Do you remember? . . . Does it still hurt here? . . . Oh, it all passes, but that's the beauty of it, too.
Closing the back cover on this book, the hangover started immediately. . . a dull pain behind my right eye, then an incoming sensation of hopelessness, malaise, discontentment.
I'll pick at my food now, wonder why real people (as opposed to fictional characters) are so dull and disenchanting.
Sigh. Yep. I've got it bad.
For what or for whom did she yearn?
I honestly don't know if I should give this novel 4 or 5 stars. It is imperfect; the characters are well-developed, but Ms. Godwin could have dug deeper. Plot points weren't always fully explored; I felt somewhat cheated at times, felt like she was right on the verge of a The Grapes of Wrath-quality epic, but fell slightly short of her goals (or perhaps my goals?).
And, yet, I was completely immersed in Godwin's world building. She built this particular world, in 1982, one that so aptly depicted the real world around her, as she wrote it, but also an imaginary world of fascinating, interconnected people.
Oh, and have I mentioned that the novel takes place in North Carolina? I mean. . . here I am, running around my new state, like it's America's playground, and almost the whole story takes place HERE, including parts of it that take place in my actual backyard, like 3-7 minutes from my house.
Chapel Hill is an oasis of sophistication in a surrounding desert of bigotry.
Gail Godwin is a writing icon, still with us, at 86, and, like so many of her indefatigable peers (Penelope Lively, Alice Munro, and Hilma Wolitzer), she is still rocking our world with her work!
Okay—I'm going to give it 5 stars, despite its imperfections. No, it isn't perfect, but I'd like to crack it open and read it all over again. (Thanks for making me drool with envy, Ms. Godwin).
The terrifying swing of the pendulum. Diastole/systole. Hegel's thesis/antithesis. Forward, backward. You had to, somehow, keep moving forward, without getting sucked into the abysses or hit by the pendulum.