I had an experience with this book like none other. When I came to the last 100 pages, I stopped reading and wrote a poem in honor of the protagonist, Aurora Greenway, but I could not finish the novel or review it.
I kept looking over at the book on my end table, wondering what was wrong with me. I've had a hard time finishing stories that were bad before, but I'd never before put off an ending of a book I was loving. I finally realized I was terrified of getting to the end of the story. Terrified.
You see. . . Larry McMurtry doesn't leave you in suspense. There are no cliffhangers here, no mysteries to be solved, either. But, what he does is. . . entangle you so deeply with his three-dimensional characters, you just can't extricate yourself from them without some pain.
So, when I awakened, early, this morning to a pale sky and a winter wind event, I thought. . . okay, girl, the surroundings look funereal enough, now. . . suck it up.
I did. I trudged through the last 100 pages of Aurora's old age and her devoted maid, Rosie's, old age, and I conjured up comparisons with three other fantastic books that are told from a late-in-life perspective: Stoner, The Stone Angel and The Stone Diaries.
And I felt like I held a stone in my own stomach as I soldiered on.
By the time my middle child descended the stairs for “breakfast,” she had assessed the scene of her mother sobbing on the living room couch, did an about-face, and headed straight back up to her room.
I don't blame her. This book, and its essential predecessor, Terms of Endearment, just about killed me. When my daughter came upon me, sobbing, I was up to my neck in Aurora's and Rosie's doubts in their “sunset” years (Had they lived meaningful lives? Chosen the right partners? Had any lasting effect on their people, their planet?) which triggered my own midlife doubts and, simultaneously, reminded me of so many other doubts that I've been privy to, throughout the years, of aging loved ones.
It's hard, this life. It seems as though we just got through patting ourselves on the backs for crawling out of the caves, but now we're supposed to compose sonatas, write award-winning novels, be culinary geniuses, post perfect-looking family portraits on Facebook and be happy, happy, happy, too.
But, most of us are still crawling. Waking up. Preparing simple meals. Heading to school. Heading to work. Heading home. Having sex, sometimes, if we're lucky.
We've unnaturally raised the bar on ourselves. . . and yet, at the end of the day, it will be our meals, our conversations, our smiles, and our songs, that are truly remembered.
The characters in this book doubt this, as we all do, on the dark days, but their experiences, their joy, and their pain, are all so very real.
As Theo the Greek, a side character who I fell in love with almost as much as the established main characters, so poignantly observes: I guess we're all just passing through.
Aurora
Your name conjures
a light show
and you are, indeed,
a colorful display.
You're bodacious (big assed),
audacious (all sass),
loquacious (you outlast),
you're a goddess, a queen.
A lady among Lilliputians,
you scatter mice who masquerade as men,
stabbing them with your stilettos
as they scramble under your feet.
Men fear you,
fear your quips and quirks,
brand you bitch, brand you bossy,
wish to brandish you to the backseat.
They laugh at you, as you negotiate
that whale of an automobile,
but notice. . . only one, in all the years,
ever offered to take the wheel?
You grab what you want:
the crab, the bisque, the mincemeat pie,
the balls, the cock,
the inner thigh.
You are insatiable;
I would never satisfy you here
with ample terms of endearment,
but, lady, oh my love:
You are the dash of light I have sought
in every dark night.
You are, my dear,
the evening star.