What do you think?
Rate this book


New Yorker book critic and award-winning author James Wood delivers a novel of a family struggling to connect with one another and find meaning in their own lives.
In the years since his daughter Vanessa moved to America to become a professor of philosophy, Alan Querry has never been to visit. He has been too busy at home in northern England, holding together his business as a successful property developer. His younger daughter, Helen—a music executive in London—hasn’t gone, either, and the two sisters, close but competitive, have never quite recovered from their parents’ bitter divorce and the early death of their mother. But when Vanessa’s new boyfriend sends word that she has fallen into a severe depression and that he’s worried for her safety, Alan and Helen fly to New York and take the train to Saratoga Springs.
Over the course of six wintry days in upstate New York, the Querry family begins to struggle with the questions that animate this profound and searching novel: Why do some people find living so much harder than others? Is happiness a skill that might be learned or a cruel accident of birth? Is reflection conducive to happiness or an obstacle to it? If, as a favorite philosopher of Helen’s puts it, “the only serious enterprise is living,” how should we live? Rich in subtle human insight, full of poignant and often funny portraits, and vivid with a sense of place, James Wood’s Upstate is a powerful, intense, beautiful novel.
214 pages, Kindle Edition
First published March 8, 2018
I am Alan, son of George (deceased) and Jenny Querry (still alive), former husband of Cathy Pearsall (divorced and deceased), partner of Candace Lee, father of Vanessa and Helen.
Candace’s mother had been so relentlessly ambitious, so determined to get out of her impoverished provincial Chinese village, that her school friends mocked her as ‘the toad who dreams of eating swan meat’.
Da had instructed him in that particular hardship; it was the way a lad kept himself ‘hard’. (Though Dad’s baths were also cold.) In the north of England, ‘hardness’ mattered more than cleverness or beauty or gentleness.
Britain, where the pavements were sopped with cold rainwater and everyone seemed to have attended queuing school, to learn how to do it with the requisite degree of resigned submission.
In happier times, Alan and Cathy had loved to observe the differences between their daughters. How often, in the evening, when other conversation faltered, the two parents talked about ‘the girls’, with the kind of fanatical wonderment –monotonous but somehow never boring! –that revolutionaries must lavish on their plans for the future ....... For a while, these differences seemed provisional, part of the scramble of growing up; everything was potential. But eventually, so Alan discovered ...... and, as if suddenly, while you were not properly attending to the matter (or so it seemed to him now), while you were too busy with your own foolish crises, your daughter became an adult, and those qualities that had seemed malleable were now hardened and fixed.
‘But happiness,’ Josh said [to Alan], ‘doesn’t come easily to Vanessa. For some people, maybe for someone like me, happiness is like all the other things you take for granted –inner-ear balance, say, or the regular thump of my heart, or my ability to sleep at night. Not for Vanessa. It’s like she doesn’t have that inner-ear balance. You and I walk down the street and don’t fall down; for her, falling down is kind of like the default position. Not falling down is an achievement for her, something she has to work at.
[Vanessa thought} despair was never banished; the memory, and therefore the prospect of it, always lurked. She was often put in mind of a childhood holiday she had taken in Cornwall, and of her strange, uncanny sense that the blue thrill of the sea was always nearby. ....... Magical and a bit terrifying, was how she remembered it ....... For despair was like a sea. It threshed restlessly, just out of sight, always there: the deep enemy of human flourishing, inching away at its borders.
[Vanessa said] Dad, you said when we walked along the road, you said you weren’t “naturally buoyant”. Those were your words? But I don’t think that’s true. You were humouring me. I think for you it is natural. It’s innate. Is happiness just a trick of birth, a completely accidental blessing, like having perfect pitch? Josh has it: healthy, instinctive optimism. Helen has it, mostly. I don’t have it.
It sometimes seemed as if in the last thirty years of his life, the little island nation that he grew up in, which for centuries had generated its own history and literature and record of prodigious scientific and industrial innovation, not to mention a fairly eventful politics, had meekly let the Americans come and restock the shelves with their own merchandise.
Helen was leaning forward ...... Cathy used to lean forward like this. Sometimes the similarities were like a shocking plagiarism, an outrageous laziness on the part of the family genes.
And as for the question of God –well, he had a notion that ‘the question of God’ might all have been more or less sorted out in his lifetime, like Cyprus or polio. Vaguely, with lazy irritation, he imagined some final event of revelation, a kind of theological press conference. He didn’t know whether the final revelation would be that God existed or didn’t; what seemed strange, as he put his tired head down on the hotel pillow, was that it hadn’t yet been decided, two thousand years after Christ’s death.
It was coming down fast, in the passive-aggressive way of snow, stealthy but relentless, insisting on its own white agenda, the soft monotony cancelling all time, all resistance, all activity.