Hustvedt book (The Blazing World) and the main character from that still lives vividly in my memory after a few years. I think some of the characters in this book will live with me for quite some time, too, which is a testament to the skill of Hustvedt's writing.
All in all, this was a thoroughly enjoyable read for me. Some reviews I've seen since I finished it (I try not to read reviews until after I've read a book) expressed disappointment at a sense of anti-climax. I didn't feel that at all as I read it. I enjoyed the way the different story lines developed and climaxed. I will definitely read more of her books.
There are a lot of characters in this book. A few times I was glad I was reading it on my Kindle where I could simply press on a character's name and see all the previous references to them: it helped me keep characters and their part in the story clear and I think I might have got confused in a paper version. Chalk one up for the Kindle.
It's not just because of the multiple characters, but you really do have to keep your wits about you as you read this book. The structure jumps between different plot elements quite freely and often without giving away the change of focus immediately. It also jumps around in time with excerpts from the narrator's father's journal mixed in with the other story lines. These journal entries gain extra poignancy when an afterword explains they are genuine extracts from Hustvedt's father's journal copied into the book with barely any changes. Hustvedt also discusses some intellectual topics which mean you need to concentrate as you read.
But the joy of the book is the characters that Hustvedt creates. They all have their own characters and voices, they all draw the reader in and become very real. I've only read one other Hustvedt book (The Blazing World) and the main character from that still lives vividly in my memory after a few years. I think some of the characters in this book will live with me for quite some time, too, which is a testament to the skill of Hustvedt's writing.
All in all, this was a thoroughly enjoyable read for me. Some reviews I've seen since I finished it (I try not to read reviews until after I've read a book) expressed disappointment at a sense of anti-climax. I didn't feel that at all as I read it. I enjoyed the way the different story lines developed and climaxed. I will definitely read more of her books.
December 8, 2012
This is a tall, white, intelligent, pleasant, and faintly dull novel.
Erik D. is a tall, white, intelligent, pleasant and faintly dull therapist. He's middle-aged, divorced, and wondering if he'll always stay lonely when life starts taking some bizarre turns.
He's getting lightly stalked by a photographer once involved with a lady who now lives in his building. His sister Inga is embroiled with her deceased novelist husband's ex-lover/muse who is threatening to sell their old love letters. And both David and Inga are compelled to track down a woman haunting their deceased father's Midwestern farmhood.
There's a lot of the deceased in this book, a lot of skeletons in the closet, ghosts of Christmases present and past. I enjoyed Hustvedt's style and the way she managed to weave these and more threads together to make a believable cross-section of a white-collar family who wasn't always so. The themes of memory, psychology, immigration, creativity and family were compelling, but the revelations in the last twenty pages were flat. At one point, the narrator reflects that he may be too 'tamed' to be of romantic interest to his intriguing neighbor...
His fear sums up the book for me perfectly in one word: tamed. Like him, competent, thoughtful, but too tamed. Sadly no one character, or secret, or sentence of Hustvedt's pushed to that beyond point I kept hoping for.
Erik D. is a tall, white, intelligent, pleasant and faintly dull therapist. He's middle-aged, divorced, and wondering if he'll always stay lonely when life starts taking some bizarre turns.
He's getting lightly stalked by a photographer once involved with a lady who now lives in his building. His sister Inga is embroiled with her deceased novelist husband's ex-lover/muse who is threatening to sell their old love letters. And both David and Inga are compelled to track down a woman haunting their deceased father's Midwestern farmhood.
There's a lot of the deceased in this book, a lot of skeletons in the closet, ghosts of Christmases present and past. I enjoyed Hustvedt's style and the way she managed to weave these and more threads together to make a believable cross-section of a white-collar family who wasn't always so. The themes of memory, psychology, immigration, creativity and family were compelling, but the revelations in the last twenty pages were flat. At one point, the narrator reflects that he may be too 'tamed' to be of romantic interest to his intriguing neighbor...
His fear sums up the book for me perfectly in one word: tamed. Like him, competent, thoughtful, but too tamed. Sadly no one character, or secret, or sentence of Hustvedt's pushed to that beyond point I kept hoping for.
May 1, 2014
This is more a 3.5 for me, but this is my fourth Hustvedt in a row and two of them were particularly brilliant.
There are so many reviews on here, and I agree with the criticisms regarding the multiple plots and the male character having a female voice. I was mostly bored by Erik's fathers memoirs, but when I got to the end I saw that they were Hustvedt's fathers memoirs, and she asked him whilst he was dying if she could reproduce them. In turn, the character of the uncle was taken from real life too. Max was so much of her husband Auster, Inga obviously her, Sonia her real life daughter Sophie...and her grief over her father dying in real life palpable.
Those things considered, it's a very personal work, and beautiful in that sense.
There are so many reviews on here, and I agree with the criticisms regarding the multiple plots and the male character having a female voice. I was mostly bored by Erik's fathers memoirs, but when I got to the end I saw that they were Hustvedt's fathers memoirs, and she asked him whilst he was dying if she could reproduce them. In turn, the character of the uncle was taken from real life too. Max was so much of her husband Auster, Inga obviously her, Sonia her real life daughter Sophie...and her grief over her father dying in real life palpable.
Those things considered, it's a very personal work, and beautiful in that sense.
March 29, 2017
In all honesty, I don't really know what to think about the book. I didn't just feel connected with it at all and that is why the whole reading experience was a struggle. Siri Hustvedt is skilled creating psychological atmosphere that makes you feel unsettled and thrilled but all in all, I disliked the language, the pacing of the book and didn't really feel anything towards any of the characters. I am a bit disappointed and underwhelmed because I wanted to like Hustvedt's writing style so much. There was just something that left me feel empty.
May 19, 2017
After reading the wonderful What I Loved, I was keen for another fix of Siri Hustvedt's beautiful writing and characterisation. The Sorrows of an American revolves around psychiatrist Erik, who narrates the story, and his sister Inga (who was briefly mentioned in What I Loved - the latter's narrator, Leo, also makes a cameo appearance here). It opens with Erik and Inga finding a mysterious letter amongst their father's papers after his death, and initially seems to be about their search to discover what this letter means. But what unfolds is much more complicated than that, a sprawling story with various divergences. As well as the first letter-related mystery, which comes about as Erik reads his father's memoir and remembers/imagines his family's past, there's a second: Inga discovers her late husband Max had an affair, possibly fathering a child, and his former lover now wants to sell a cache of his love letters to an aggressive journalist. Erik, meanwhile, begins to develop feelings for Miranda, who has recently moved into his building with her daughter, Eglantine, irritatingly referred to throughout as Eggy (I almost knocked off a star just for this). This in turn leads him to be drawn into the saga of Miranda's relationship with Eglantine's father, an eccentric and possibly abusive artist. As Erik examines his (and his family's) emotions and memories, he also analyses his experiences with his patients, both their own troubles and the effect these have on his state of mind.
The vivid, evocative descriptions of art of various kinds (Jeff's art and photography; Miranda's drawings of the visions she sees in her nightmares; Max's films, the latter realised in a particularly striking manner) are familiar from What I Loved. Because of Erik's occupation, they're accompanied by the narrator's meandering (I mean that in a good way) interpretations as he strives to make sense of this 'year of secrets'. The qualities of Hustvedt's writing are difficult to explain, as the beauty of it is in the way you're drawn in to the characters' thoughts and feelings. Her characters seem truly human in a way fictitious people rarely do - I'd never thought before about the mental effects a therapist might suffer as a result of their patients' issues, but Erik's vulnerability and doubt are painfully realistic. And despite being seen wholly through the eyes of others (or the filter of Erik's lust) with little opportunity for her own development, Miranda is a wonderful character. You get tantalising glimpses of her history, thoughts and dreams which create the impression that she may have a more fascinating story to tell than anyone else. The same thing happens with so many of the characters - little windows on their depths which make them seem so REAL, for example Inga's trouble with the journalist forcing her to recall memories of childhood bullying. It seems like Hustvedt has thought the characters through to such an extent that there's a book's worth of material behind each of them. Clearly, in the case of Leo, this actually was the case.
The weakest aspect of the book is the autobiographical experts from the writings of Erik's father, Lars. In a note at the end of the book, Hustvedt explains these sections are based on her own late father's life, and in fact the extracts from Lars' memoir are taken, almost verbatim, from his. I felt a bit guilty for not liking them after discovering this, but it does at least explain why they never quite seem to fit with the rest of the narrative and at some points feel awkward, as if they've been forced in to a story they don't belong to (I really did think this before I knew about their origins). While I understand how the book's themes are frequently entwined with ideas about family and how our ancestors' histories shape us, the family history element of the novel is sometimes dull and flat compared to the vibrancy of the rest. This leads to a slight lack of cohesion which prevented me from finding this book as inspiring as What I Loved.
That said, I still think any fan of Hustvedt will find it engaging, if only for the labyrinthine characterisation and powerful descriptions. While I wasn't always entirely captivated by the plot, and thought the book would have been stronger without the 'memoir' portions, it's beautifully written. Thought-provoking, too - for example the ambiguous title; does it refer to Erik, his father, or some bigger concept of 'an American' embodied by all of the characters? I will be adding the rest of the author's oeuvre to my ever-expanding to-read list, and I hope I bump into some of the characters from this book again.
The vivid, evocative descriptions of art of various kinds (Jeff's art and photography; Miranda's drawings of the visions she sees in her nightmares; Max's films, the latter realised in a particularly striking manner) are familiar from What I Loved. Because of Erik's occupation, they're accompanied by the narrator's meandering (I mean that in a good way) interpretations as he strives to make sense of this 'year of secrets'. The qualities of Hustvedt's writing are difficult to explain, as the beauty of it is in the way you're drawn in to the characters' thoughts and feelings. Her characters seem truly human in a way fictitious people rarely do - I'd never thought before about the mental effects a therapist might suffer as a result of their patients' issues, but Erik's vulnerability and doubt are painfully realistic. And despite being seen wholly through the eyes of others (or the filter of Erik's lust) with little opportunity for her own development, Miranda is a wonderful character. You get tantalising glimpses of her history, thoughts and dreams which create the impression that she may have a more fascinating story to tell than anyone else. The same thing happens with so many of the characters - little windows on their depths which make them seem so REAL, for example Inga's trouble with the journalist forcing her to recall memories of childhood bullying. It seems like Hustvedt has thought the characters through to such an extent that there's a book's worth of material behind each of them. Clearly, in the case of Leo, this actually was the case.
The weakest aspect of the book is the autobiographical experts from the writings of Erik's father, Lars. In a note at the end of the book, Hustvedt explains these sections are based on her own late father's life, and in fact the extracts from Lars' memoir are taken, almost verbatim, from his. I felt a bit guilty for not liking them after discovering this, but it does at least explain why they never quite seem to fit with the rest of the narrative and at some points feel awkward, as if they've been forced in to a story they don't belong to (I really did think this before I knew about their origins). While I understand how the book's themes are frequently entwined with ideas about family and how our ancestors' histories shape us, the family history element of the novel is sometimes dull and flat compared to the vibrancy of the rest. This leads to a slight lack of cohesion which prevented me from finding this book as inspiring as What I Loved.
That said, I still think any fan of Hustvedt will find it engaging, if only for the labyrinthine characterisation and powerful descriptions. While I wasn't always entirely captivated by the plot, and thought the book would have been stronger without the 'memoir' portions, it's beautifully written. Thought-provoking, too - for example the ambiguous title; does it refer to Erik, his father, or some bigger concept of 'an American' embodied by all of the characters? I will be adding the rest of the author's oeuvre to my ever-expanding to-read list, and I hope I bump into some of the characters from this book again.
June 21, 2022
I thought this book was very good; not as good as What I Loved, but close. Once again, written from a male point of view, which the author is very good at. Perhaps too many characters who don’t get fully explored (Burton? WTF?) And for me, the insights into psychotherapy were fascinating.
December 13, 2022
All the characters in this book have dreams they talk about at some point or another. Miranda draws her dreams. Other people talk in therapy about them. And, some people have a whole discussion over dinner about dreams.
There is an almost blind man who says that in his dreams now, his vision is just as faded as when he is awake.
In the past, I used to have repetitive dreams that were taking place in my parents’ house. In them, the building had a new wing and I kept exploring it. There was a lot of old furniture there that I kept wishing to replace. One character from this book has similar dreams. Jung would say that those rooms stand for hidden parts of the unconscious that we are trying to access, but we are slowed down (hindered?!) by old beliefs (the old furniture). Or would he?
I just love how Siri explores dreams, the subconscious mind and art in this book. Science might not have all the answers, but she sure makes you ask yourself the right questions. Her exploration of dreams goes a lot further than what I am writing here, of course, but I am choosing to only highlight these few snippets.
What do you dream about? Do you dream in colour or in black and white? (Apparently, that’s a thing as well.) Do you remember dreams? Do you maybe sometimes write them down? Are they charged with feeling? Does dreaming feel like seeing motion pictures? I do know that I have my own special cinema in my head and you most probably do too. If only we could see some other movies than our own as well, we'd maybe get to have a more comprehensive understanding of other people's inner worlds.
There is an almost blind man who says that in his dreams now, his vision is just as faded as when he is awake.
“I dream in a blur with sounds and words and touch”.There is another who says:
“I’ve been recording my dreams, and I realize that what happens on the other side is a kind of parallel existence. I have a memory of what’s happened there. There’s a past, present, and future.”And then, another guy, a researcher, says that Mark Solms (a psychoanalyst, brain researcher and neurologist) considers that:
“Patients with specific forebrain lesions stop dreaming altogether. He believes parts of the forebrain generate dream pictures, that complex cognitive processes are involved, so dreams do have meaning. Memory’s involved, but nobody knows exactly how.”A therapist (the main character) adds:
“There’s a lot of research that confirms that dream content reflects the dreamer’s emotional conflicts.”and
“By telling a dream, a patient is exploring some deeply emotional part of himself and creating meaning through associations within a remembered story.”Some interesting points, right? Do blind people not dream in images? Is the land of dreams a “parallel dimension” that mirrors everyday existence? What happens when/if we stop dreaming altogether? How is memory involved in dreaming? How should we interpret dreams? Is there a universal key for deciphering them? Jung says there isn’t. Each dreamer has to find his own translation for his dreams as they contain metaphors related to each individual’s past and his associated symbols.
In the past, I used to have repetitive dreams that were taking place in my parents’ house. In them, the building had a new wing and I kept exploring it. There was a lot of old furniture there that I kept wishing to replace. One character from this book has similar dreams. Jung would say that those rooms stand for hidden parts of the unconscious that we are trying to access, but we are slowed down (hindered?!) by old beliefs (the old furniture). Or would he?
I just love how Siri explores dreams, the subconscious mind and art in this book. Science might not have all the answers, but she sure makes you ask yourself the right questions. Her exploration of dreams goes a lot further than what I am writing here, of course, but I am choosing to only highlight these few snippets.
What do you dream about? Do you dream in colour or in black and white? (Apparently, that’s a thing as well.) Do you remember dreams? Do you maybe sometimes write them down? Are they charged with feeling? Does dreaming feel like seeing motion pictures? I do know that I have my own special cinema in my head and you most probably do too. If only we could see some other movies than our own as well, we'd maybe get to have a more comprehensive understanding of other people's inner worlds.
February 1, 2021
Мабуть, можна назвати це психологічною драмою.
Про те, як рід впливає на життя, як сімейні історії формують психіку і особистість,
про те, що кожен з нас - недолюблена або небажана дитина.
Про те, як рід впливає на життя, як сімейні історії формують психіку і особистість,
про те, що кожен з нас - недолюблена або небажана дитина.
September 9, 2008
How do these books get such laudatory reviews? This one had at least 4 story lines going at the same time...psychiatrist's divorce, "hot" divorcee downstairs in his house, her stalker, his Dad's WWII experiences, the mysterious letter of his Father's youth, the widowed sister and the struggling teenaged niece...throw in a few deranged psychiatric patients for good measure! AND none of them were going anywhere by 100 pages. Don't bother is my advice. Like it? Not so much!
January 9, 2010
I found this book complex and engrossing, with a number of richly developed characters: the narrator, Erik, his sister Inga, her daughter Sonia, Erik's tenant Miranda and her daughter Eggy. I appreciate the psychological insights, which include an appreciation of the effects of traumatic experience on the teenaged Sophie, the 5 year old Eggy, and the long-ago 2 year old Lisa who is now an old and peculiar woman. It is a book I know I will want to read again.
September 8, 2020
Moje pierwsze spotkanie z prozą Hustvedt mnie niestety nie zachwyciło. Owszem, jej proza jest na wysokim poziomie, autorka porusza cała gamę tematów, koncentrując się na problemie tożsamości, ale niestety sama koncepcja powieści mnie po prostu nudziła. Zbyt dużo wątków, zbyt wiele postaci i totalnie nieprzekonujący główny bohater.
Ów główny bohater, Eric, ma około pięćdziesiąt lat, mieszka w Nowym Jorku, jest psychiatrą i rozwodnikiem. Za typowo, za standardowo dla mnie. I przede wszystkim - znowu narracja z perspektywy mężczyzny, choć w tej powieści jest wiele interesujących kobiet. Siostra Erica, wdowa po słynnym pisarzu i jej córka, matka oraz sąsiadka - młoda kobieta, artystka i jej córeczka, które prześladowane są przez byłego partnera, artystę-fotografika. Jak widać, w tej książce roi się od postaci związanych ze sztuką i literaturą, co tworzy świat dość nierealny, zawężający świat do nowojorskiej bohemy, co zresztą zauważa kobieta z Minnesoty, której ciotka może udzieli informacji o ojcu Erica.
Ciąg dalszy: http://przeczytalamksiazke.blogspot.c...
Ów główny bohater, Eric, ma około pięćdziesiąt lat, mieszka w Nowym Jorku, jest psychiatrą i rozwodnikiem. Za typowo, za standardowo dla mnie. I przede wszystkim - znowu narracja z perspektywy mężczyzny, choć w tej powieści jest wiele interesujących kobiet. Siostra Erica, wdowa po słynnym pisarzu i jej córka, matka oraz sąsiadka - młoda kobieta, artystka i jej córeczka, które prześladowane są przez byłego partnera, artystę-fotografika. Jak widać, w tej książce roi się od postaci związanych ze sztuką i literaturą, co tworzy świat dość nierealny, zawężający świat do nowojorskiej bohemy, co zresztą zauważa kobieta z Minnesoty, której ciotka może udzieli informacji o ojcu Erica.
Ciąg dalszy: http://przeczytalamksiazke.blogspot.c...
July 16, 2024
Like an alchemist, Hustvedt works away at transforming elements of her own biography and her voracious reading into fiction. Unlike an alchemist, she makes gold. Love of fiction -- and story-making by other means -- permeates this novel. The memoirs of Hustvedt's father are woven into the story, with his consent, which does indeed make a positive difference (to this reader at least). They flow into the fiction rather than into the opposite direction, which is that of "exposing" various troubling real stories that lie beneath the often too thin veil of fiction. That's my gripe with a lot of memoir, and the source of my suspicion toward autofiction. This novel goes the other way, and successfully.
Another transmutation: the loneliness of the characters, admitted by them, and described with a great deal of beauty, in several instances becomes a spark for deeper conversation (especially between Erik and Inga and, at times, also between them and Sonia). And throughout the novel, the fictional loneliness invites readerly solitude: a space for thinking, and pausing, and waiting for what comes next until you reach the last page and wish the story was not done.
Another transmutation: the loneliness of the characters, admitted by them, and described with a great deal of beauty, in several instances becomes a spark for deeper conversation (especially between Erik and Inga and, at times, also between them and Sonia). And throughout the novel, the fictional loneliness invites readerly solitude: a space for thinking, and pausing, and waiting for what comes next until you reach the last page and wish the story was not done.
August 31, 2021
En tiedä, mahtoiko se johtua kirjan ulkoasusta tai teemasta, vai odotinko romaanilta jonkinlaista amerikkalaista versiota Helen Walshin mainiosta Englantilaisesta tragediasta, 2009 (Once Upon a Time in England, 2008), mutta olin jostain syystä kasannut odotuksia tälle romaanille. Odotukset eivät kuitenkaan vastanneet sitä mitä romaanilla oli tarjota.
Norjalaistaustaisen Siri Hustvedtin Amerikkalainen elegia, 2010 (The Sorrows of an American, 2008) kertoo newyorkilaisten aikuisten sisarusten, Erikin ja Ingan, pyrkimyksistä selvittää hiljattain edesmenneen isänsä tarinan aukkoja tämän muistelmien, päiväkirjojen ja kirjeiden avulla. Jotain outoa isän varhaiselämässä on tapahtunut, mutta pakkomielteisen kaivelun taustalla lienee lähinnä surutyö rakkaan isän poismenosta. Myös Ingan aviomies on hiljattain kuollut, ja tämänkin henkilöhistoriaa ja motiiveja innostutaan ruopimaan ja mässyttelemään. Sekä psykiatrina toimiva Erik että tämän kirjailijasisko hairahtavat väsymykseen asti analysoimaan ja psykologisoimaan vähän kaikkea eteensä tulevaa, ja samoin tuntuvat tekevät monet muutkin Hustvedtin romaanin hahmot.
Romaani on kerronnallisesti sujuvaa, mutta sisällöllisesti uuvuttavan tasapaksua, yllätyksetöntä ja väsyttävän yksityiskohtaista henkilöhahmojen historiallisten sukujuurien tarkastelussa. Pitkin romaania odottaa, milloin tarina lähtee kunnolla käyntiin, mutta sitä ei oikeastaan milloinkaan tapahdu. Kaikki romaanin henkilöhahmot tuntuvat olevan ahdistuneita ja jollain tapaa traumatisoituneita ilman sen suurempia syitä. Ahdistuneisuus tuntuu linkittyvän Hustvedtin kerronnassa olennaisesti intellektuaalisuuteen: on jotenkin tiedostavaa ja trendikästä olla ahdistunut ja omien muistojensa vanki. Minää ja minuuden kerroksia tarkastellaan uupumukseen asti. Jotenkin ymmärtäisi, jos tämä rajoittuisi newyorkilaisiin intellektuelleihin, joiden harrastuksena on analysoida itsensä sairaiksi, mutta Hustvedtin romaanissa ahdistus ja muistoissa vatvominen tuntuu yltävän kaikkiin hahmoihin aina Minnesotaan asti.
Siri Hustvedt on tunnetun newyorkilaiskirjailija Paul Austerin vaimo. En ole Austerinkaan romaaneista koskaan juurikaan innostunut.
Arvioni 2,3 tähteä viidestä.
Norjalaistaustaisen Siri Hustvedtin Amerikkalainen elegia, 2010 (The Sorrows of an American, 2008) kertoo newyorkilaisten aikuisten sisarusten, Erikin ja Ingan, pyrkimyksistä selvittää hiljattain edesmenneen isänsä tarinan aukkoja tämän muistelmien, päiväkirjojen ja kirjeiden avulla. Jotain outoa isän varhaiselämässä on tapahtunut, mutta pakkomielteisen kaivelun taustalla lienee lähinnä surutyö rakkaan isän poismenosta. Myös Ingan aviomies on hiljattain kuollut, ja tämänkin henkilöhistoriaa ja motiiveja innostutaan ruopimaan ja mässyttelemään. Sekä psykiatrina toimiva Erik että tämän kirjailijasisko hairahtavat väsymykseen asti analysoimaan ja psykologisoimaan vähän kaikkea eteensä tulevaa, ja samoin tuntuvat tekevät monet muutkin Hustvedtin romaanin hahmot.
Romaani on kerronnallisesti sujuvaa, mutta sisällöllisesti uuvuttavan tasapaksua, yllätyksetöntä ja väsyttävän yksityiskohtaista henkilöhahmojen historiallisten sukujuurien tarkastelussa. Pitkin romaania odottaa, milloin tarina lähtee kunnolla käyntiin, mutta sitä ei oikeastaan milloinkaan tapahdu. Kaikki romaanin henkilöhahmot tuntuvat olevan ahdistuneita ja jollain tapaa traumatisoituneita ilman sen suurempia syitä. Ahdistuneisuus tuntuu linkittyvän Hustvedtin kerronnassa olennaisesti intellektuaalisuuteen: on jotenkin tiedostavaa ja trendikästä olla ahdistunut ja omien muistojensa vanki. Minää ja minuuden kerroksia tarkastellaan uupumukseen asti. Jotenkin ymmärtäisi, jos tämä rajoittuisi newyorkilaisiin intellektuelleihin, joiden harrastuksena on analysoida itsensä sairaiksi, mutta Hustvedtin romaanissa ahdistus ja muistoissa vatvominen tuntuu yltävän kaikkiin hahmoihin aina Minnesotaan asti.
Siri Hustvedt on tunnetun newyorkilaiskirjailija Paul Austerin vaimo. En ole Austerinkaan romaaneista koskaan juurikaan innostunut.
Arvioni 2,3 tähteä viidestä.
September 28, 2013
I'm not sure if this book is the best introduction to the author for me. I found it slow going, maybe too much psychiatric jargon and as another reviewer noted "anti-climatic narrative". It is a novel of many stories and apart from the aforementioned jargon, well written. However, it was a slow read and I did find myself wanting more from the ending. I rate this only a 3★ novel, but I will pursue the author's best selling What I Loved; hopefully I will find in that, the excellence that readers attribute to this author.
November 11, 2015
Wow, what a pretentious doucheface of a narrator. I just got more and more angry as I read on, because he's sort of a dick throughout the whole book. Ugh. NOPE. The only thing giving this book more than one star, is Miranda and the prose. Miranda is a wonderful character, the prose was beautiful.
Also, dear Erik, a woman's worth is not measured in how she choses to dress herself. Assface.
Also, as an afterthought:
- The plot with Linda was completely ridiculous. Who on earth wants to ruin someone's life for ignoring them on a couple of coffee dates?
- Deus ex machina resolution.
Also, dear Erik, a woman's worth is not measured in how she choses to dress herself. Assface.
Also, as an afterthought:
- The plot with Linda was completely ridiculous. Who on earth wants to ruin someone's life for ignoring them on a couple of coffee dates?
- Deus ex machina resolution.
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