Oh the great love I feel for Lymie. Sweet Lymie who understands the sacredness of sharing a bed, the Lymie who came to see himself when he looked in a mirror. Lovely Lymie who learned to live his life as his own, to tie his own laces - to go to the woods, because he wants to go to the woods!
Special notes to chapter 59.
Below is my updated review of this book (15/06/2024), after having read it a second time, what reads above seems to me now as a mere first impression.
It has never been about Sally or Spud.
It is in its entirety all about Lymie.
About grief stricken Lymie (whether he knew it or not, the death of his mother would follow him at every turn) with Spud, the only love he had known after his mother.
About the tying of boxing gloves, the offering of towels, bare feet on a frozen night, a kiss in a hospital bed.
I somehow forgot completely about the horrors of chapter 53. As a consequence I've dedicated many tears to this book tonight.
About William Maxwell's writing in general... This was the first of his I had read, since then I have read his So Long, See You Tomorrow; Time Will Darken It; and They Came Like Swallows, and it has become unbearably obvious that Maxwell writes directly from the heart. His words are imbued with his own memories and nostalgia runs deep. It is clear to me that Maxwell's heart was entirely too huge for the words of others to appoint. But his words. Oh his words and sentences subscribe so to his genius and emotion.
He crafts his words into artful prose with such sense and concentration, with so much heart and consideration. He understood people so well: the aches, ebbs, and flows of the heart, including (or most ardently) heartbreak, confusion, and desire. Or, to put it into a singular phrase, the passions.
It is so clear that Maxwell writes from life. His presence in life and his lust for life are so obvious in the way he writes of the experience of living. It is obvious there was someone, a woman, a girl, in Maxwell's life whom he loved, and who loved to read under trees and lounge around in such a way that (I think) Maxwell adored. We see it (this character type) fleetingly here, in The Folded Leaf, and more so in his Time Will Darken It. We also see perceptive remarks on race; insights into the past and a social commentary that may remain contemporary and relevant forever.
Maxwell is so attentive and nourishing as an author, a poet. A craftsman of sentence and an artist in phrase. So in touch he was with human pleasures.
Maxwell's books are sewn together so attentively by the thread of life. One can almost see, feel, and hear the beating thread that ties Maxwell's lives together. Even the muddled, conflicting thoughts that appear inside the minds of his characters are unambiguous. I found his technique of writing (of provoking the reader's memory) far more effective upon my second read. An example: great emphasis is placed on Lymie's sense of belonging in the Latham house in the first part. In the fourth, after all that has happened between the two boys, a rift occurs between them and, more heartbreakingly so, between the house - or home - itself and Lymie. Between page 79 and 236, I felt grief stricken myself, realising that Lymie might be destined for the Alcazar.
Of course the reader finds this not to be the case. Through tears we read as Lymie finds himself, closes the door of his childhood, and plants his flowers, his roots of life, in the forest floor.
It would not be a book review by me if I did not offer some of my favourite passages... they exist as follows:
Page 85, But to live in the world at all is to be committed to some kind of journey.
Page 115, He was Samson without his hair.
Page 116, Outside it was the very peak of fall. (This sentence rolls, it flows, it is beautiful to read and visualise. In sentence is where Maxwell is his most powerful.)
On page 125/6 is where the reader will find the passage describing a girl admired.
Page 128, He gave his imitation of an overstimulated horse.
Page 143, Geraghty, who was a premedic, used to come into Lymie's room at night and make him take off his shirt. It was as having a skeleton, he said; he could find and name every bone in Lymie's body.
I'd paste the whole of page 144 here if I could. This is where I find myself in Lymie and where he finds his comfort in Spud: Then he moved his right foot until the outer part of the instep came in contact with Spud's bare toes, and from this one point of reality he swung out safely into darkness, into no sharing whatever.
Page 152, Lymie put his right hand inside the pocket of Spud's coat, a thing he often did when they were walking together. Spud's fingers interlaced with his.
Page 153, With his hand in the small of Lymie's back, pushing him, he came into the hall once more. (This is not the only instance of small touches, nudging hands, from Spud to Lymie... the un-asked-for guidance which Lymie later harnesses himself).
Page 170, We need Lymie the way a cat needs two tails. And later in the chapter... on Page 172, There is a species of cat that needs two tails.
Page 179, Lymie, old socks...
Page 260, (about Lymie setting out anything that Spud may need) The gesture was characteristic, but no more so than the rubber band that fastened one of the bottom buttons of his shirt to one of the top buttons on his fly, and kept his shirt front smooth. (It is just so. Just right. Lymie is just part of the framework that is Spud).
Page 276, ...revealing the secret shape of the skull. (I paused my crying to underline this while reading. Sweet, small Lymie was too lucid in this moment).
Chapter 59.
Page 304, (I love Lymie so much) ...then his eyes were only now beginning to grow accustomed to the light, after the continual darkness and gloom of the hut in the forest. (For Lymie, at this point, is taking hold. His love is so indomitable, and while he needs to be heard and have the feeling of safety returned to him, he also needs to set his knees down in wet soil and plant Hope's tall flowers in the long grass --- and only now have I realised the significance of Hope's name).
Page 308, The face that he saw in the mirror was his own.
Sorry for going on. I am infatuated with this novel.