If you piled up all the novels which make excruciating forensic microscopic sorrowful comedy out of failing marriages you could make a new Watts Tower out of them, there are so many, and somebody should really do that as an ART STATEMENT, it’s like the default subject of the non-genre novel, and all the sharp witty short story writers do it too, and a lot of them are really good at it, I could give you a list of all these stories and novels about horrible relationships between men and women, it’s now become like THE NEWS, you know that when you watch THE NEWS all you see is BAD news, humans being disastrous to each other, so that nastiness and hatred seem like the norm of human behaviour, which is, actually, quite untrue. The nastiness in the news is there because it's rare and therefore news, but this of course makes nastiness the normal mode of news which gives the human race a terrible undeserved reputation. There's a whole lot of human marriages which are really NICE and nobody is mean and nobody cheats. But maybe that part of human life is considered not worth writing about and is relegated to the AND FINALLY section to leave you with a surprised expression right at the end of the tsunami of misery you have just been watching.
So maybe modern novelists should write about SOMETHING ELSE ALREADY, but I guess you wouldn’t tell an electric guitarist not to fire off another five minute solo just because there’s already been ten million five minute electric guitar solos already recorded and a further 5 billion played live, and many quite brilliant too, I’m sure you have your favourites, but the guy in your local rock band, he wants to do his 5 minute solo in the full knowledge that he is not Zoot Horn Rollo or Richard Thompson or Eddie Hazell. And here’s Jonathan Safran Foer with his five minute guitar solo on the subject of a failing marriage.
I knew that this novel takes some weird left-turns into geopolitics (the destruction by earthquake of the state of Israel) and I was keen to get to that bit but finally I COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE, the whip-smart ultra-unrealistic sitcomlike relentless dialogue, most of this novel is dialogue, was like the death from a thousand cutting remarks, the floor was awash with my unlaughed laughter. I could see exactly what was supposed to be funny and moving, and the problem was that I smiled not nor twitched one empathetic eyebrow. Even when they are in TURMOIL about whether to off the family dog because it’s old and knackered and incontinent, I couldn’t give a monkey’s. I was chanting KILL THE DOG, KILL THE DOG, LET’S MOVE ON. But for pages the dog remained unkilled. In fact the dog may be the only survivor of this novel, I don't know because I COULD NOT FINISH THIS.
There are three kids in this family, all ultra smart boys, and all nauseating. They’re like 12, 10 and 4 or something but have all read every pop psychology book and absorbed the full horror of the human condition.
Sam (aged 12) saw what they either couldn’t see or couldn’t allow themselves to see, and that only made him more pissed, because being less stupid than one’s parents is repulsive, like taking a gulp from a glass of milk that you thought was orange juice. Because he was less stupid than his parents, he knew it would one day be suggested to him that he wouldn’t have to choose [between the two parents], even though he would. He knew he would begin to lose the desire or ability to fake it in school, and his grades would roll down an inclined plane according to some formula he was supposed to be proficient with, and the expressions of his parents’ love would inflate in response to their sadness about his sadness
If you like that kind of stuff, you’re really in luck cause there are bucketfuls of it in this novel.
The only thing she hated more than feeling like she was feeling was sounding like she was sounding.
And
Marriage is the opposite of suicide, but is its only peer as a definitive act of will.
That’s the author being eyerollingly cute, but this is the wife in the middle of a furious row :
You want to want some kind of sexually supercharged life, but you actually want the gate-checked stroller, and the Aquaphor, and even your dessicated blowjobless existence, because it spares you worrying about erections.
I dunno, maybe some people come up with sentences like that stuffed with perfectly chosen biting adjectives in the heat of the moment, but if so I never met any of them (WHICH I AM PRETTY GLAD ABOUT), except in the pages of smart new novels about our CURRENT MALAISE. (Was there ever a malaiseless time? No? How about a rose without thorns? No also? Huh, what a planet.)
A conversation between Sam and the girl he likes :
Billie took out the generic, lamer-than-an-adult-on-a-scooter tablet her parents got her for Christmas… she loaded a new video and said “Check out the syphilis on this guinea pig.”
“I think that’s a hamster.”
“You’re missing the genital sores for the trees.”
“I hate to sound like my dad, but isn’t it insane that we have access to this shit?”
“It’s not insane, it’s the world.”
“Well then. Isn’t the world insane?”
“Definitionally, it can’t be. Insane is what other people are.”
“I really, really like how you think.”
“I really, really like that you would say that.”
Okay, sick bag, sick bag, NO MORE OF THAT! I don’t have to take it any more! I realized nobody is paying me for this, in some unexplained fit of wanting to read a big much praised modern novel which wasn’t by Jonathan Franzen, I appear to have volunteered for this one so I only have myself to blame. As every single character in this novel would put it, definitionally, I’m sad about the sadness I’m not happy about.