Money and conscience are at the heart of Cynthia Ozick's masterly first novel, narrated by a nameless young woman and set in the private world of wealthy New York, the dire landscape of postwar Europe, and the mythical groves of a Shakespearean isle. Beginning in the 1930s and extending through four decades, Trust is an epic tale of the narrator's quest for her elusive father, a scandalous figure whom she has never known. In a provocative afterword, Ozick reflects on how she came to write the novel and discusses the cultural shift in the nature of literary ambition in the years since.
Recipient of the first Rea Award for the Short Story (in 1976; other winners Rea honorees include Lorrie Moore, John Updike, Alice Munro), an American Academy of Arts and Letters Mildred and Harold Strauss Living Award, and the PEN/Malamud award in 2008.
Upon publication of her 1983 The Shawl, Edmund White wrote in the New York Times, "Miss Ozick strikes me as the best American writer to have emerged in recent years...Judaism has given to her what Catholicism gave to Flannery O'Connor."
I admired the hell out of this novel. Tedious, ponderous, ridiculous, magnificent. Don't know that I will recommend it to anyone but I want to read it over and over. More thoughts forthcoming!
What I learned from this book is that I shouldn't try to read thick, Jamesian, gnarled prose as I try to fall asleep at night after reading students' papers all day. I've tried to read this book on-and-off for over a year, but it's just not what I'm looking for; I refuse to slog through another 300 pages when there is a giant list of books I actually want to read and might even enjoy. If I ever get sent to prison, I promise this book will go to the top of my list; then I will read and maybe even enjoy it all day long. Until then, then I've got better things to use my brain for other than glossing 10 archaic words every other page.
Ok, so I finished this book and I'm demoting it to a single star. It's not the worst book I've ever read. It has those occasional quotes that are interesting. But it's artificial. None of the characters are believable or likable...so it's hard to get involved with them or care much about what they're up to. I found myself grousing through the entire book at the inane plot, telling myself that the book wasn't "about" the plot helped keep me going but seriously, it just wasn't worth it. The jokes were too precious. The philosophy too contrived. The "art", that the author seemed so intent upon thrusting in my face, simply bored me in the end. This book was a waste of my time.
Matteo Marchesini once said that the critic is a philosopher who doesn't believe in philosophy anymore. Cynthia Ozick is the greatest literary critic of our times: in this novel and in its afterword, one can find what the critic believes in – or, at least, what the critic believed in at a certain point in time for a certain portion of time.
This just written is such a dumb thing. I don't known what to think of this book: I started reading it in the worst moment of my life so far; it took me ages to finish it; and yet I don't want anything back from this book.
I admire this book, and liked it despite it’s wordy prose and because of it. I would not likely recommend it but it is a singular read, and a book one could read many times and come away with a different understanding. I just finished it and am a little dazed.