Philip Seidel hasn’t gone out much since his wife died—he’s too sad. He dreads the time that he’ll finally have to emerge, only to endure his former colleagues’ sympathy and concern. But then one day Beatrice, a former student of his, stops by with a care package stuffed with homemade treats. She’d been a star in his fiction workshop, and now she’s gone on to her own life and academic career. They become lunch partners and, in a way, she saves Philip by meeting him at the cafe every other week or so—until he oversteps the bounds of their relationship and drives her away, recedes back into himself.
Stephen Dixon writes with a sensitivity, pathos, and wit that makes the small lives of Philip and Beatrice seem much bigger, more universal, and—like everyone’s—crucial.
Stephen Dixon was a novelist and short story author who published hundreds of stories in an incredible list of literary journals. Dixon was nominated for the National Book Award twice--in 1991 for Frog and in 1995 for Interstate--and his writing also earned him a Guggenheim Fellowship, the American Academy Institute of Arts and Letters Prize for Fiction, the O. Henry Award, and the Pushcart Prize.
A beautiful little book. Fragile and tender. Haunted and haunting. Started reading it standing up and forgot I was standing and then finished it in about 90 fast minutes. Last few lines killed me. Won't forget this one.
I don't think of retirees very often, what their lives are in old age, because in doing so I think there's too much sadness. The old become invisible in this country. And maybe not just this county but the world in general.
I'm also not one to ruminate on what it's like to have a loved one placed in a wheelchair and then possibly taken from your life too soon.
The narrator of Beatrice thinks about these things all the time because it is his life.
This is a beautiful/tough novel that is incredibly compelling because it's written without many paragraph breaks and without any dialogue tags or markings. It's just a wall of text that often ping pongs back and forth through the perfectly normal lunch dates of a man in his 70s who is befriended by a younger woman.
There's not much action here but everything doesn't have to explode. The riot of the quiet life is enough sometimes.
I really think this book is the definition of 'quiet masterpiece'. Still thinking about it days later and what the subtleties mean.
Beatrice accomplishes what it sets out to do very elegantly, I think. A short novel from inside an aging writer's head as he attempts to deal with the death of his wife. Finding a way through is an enormous undertaking, and that way can be so easily lost.
The story is told from the point of view of Philip Seidel, a writer and retired professor, recently widowed. Beatrice is his former student, now a mid-career academic with grown children. She pays a condolence call, and they strike up a friendship based on occasional lunch meetings. Eventually Philip starts to feel sexual desire, despite his sense that this is inappropriate. I quite enjoyed this narrative, which is just the right length, further proof that the novella form is vibrantly alive, and that it offers satisfactions that are distinct from those of shorter and longer narratives.