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The great European novelists of the 19th century often took marriage as their topic. For Tolstoy, marriage was a lonely affair; for Flaubert, a tragic one. In America, it was a different case. Readers would be hard-pressed to find more than a casual reference to marriage in Melville. The 20th century, in turn, produced very few great novels of marriage on either continent, so concerned with the individual were that period's novelists. Yet if Diane Johnson's excellent new novel, Le Mariage, is any indication, church bells will be ringing loudly again in the 21st century.
It is appropriate that Johnson should be the one to return to the hallowed state of matrimony. An American who divides her time between San Francisco and Paris, she writes with the sweep and understanding of a modern Tolstoy, skillfully penetrating into the minds of each and every one of her characters. But Johnson's sense of humor is distinctly Her characters suffer from comedic bouts of self-consciousness; her plot never misses a chance to delve into the bizarre, even ludicrous elements of the modern world.
And Johnson is no stranger to the material. Her previous novel, Le Divorce, a modern comedy of manners that centers on the breakup of a Franco-American union, was a 1997 National Book Award finalist. This groundParis, the clashing of old and new cultures, and the vicissitudes of married lifebelongs to Diane Johnson.
Le Mariage is essentially the story of the events leading up to the marriage of Tim Nolinger, an American journalist living in Paris, and Anne-Sophie d'Argel, a beautiful young French woman who sells equestrian art at the flea market. Nolinger is the quintessential dispassionate He is a contributor to two American magazines, Reliance, a conservative journal, and Concern, a liberal one. When asked how he manages the contradiction, Tim simply shrugs, "I can see both sides" (though he uses only his initials, TAN, in articles for the liberals). Anne-Sophie, on the other hand, is a picture of Frenchness.
As the novel begins, Tim has been tipped off to a case involving a medieval manuscript stolen from the Morgan Library in New York, somehow linked to a mysterious murder that takes place in the first few pages. The case leads him to make the acquaintance of Serge Cray, a famous American film director living in seclusion outside of Paris, and Cray's beautiful wife, Clara Holly, an actress from Oregon. The Crays' marriage is in the last stages of decline. Their passion for each other, such as it may have been, has cooled, and Anne-Sophie and Tim look on them with fear and anxiety, thinking and rethinking their own imminent nuptuals.
The sequence of couples is complete when Delia and Gabriel, vacationing Oregonians who are somehow mixed up in the stolen manuscript/murder case, arrive. Gabriel disappears, and Delia, who walks with a limp, joins up with the two married couples, lending the lethargic air of an immovable tourist to their increasingly chaotic affairs. The Crays get drawn into an internationally publicized hunting controversy; Clara Holly falls in love with her neighbor; Serge Cray becomes obsessed with Delia's ties to the Y2K secessionist movement in Oregon, about which he plans to make a film; Tim and Anne-Sophie struggle to find an apartment; and Gabriel is arrested. Meanwhile, the wedding date is fast approaching. (Le Mariage is welcome comic relief for frantic wedding Nothing could be more stressful than this one.)
Johnson negotiates her complex plot with mastery. There are no dead subplots in the novel. With the grace of a Tolstoy, she tends to each of her character's inner lives. We are privy to Serge Cray's artistic turmoil, Clara Holly's desperation for her lost youth, Tim's pragmatic self-haranguing dread, Anne-Sophie's linguistic concerns (which lead her to read Henry Miller, hunting for words like "horny" and "fuck"), and Delia's innocent self-righteousness. Johnson writes with what can only be called, considering her subject matter, joie de vivreshe clearly loves Paris and all the people and situations it contains.
Perhaps this is what lends...
322 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2000
Dear Diane Johnson,
I don't know how to start my freaking letter about your books. Generally, most of your books that I read have this one star trying to shine like hell waiting for changes. Okay, I'm not angry, sad or, of course, happy of your works. They are very fragile in a sense that they have good covers, simple but very doddling elegant for me. Unfortunately, inside, it was the worst experience I ever felt in my entire life. I'm trying not to be rude but your books are killing me softly, waiting for the right time to burst.
God, I'm not here to give you (Diane) headaches nor giving fans of yours a letter that will send them gaga for years and trying to evolve their entire time giving me another set of funny opinionated comments. Anyway, at least I already read half of your works and one more to go to cut this hatred and I can free myself from hell. I want to die but suicide is a sin, pray.
Your belovedhaterfan,
Kwesi of Old-Fashioned Reader
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What is that?! Eeew, okay. I'm trying to portray that I'm dying of starvation, not inside my stomach but inside my brain, and dehydration. Anyway, I still survive in the end with a cup of milk. Nice art!
In a way she had been shocked to learn that the whole elaborate ritual of hunty -- dogs, red coats, horses -- was done in France, which seemed too, well, too small a country to let people loose with weapons in...
"What danger means to the French I have never understood," Tim had written once. She had read this passage over several times. "The seem drawn to it in a way we are not. Perhaps it is to atone for the crucial national moment when by and large they avoided danger. Or perhaps, belonging to an oldcivilization gives a certain perspective that we, fragile in our optimism, and convinced that we have yet so much to teach, lack. we are prudent, they drive too fast, race cars across deserts, sail in little boats alone across the open sea, scale skyscrapers, tightrope-walk, assault their arteries with rillettes and patinate their lungs with Gauloises."
"I wonder if the Americans will be, well, like Tim, alors -- their jackets won't match their pants, they'll wear tennis shoes in town, that sort of thing," said Anne-Sophie happily.
She stared at the moonlit wall, where she could reat the cross-stitched sampler that said "Kissin' don't last, cookin' do." The exact opposite of what the countess Ribemont in Against the Tide would say. The countess said, "All men really require is extravagant admiration of their genitals."