Allò que vaig estimar

by Siri Hustvedt, Jordi Martín Lloret (Translator)

La novel·la més coneguda de Siri Hustvedt (Premi de Llibreters del Quebec, Premi Femina Étranger), arrenca a Nova York el 1975, quan l’historiador de l’art Leo Hertzberg descobreix un quadre extraordinari d’un autor desconegut en una galeria del Soho. Fascinat, compra l’obra i vol conèixer l’artista, Bill Wechsler. A partir d’aquest moment, els dos homes inicien una profunda amistat que els unirà tota la vida, a ells i a les seves famílies. Molts anys després en Leo recorda la seva vida: el seu matrimoni, el naixement del seu fill i el del seu amic i ens revela els foscos secrets que han tensat les relacions i els lligams familiars.

Genres: Fiction, Contemporary, Art, Literary Fiction, The United States Of America, New York, Book Club

467 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 2002

About the author

Hustvedt was born in Northfield, Minnesota. Her father Lloyd Hustvedt was a professor of Scandinavian literature, and her mother Ester Vegan emigrated from Norway at the age of thirty. She holds a B.A. in history from St. Olaf College and a Ph.D. in English from Columbia University; her thesis on Charles Dickens was entitled Figures of Dust: A Reading of Our Mutual Friend.

Hustvedt has mainly made her name as a novelist, but she has also produced a book of poetry, and has had short stories and essays on various subjects published in (among others) The Art of the Essay, 1999, The Best American Short Stories 1990 and 1991, The Paris Review, Yale Review, and Modern Painters.

Like her husband Paul Auster, Hustvedt employs a use of repetitive themes or symbols throughout her work. Most notably the use of certain types of voyeurism, often linking objects of the dead to characters who are relative strangers to the deceased characters (most notable in various facits in her novels The Blindfold and The Enchantment of Lily Dahl) and the exploration of identity. She has also written essays on art history and theory (see "Essay collections") and painting and painters often appear in her fiction, most notably, perhaps, in her novel, What I Loved.

She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband, writer Paul Auster, and their daughter, singer and actress Sophie Auster.

Reviews

[Sue · Rating 5 out of 5]

I have rarely read a novel of such intensity. And it touches on so much: the art world as well as art itself, relationships of many kinds, family, love, loss, psychology and the outsider, the world that is New York City, personas......much more that I'm forgetting (or avoiding for spoilers sake). But then is is titled "What I Loved" and it lives up to it's title.

In addition to being one of the most intense reading experiences, in many ways this has been one of the most unusual. At times I felt I was reading, not a novel, but a memoir, the actual life story of an aging art historian and university professor looking back on who and what had figured prominently in his life---what he had loved.

The story takes place in the art and university worlds of New York City, but it is not necessary,in my opinion, to be a part of them to become engaged in Leo's life and story. His story of finding a work of art he likes, the artist who becomes his true friend; two families whose lives intermingle over decades.

The art world is a large part of this story and descriptions of various works of art can occasionally become long, somewhat rambling sidetracks. But these sidetracks always have connections to the central story if you are patient. Hustvedt also portrays the less savory side of the art world but this is once again through those many aspects of "what I loved."

And supporting all of the story is masterful prose and excellent timing of presentation. The pacing and control, emotions--everything struck me as perfectly done. Hustvedt had me in the palm of her hand. (Even a section that was a bit over the top was over the top in just the right way.)

I'm trying to be careful not to come close to any spoilers in this review which could dampen the emotional impact of this novel for other readers. I definitely recommend this book to anyone who feels a spark of interest in a book set in this world, an arrestingly written look back on a life.

As an addendum, I realize that I neglected to say what may (or may not) be obvious. I intend to continue reading the author's works.

[Blair · Rating 5 out of 5]

(First read April 2011; reread June 2026.) What is it like rereading a beloved book after a gap of 15 years? Interesting and complicated, it turns out. My perspective on so much of the material is entirely different now I’m older (and a more experienced reader – at the time I simply don’t think I’d ever read anything like this before). Still a wonderful novel, though.

Original review (written 2011): I'd been aware of this book for a while, but I hadn't really been interested in reading it, due to a combination of factors but primarily because a) the cover didn't interest me (superficial, I know) and b) one of the most prominent quotes on the jacket describes it as 'a love story'. As I've said before, while I always appreciate well-written relationships in books, defining something purely as a love story is pretty much a surefire way to put me off. So it was for no particular reason - out of boredom, really - that I eventually picked this up. What a fantastic decision that was; this book is, and I do not say this lightly, ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT.

It is a love story, but to describe it that way is to do it a huge disservice - there are at least four love stories in here, and one of them is a friendship. And it's just as much a book about art (and how we perceive it), madness, parenthood, loss and grief, truth and lies. It follows the lifelong friendship between Leo, a writer (and the narrator of this story), and Bill, an artist, and their relationships with their wives (Erica and Lucille, and later Violet) and children (Matthew and Mark). Later, the story becomes focused around devastating loss and its aftermath, and still later it concentrates on the teenage Mark, his disturbing behaviour and dangerous association with a controversial artist, Teddy Giles. The narrative is filled with evocative descriptions of Bill's artwork, Leo's divergences into the significance of art and personal interpretation, the characters' fascinating, meandering conversations; there is much more to it than simply the plot itself, complex and intriguing though that is in its own right.

I don't really know what to say about What I Loved to effectively express how I felt about it. Although what happens is interesting, it's the quality of the writing that really makes it what it is. Hustvedt brilliantly relates a whole spectrum of emotions and makes you feel and suffer along with her characters. The atmosphere is fantastic, with a thread of suspense running throughout the novel, which intensifies in the last few chapters as the plot builds to a dramatic climax. The Teddy Giles character became so menacing to me that I felt genuinely frightened and couldn't get to sleep after the final revelations. This is just one example of how much this book gets inside your head - I still can't stop thinking about it. It's beautifully, sumptuously written and vastly intelligent.

I've been trying for days to write a review of this book that actually does it justice, and I've found it impossible. The above definitely doesn't cover it adequately, but I don't think I'm going to come up with anything better, so there you have it. In a nutshell: it is wonderful; I will read it again; you should read it too.

[Guille · Rating 3 out of 5]

No es raro que pase por nuestra mente la famosa novela de Lionel Shriver “Tenemos que hablar de Kevin” en algún momento de la lectura de esta novela, pues es, como ya muchos habrán adivinado, una novela sobre los hijos, sobre el deseo de tenerlos, sobre las conexiones que con ellos establecemos, sobre la responsabilidad que asumimos o nos echamos encima en la conformación de su personalidad, …

“Supongo que todos somos producto del gozo y el sufrimiento de nuestros padres. Sus emociones permanecen grabadas en nosotros del mismo modo que la huella de sus genes.”

… sobre el horror de perderlos, sobre el orgullo o la decepción y hasta la aversión que nos puede provocar su conducta, sobre la facilidad con la que nos engañamos acerca de sus virtudes y defectos, sobre como todo ello afecta a todas nuestras facetas de la vida.

Paralelamente, también es una novela sobre el amor, la amistad, la memoria, la forma en la que construimos la historia de nuestra vida…

“Los recuerdos de las personas mayores son distintos de los de los jóvenes. Lo que a los cuarenta años nos parece vital bien puede haber perdido su importancia a los setenta. Al fin y al cabo, nos inventamos historias a partir del fugaz material sensorial que nos bombardea a cada instante, que no es sino una serie fragmentada de imágenes, conversaciones, aromas y contactos de personas y cosas. La mayor parte de esta información la eliminamos para así vivir en algo parecido al orden, y seguimos barajando una y otra vez nuestros recuerdos hasta que morimos.”

… la locura y aquellos comportamientos que alguna vez fueron lamentablemente tratados como tales, sobre aquello que nos hace o no humanos, …

“Establecer una equivalencia entre el horror y lo inhumano siempre se me ha antojado como algo a la vez cómodo y falaz”

… y, claro está, el arte. El arte tiene una especial relevancia a lo largo de toda la novela y se plantea desde la forma de expresarse a través de él, sus límites, el desarrollo de su creación, hasta la forma de observarlo, de interpretarlo y lo mucho que nuestros sentimientos e ideas inciden en ese proceso.

“…una pintura se convierte en sí misma en el momento de ser contemplada”

“¿Quieres decir que cualquier cosa puede ser arte si la gente así lo dice? ¿Incluso yo? —Exacto. Se trata de una cuestión de perspectiva, no de contenido.”

En este sentido, guarda un gran paralelismo con su obra posterior “El mundo deslumbrante”, novela que me gustó mucho más que ésta a pesar de que también contenía detalladas y largas descripciones de obras plásticas que a mí me dejan del todo frío, en parte porque soy incapaz de imaginármelas y en parte porque soy muy escéptico con todo lo relacionado con el arte moderno.

“La detención de Giles alteró drásticamente la percepción de su obra. Cosas que hasta entonces se habían interpretado como una sagaz disquisición sobre el horror comenzaron a percibirse como las sádicas fantasías de un asesino. La peculiar insularidad del panorama artístico neoyorquino había logrado a menudo mostrar lo obvio como sutil, lo absurdo como inteligente y lo sensacionalista como subversivo. Todo era una cuestión de «afinar el mensaje».”

Tanto es así que varias veces estuve tentado de abandonar en el para mí larguísimo —un tercio de la novela— preludio a la historia que es toda la primera parte. Afortunadamente persistí, cosa que tengo que agradecer a que esta lectura no la realicé en solitario, porque a partir de aquí la cosa cambia radicalmente y a mejor, a mucho mejor.

La segunda parte se inicia con un trágico hecho, y es muy de agradecer la inteligencia y delicadeza que la autora muestra al tratarlo, tan fácil de empujar al escritor menos hábil o respetuoso con el lector por el precipicio de un sentimentalismo de lagrimita fácil. También es digno de admiración su talento para construir el crescendo de tensión y suspense que es la parte final de la novela, un inquietante thriller que te agarra y no te suelta hasta casi el final.

En definitiva, que las tres estrellas podrían haber sido cuatro perfectamente. Qué sé yo, quizás, como el amor, también los libros necesitan su distancia.

“Siempre he pensado que el amor prospera si se le somete a cierta distancia; que exige una cierta separación respetuosa para perpetuarse. Sin ese aislamiento imprescindible, las minucias físicas del otro llegan a adquirir una magnitud odiosa.”

[Dem · Rating 3 out of 5]

Beautifully written and a realistic insight into the difficulties of parenthood and relationships.

A story with interesting and intelligent character development. I enjoyed watching the characters grow and how the author developed and shaped the characters over a number of years.
This really is a study of relationships and how they develop between husbands and wives, family and friends over the course of a number of years and how love, and loss can change the course of friendships.

I enjoyed the read as it is very well written, the plot is dark in places and there twist and turns in the second half of the novel to keep the reader interested.. I didn't however connect with the emotion of the book or feel any real satisfaction with the conclusion of the story.

A 3 *** read for me. I liked it but didn't love it.

[Marc Lamot · Rating 4 out of 5]

It doesn’t often happen, but this book really hit an emotional chord with me; days after I put it down, it kept on haunting me. The story itself is about a mix of family situations, relationship problems, moments of hapiness and despair, but also death and psychosis, and at a certain point it even evolves into an outright horror story. That sounds a bit trite but Hustvedts characters are people of flesh and blood, with big and small yearnings, very own psychological mindsets, uncertainties and wrong assumptions, and with very divers reactions on tragic events. They go through endearing, tender moments, but also through absolutely horrible experiences. The emotional load sometimes is so raw and realistic that the reading gets on the verge of the bearable (at one point it reminded me of Elena Ferrante’s early novels).

Hustvedt has set her story in the art scene of Soho-New York in the 80s and 90s, a very special world that she apparently knows well and with which she settles some scores. Occasionally this results in rather heavy, indigestible elaborations on modern art, but in a sense that is functional: just as interpretations of art always are rather individual and provisionally, estimating the behavior of other people is at least as tricky. Because that's pretty much the key to this work: it describes how impotent we are, how little grip we have on our lives, and even how bad we (can) know the people who stand closest to us.

Hustvedt’s first great novel certainly is not perfect: at times the style can become quite pretentious (the stodgy fragments on art), some story lines are too abruptly broken off, and the horror story dominates the third part of the novel just a little too much, especially because it breaks off suddenly, passing in a rather faint epilogue. Nevertheless: Hustvedt has made a great impression on me. This is an intelligent and complex novel about life in its endearing and its hideous nakedness.

[Trevor · Rating 1 out of 5]

A long time ago, when I was studying writing with Gerald Murnane, he told us of an author, I can’t remember his name, who would stop reading books the moment he came to a sentence that was pretentious. More than that, he would literally break the spine at that page so that the book would always open where he was forced to stop reading.

I finished this book – but if I had been that author, whose name I can’t recall, the point where this book would always fall open would be the first page of part two where the first sentence reads, ‘Eight days later Matt died.’

Later in the book the narrator says, ‘After that, I spent every morning with Bill’s catalogues and slides and began to understand that it was a book I was writing, one organised not by chronology but by ideas’. And when I read that sentence I thought that perhaps the author was a better writer than I had given her credit. But I’ve now finished the book and am left with a sense of dissatisfaction bordering on annoyance.

In large part, this is a novel that is really a vehicle for some ideas the author has around what I would otherwise call psycho-babble. The book ends with a series of acknowledgements (of people and books) to those who have provided the author with evidence for the various forms of psychosis exemplified by some of the characters, or even just discussed by them.

This is a book were the accretion of improbabilities also annoyed me, something else that probably should have stopped me reading. Really, I’m less annoyed with the book and the author, and more annoyed with myself for finished it, because I had no excuse for reading on.

I need to explain why the son dying (or rather, the announcement of the son being dead) upset me so much, and why that ought to have made me close the book. And I need to stress that it did annoy me. It became a stone in my shoe as I limped on with this. I couldn’t just ignore it, it was not something I could put out of mind.

You see, this book is told as first person narration, we are inside the head of the person telling us this story. And they repeatedly tell us they they inhabit some future time, a time that is significantly after the events being reported. There can be no ‘surprises’ for such a narrator as they look back over their own life. And since they are looking back over their life, there is simply no reason to tell their life in chronological order as if they have no idea about what is coming next.

The death of a child doesn’t merely change the events that come after that event – it changes everything. It becomes a prism through which all of before and all of after is distorted. It is inconceivable to me that a parent could tell me their life story chronologically like, ‘and then Matt was born and it was so nice, and then he grew and that was nice too, and then we would sit and chat about baseball and that was nice as well (and keep this up for 100 pages or so until you suddenly and out of the blue say) – and then he died’. To tell the story in this way is to create a melodrama and to betray a fundamental exchange between writer and reader.

I simply couldn’t trust the narrator after that sentence. Prior to this, I had assumed the narrator was being presented to us by the author as gormless, which I found a bit annoying, but I could forgive that. But I felt cheated by the author when the child died and when this was presented so as to shock the reader, as a denouement of the part one of the novel.

And this impacted my reading of all what followed and in my thinking back over what I'd read too – all of the characters suddenly felt two-dimensional, something, oddly enough, that was especially true of the female characters, who all seemed to disappear conveniently as soon as their usefulness to the plot ended.

I hadn’t thought about the sex of the author – I guess owning an iPhone, I probably ought to have known Siri is a girl’s name straight off, but I really hadn’t thought about it or particularly noticed the name. The book is narrated by a man, and so I’d taken the book to have been written by a man too. But the bit that made me think it was written by a woman, and made me go off and check, was when the narrator says that he had started to notice his sexual attraction to women because his wife had stopped having sex with him. No man I’ve ever known would say that. No matter how much sex a man is getting in a relationship, no matter how good that sex is, it is beyond belief that a man might see, as happens in this book, I think it was a woman’s naked thigh or something, and then feel surprised at the thought of sex presenting itself to them and feel it something they needed to explain to themselves. The thought process, ‘oh, that’s odd, I’m looking at an attractive woman, and I’m thinking of sex, I wonder what made that pop into my head? I guess it must be…’ seems ludicrous to me, almost laughable.

I ought to have liked this book – I’m fascinated by art and artists and by the visual – and I really love fairy tales. But I need to be able to trust the narrator, and I need to feel the story ‘has’ to be told for itself, rather than be an excuse to talk about a collection of cases in psychology the author finds rather interesting. You know, if you want to talk about psychology, that’s fine, but you should write a book about that, rather than a novel.

[Carol · Rating 5 out of 5]

Superbly written…a very enjoyable novel that left me feeling introspective. The characters were so beautifully portrayed…so authentic that I hated to say goodbye. The narrator is Leo, an art historian who forms a long-lasting friendship with the painter, Bill Wechsler. These two men and their families remain friends for over 25 years. It’s a story filled with passionate love affairs as well as tragic loss, grief and heartbreak. I was so moved by this sometimes sad, sometimes sentimental, yet never maudlin book. Leo’s story touched me deeply because his account and his destiny as he aged rang so true to life for me. I never wanted this novel to end. Highly recommended!

[N · Rating 2 out of 5]

The second half of What I Loved might have made an enjoyably-erudite ‘thinking man’s’ thriller set in the art world of the ‘80s and ‘90s, but the meandering first half – about affluent Manhattanites and their dull, pretentious lives – makes the book, as a whole, perhaps admirable, but hard to like.

One often comes across perfectly entertaining novels that seem to have trouble getting started. Instead of plunging their reader straight into the action, they begin with ten pages of backstory. What I Loved reads like this, but it begins with two hundred pages of backstory. We get every minutia of the central characters’ lives over a ten-year period and absolutely no narrative to get invested in. Oh, I’m sure if you asked Siri Hustvedt about it, she’d claim that she was writing about ‘life’. Well, sorry, but novels are not life; they’re artificial constructions designed to entertain. I need my characters to have goals; I need them to strive and grow and not just fester in their beautiful Manhattan loft.

(Did it bother me that everyone in this novel is soaked in rich white privilege? Yeah, a bit.)

Don’t get me wrong, the quality of Hustvedt’s prose is astonishing. What I Loved is filled with wholly-believable details. The sections of the novel that revolve around artwork and artists are clearly well-researched, and Hustvedt extracts beautiful and affecting symbols from the art that surrounds her characters. Hustvedt comes across as someone highly interested in the human condition.

Unfortunately, she chooses to probe her characters as if they were sliced up and put beneath a telescope. There’s little warmth in her characterization; she seems so intent on capturing her characters’ neuroses in fine detail that she forgets to make them compelling or likeable. The artwork that the protagonist directly engages with might be memorable and affecting, but the long descriptions of artwork that only tangentially relate to the plot become boring and repetitive. Reading a description of paintings you can’t see is a bit like hearing someone describe their favourite song – an ultimately empty experience.

Oh, I’m sure academics can handwave every ‘flaw’ I see in this novel, with comments like ‘it’s a book of ideas’ or ‘it’s not constrained by the Western style of plotting’, but if I find myself bored and dissatisfied by your novel, I think you’re doing something wrong.

[Suzy · Rating 5 out of 5]

Update June, 2019 This month's BBC World Book Club (one of my favorite bookish podcasts!) featured Siri Hustvedt talking about, reading from and answering questions about What I Loved. https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/w3cs... This makes me want to reread this with fresh eyes after hearing her talk.

What I Loved? This book!

Intense and engrossing, What I Loved could also be titled What We'll Do for Love or What Love Will Do To Us for it explores the psychology of friendships, intimate and family relationships and the actions people take for the sake of love. But I get ahead of myself . . .

This is the story of two friends, their spouses and the son each couple has, told over the last three decades of the 20th century in a reminiscence by one of the friends, Columbia professor and art historian, Leo Hertzberg. Looking back toward the end of his career and as his eyesight fails, he tells of how he met the artist Bill Weschler, buying one of his paintings, and how their friendship grew from there, eventually finding them living, with their wives and children, in the same building on Greene Street in NYC. At the human level, we are offered a glimpse into the day-to-day lives of these people, their triumphs and their struggles, and the dynamics of their relationships. Told in three parts, I wondered in the first where this was going, even though I was completely engaged. It reminded me a little of Happy All the Time in its portrayal of the two couples. But at the end of part one, it deepens in the complexity of the life experience of all characters and becomes darker than Colwin's happy book. But in common with Colwin's book, this is a story of place and time, that could only have happened in New York City in the last part of the 1900's.

The painting Leo bought hangs in his apartment and is a touchstone for his telling of the story. He also keeps objects, artifacts and photos in his desk drawer - something I would describe as an alter. This drawer is another touchstone that helps advance the story, giving him an opportunity to tell the history of their Jewish families as well as the story of their lives. And what a story of life this is, in all it's complexity.

On the macro level, we learn of the experimental art scene in New York at this time; the world of art, artists, dealers and deals in the budding SoHo and Bowery artist enclave; the world of academia, research and book-writing; of love, hate, morality and amorality, life and death. A part of the book I especially loved was about Bill's art, what stimulated his ideas, how he created, the finished art, how it was perceived by critics and the public. I can picture everything he created, brought to life by Hustvedt's particularly lucid writing.

I have become a fan of books that are told in the form of reminiscences. This book has in common with Elena Ferrante's Neopolitan Novels in that the world falls away while I am reading and I am placed in the scenes I'm reading about. More like experiencing the author's story rather than just reading it. This passage about time and life particularly struck me:

. . . I could hear the ticking of the clock that hung to the right of the door - a big-faced old school clock with clear black numbers - and I found myself struggling to understand how time can be measured on a disc, a circle with hands that return to the same positions over and over again. That logical revolution looked like a mistake. Time isn't circular, I thought. That's wrong. But the memory didn't let go of me.

Through Hustvedt's brilliant writing, we experience both the big and the small moments of these people's lives and histories through those memories that don't let go.

Addendum: After reading several reviews with the comments, "I cried" and "I hated for this book to end", I say Amen!

[K.D. Absolutely · Rating 4 out of 5]

What I loved. Take note of the past tense. It evokes painful memories of the past. Things that we used to cherish and treasure that are no longer there. It evokes the feeling of losing something or someone either physically like a dead father or emotionally like an ex-lover. Come to think of it, there seems to me a big blur between physical and emotional losses. A dead father may not be physically present but emotionally, he still resides in our hearts. An ex-lover may still be there physically but is regretfully absent even in the small recesses of our hearts.

This feeling of losing is what permeates in every page of this book particularly the last two of the three books. Book 1 introduces us to the two families. Family #1 is headed by Leo, the narrator who is a college professor, his writer-wife Erica and his son, Matthew. They live on the ground floor of the house they own. Family #1 has Family #2 renting their house’s upper floor. This family is headed by a painter Bill and his second wife, also a writer, Violet and their son, Mark. The two families become friends because Leo saw and liked one of Bill’s paintings. The story is about how the lives of these 6 characters intersected and got intertwined with each other over a span of a little less than 20 years.

Seems like a simple thin plot, right? Answer is yes, it is simple and has been used in other books and movies. However, Hustvedt knows how to make her craft more interesting than those. I must admit that I found Book 1 quite ordinary, maybe because I am not really interested on painting as an art (although I have this big painting, given by my brother, by a famous Filipino painter in the bedroom that I share with my wife). However, when death opens Book 2, there is just no turning back: Hustvedt made sure that surprises after surprises, revelations after revelations pepper the rest of that book and when another death closed it, I could not help but admire her for knowing her craft that is comparable or even better than her husband’s – Paul Auster. Well, I only read his New York’s Trilogy and Invisible and IMO, in the overall scheme of things, his wife’s What I Loved is a lot better than either of those.

Two obvious strengths this novel by Hustvedt are: first, its ability to engage its reader by those series of revelations. It is like riding a rollercoaster inside a darkroom. You don’t know where she is taking you. For example, I thought that either one of the three pairs: two husbands, two wives, two sons, would have a homosexual relationship. Hustvedt made some hints (or maybe it was just me who thought that those were hints) towards this direction but she did not. I also thought that there would be a big revelation that would cap this psychological thriller just like any other thrillers ala-Agatha Christie but Hustvedt opted in ending her emotionally turbulent novel swiftly and quietly that reminded me of Philip Roth’s The Human Stain.

The other thing that I liked about this book is Hustvedt’s ability to imprint strong images in her reader’s mind. It will take me sometime to shake off many scenes like Matthew’s death particularly when Leo thought: ”he is Matthew and he is not Matthew” or that scene when Violet was cradling the dead Bill not calling a police yet since she wanted to lay side by side with him. Or Violet wearing Bill’s work clothes or Mark wearing woman’s clothes. I was also able to picture in my mind a couple of paintings that were fully described in the story as if I saw those pictures with my own set of eyes!

When I finished reading the book this morning, I checked Hustvedt’s Acknowledgements. Paul Auster’s name was not there. I went back to the first few pages and there, on the very first page, says: To Paul Auster. This tells me that Paul Auster did not help in any way in the writing of this book but she dedicated this to him. Like a love offering: Hustvedt seems to be saying ”this one’s for you, Paul!”. Not sure what her tone is but I am guess that she is proud that she can write as good, if not even better, than her more-famous husband.

[Ilenia Zodiaco · Rating 3 out of 5]

"Ogni storia che raccontiamo su noi stessi può essere raccontata solo al passato".

La scrittura è notevolissima, la storia un po' sfilacciata e sul finale si sbrindella, rischiando l'inconsistenza. Ma la grazia nella scrittura risolleva un intreccio non così memorabile.

[João Carlos · Rating 5 out of 5]

Siri Hustvedt (n. 1955)

5 Estrelas literárias

”Aquilo Que Eu Amava” (2003) é um romance escrito pela norte-americana, de ascendência norueguesa, Siri Hustvedt (n. 1955) dedicado a Paul Auster; o premiado escritor norte-americano, casado com Siri Hustvedt desde 1982, e que antes contraíra matrimónio com a também escritora Lydia Davis.
Siri Hustvedt divide ”Aquilo Que Eu Amava” em três partes, perfeitamente individualizadas no espaço e no tempo, e que se inicia por volta de 1975, na zona do Soho, Manhattan, Nova Iorque, centrada numa pequena “comunidade” artística, ligada à pintura, à escultura e à literatura, terminando cerca de vinte e cinco anos mais tarde.
Leo Hertzberg, o narrador, é um intelectual judeu, professor de história da arte na Universidade de Columbia, escritor e ensaísta, que se apaixona por um quadro, uma pintura de uma mulher, que decide comprar, pintado pelo desconhecido artista Bill Wechsler – nascendo entre os dois uma “irrevogável amizade”.
Bill Wechsler, é casado com Lucille, uma poeta instável e neurótica; Leo Hertzberg é casado com Erica, uma académica e investigadora, tranquila e serena; uma ligação e uma amizade que se consolida, com o nascimento quase em simultâneo dos filhos dos dois casais, Mark e Matthew; e eis que surge Violet, uma “modelo” artística, investigadora na área da histeria, e musa inspiradora para Bill.
A narrativa de ”Aquilo Que Eu Amava” pode ser subdividida em quatro “temas/histórias”, todas interligadas entre si: uma primeira, sobre a temática da arte contemporânea e da literatura, em que se reflecte e analisa o processo criativo e o sentido estético das diferentes formas de arte, a influência e os critérios subjectivos da crítica e dos críticos e o processo de comercialização, “A arte é misteriosa, mas vender arte talvez seja ainda mais misterioso.” (Pág. 102); uma segunda, sobre a família, relações e relacionamentos complexos entre pais e filhos, vínculos e amizades entre famílias, conflitos geracionais, o perdão e a traição, a negação e as mentiras; uma terceira, sobre o amor e a perda, relações afectuosas, triângulos amorosos, acontecimentos dramáticos, tragédias inexplicáveis, diferentes “tempos” para fazer o “luto”, a dor, psicologicamente esmagadora e intensa; e uma quarta, um thriller psicológico intenso e demolidor nas convicções e nas mentiras, a confiança que se quebra, as traições que se perpetuam, com Mark, o filho de Bill e Lucille, e o jovem artista e performer Teddy Giles, polémico, radical e violento, numa celebração artística brutal e cruel, dominada pela selvajaria e pela hostilidade, numa fúria inflamada, que tornam a parte final de ”Aquilo Que Eu Amava” num verdadeiro “page-turner”.
”Aquilo Que Eu Amava” evoca diferentes sentimentos e diferentes interpretações, num prelúdio para profusas reflexões, numa ambiciosa partilha entre a “história” e a leitura “individual” – mas há um “símbolo” que gostaria de individualizar: a gaveta de Leo – uma pequena gaveta na sua secretária, onde vai acumulando “objectos” do seu passado, ”Aquele era um local onde eu conservava tudo aquilo cuja falta sentia. Não obstante um óbvio lado mórbido, a verdade é que eu não usava a gaveta para chorar a minha sorte ou para outra qualquer tendência para a autocomiseração… A minha gaveta era, sem sombra de dúvida, um sedativo eficaz." (Pág. 265-266)
A escrita de Siri Hustvedt é elegante, com um humor subtil, repleta de referências à psicologia, à psicanálise, a diferentes psicopatias, às artes, com inúmeras especulações ambivalentes sobre a ausência e a amizade, descrições dramáticas e dolorosas, numa narrativa que à medida que vamos avançando, surge-nos um crescente sentimento de mau presságio que vai inundando a prosa, sempre marcada pela contenção e pela indulgência.
”Aquilo Que Eu Amava” é uma excelente obra literária…


Leo sobre a Verdade: ”Reconheci que a verdade é muitas vezes algo de confuso e indistinto, um emaranhado de acidentes e equívocos que convergem para dar uma impressão de inverosimilhança…” (pág. 253)

”As mentiras são sempre duplas: aquilo que dizemos coexiste com o que não dizemos, mas poderíamos ter dito. Quando paramos de mentir, o abismo entre as nossas palavras e as nossas convicções íntimas fecha-se, e, então enveredamos por uma via em que tentamos adequar as palavras que dizemos à linguagem dos nossos pensamentos, ou, pelo menos daqueles pensamentos que consideramos apropriados para consumo alheio.” (Pág. 302 – 303)

”A efemeridade era um elemento essencial do seu encanto.” (Pág. 332)

“Todas as histórias verdadeiras têm vários fins possíveis.” (Pág. 504)

[Shovelmonkey1 · Rating 4 out of 5]

I love Paul Auster. Having discovered him through the joys of the 1001 books list, I've now read almost everything he ever wrote and just when I was getting to the end of his stuff and wondering how I could get my hands on more Paul Auster stuff (short of holding a gun to his head and forcing him to write faster), along comes the literary off-shoot of Auster that is Siri Hustvedt. What!? I hear you yell in supportive indignation for Mrs Auster and her right to be recognised as a successful and talented author (who is not and should not in anyway be perceived as being in the shadow of her husband)... oh come on you've got to admit the similarities in style, references and imagery are pretty close. Jewish male narrator? Tick. Based in NYC. Tick. Artsy and creative writer types? Tick. Even allusions to the same artists ( see William de Kooning in Oracle Night). Yes, I appreciate as husband and wife they will in many ways be exposed to the same social situations, stimuli and inspiration and I'm not criticising. I really loved this book. The best elements were the real sense of impending danger whenever the story line turned to Mark and Teddy. I really felt like Leo was in danger and felt a little bit worried for him. Beyond the day to day storyline, Goya was the real star of this book whether he was meant to be or not. Everyone in the book has a little bit of Goya in him. A little bit creative, a bit wild, a bit restrained and a little bit bloodthirsty and destructive. Was this book really a story about Goya but in some sort of hidden code? Whatever. After reading this book I decided to refresh my memory on Goya's work and yes, he was clearly mad as a box of frogs but that doesn't stop him being brilliant at the same time.

[Carolee Wheeler · Rating 5 out of 5]

Because I've been engaged in a book club with three others--one who likes fiction, one who likes it with reservations, and a third who views it with trepidation--I've been thinking about why I like fiction so much. Modern fiction, classic fiction, whatever--what always draws me is the way human nature is portrayed. What does it mean to be human? Is it sad, broken, lonely, joyful, complicated? Yes.

This book is, for me, the dream of fiction, in that it tells us a story, and transports us, while at the same time tells us something about ourselves and our kind. The protagonists talk about friendship, loss, lust, grief, regret, art, and lies; they are betrayed and left behind and injured just as they are loved and buoyed and nurtured. They are beautiful and imperfect. On every page I found something to love, something tender, bold, or poignant.

I won't bother giving you a synopsis, because you can get that nearly everywhere else. What I will give you is my heartfelt recommendation. Siri Hustvedt places each word, each sentence, with the deliberate deftness of someone who understands the gorgeous twisting combined pain and pleasure of being alive.

[Tooter · Rating 5 out of 5]

Wow!

[Deea · Rating 5 out of 5]

Among other things, Siri Hustvedt questions in this book the concept of contemporary art. Evidently a connoisseur and an admirer, I think she wants to highlight through her imaginary world that there is a difference between real art and what people take for art nowadays: Teddy Giles, “a wanna-be artist” whose portrait is insisted upon in the second half of the book, bases all his projects on people’s reactions to violence and to matters that are only meant to shock, rather than have an artistic value. So, the question would be: is it ethical that violence could be used for artistic effects and why don’t people draw a line between art and violence?

Bill, however, whom we see through Leo's eyes, our narrator in this book, is a real artist. In his art, “nothing is clear. Feelings, ideas shape what’s in front of us”, he says. In his work, he wants to create doubt “because that’s what we’re sure of”. And he does so exquisitely. His first collection of paintings is the element which creates a most powerful liaison between him and Leo, the first buyer of his art, the first person who really acknowledges his talent before everyone else does. Leo is a professional critic of art and the person who is able to render most hidden meanings to Bill’s works of art. In this first collection of paintings, Bill uses Violet, his soon to-be second wife, as a model. The painting which Leo buys is a very eloquent metaphor, like the rest of Bill’s art. It’s called Self Portrait although the painter is a male and the model is a woman. What’s really interesting about it is the fact that the viewer can discover himself in the big shadow depicted in first plan in this painting, fact which suggests that not only the painter can contribute to a work of art, but also the admirer (which is actually true: it's our perspective that matters, the way we see things, rather than how they really are). All Bill’s paintings are full of hidden meanings: they are all trying to tell stories. I remember that at one point he deliberately paints a bruise on the character from one of his paintings and afterwards, when Leo asks him about it, he explains that seeing a bruise there tells a story, the story of how the bruise got there in the first place: was it through violence or maybe because of a random „encounter” with the furniture in one’s room? The viewer cannot know the reason, but he can ask himself how it got there and doubt is therefore created again.

Going through the book, we immerse ourselves completely in the stories and the everyday life of the characters: Leo and Erica and their son Matt; Bill and Lucille and then Bill and Violet and Mark. The author analyses their lives, the lives of their parents and siblings indicating the effect of the past and of the present on Bill’s works of art, on Leo’s life and on the development of their friendship. Hustvedt plays with the idea that „we’re always mixing with other people”. Mixing is a key term which explains „what people rarely talk about, because we define ourselves as isolated, closed bodies who bump up against each other but stay shut. Descartes was wrong. It isn't: I think therefore I am. It’s: I am because you are. That’s Hegel – well, the short version.”. „What matters is that we’re always mixing with other people.”, says Violet who feels that Lucille, Mark’s mum, is there, and every time she spends time with him, she interferes tacitly in everything she does with him and she’s never, not for one moment, leaving them.

The atmosphere surrounding Bill seems to adopt his state of mind and all Bill’s happiness and sadness, his experiences transpire through his work: „The studio had an oppressive, nearly smothering atmosphere, as if Bill’s sadness has leaked into the chairs, the books, the toys, and the empty wine bottles that piled up under the sink. In the paintings of his father, Bill’s sorrow took on a palpable beauty that was executed with rigorous, unflinching hand, but in life his pain was merely depressing.” Bill’s secret dream is to have many, many children, to populate Earth with his children. Violet cannot give him children but the Universe seems to be mocking him: his only child, Mark has so many personalities that having him as a son is like having lots of children, each of his personalities accounting as one.

This review is definitely not going to make much sense to a person who hasn't read the book. I wanted to write a review for this book for so long and since I haven’t managed to do so immediately after finishing the book because of the lack of time, I cannot seem to be able to put my ideas in order and write in a more systematic fashion. I would say however that what I tried to do was putting the most intriguing aspects of the book like random colors on a canvas and commenting on them like critics of art do with their paintings, like Leo does in this book with his comments on „what he loved”. And to quote Hustvedt further, „despite these momentary insights into a life, the canvases and their materials had an abstract quality to them, an ultimate blankness that conveyed the strangeness of mortality itself, a sense that even if every scrap of a life were saved, thrown into a giant mound and then carefully sifted to extract all possible meaning, it would not add up to a life.” (in this case, no matter how complete my review would be, it wouldn't make justice to such a finely crafted book as this one, „it would not add up to this book”).

[Joy D · Rating 5 out of 5]

“The recollections of an older man are different from those of a young man. What seemed vital at forty may lose its significance at seventy. We manufacture stories, after all, from the fleeting sensory material that bombards us at every instant, a fragmented series of pictures, conversations, odors, and the touch of things and people. We delete most of it to live with some semblance of order, and the reshuffling of memory goes on until we die.“

Leo Hertzberg is a professor of art history living in New York with his wife Erica, and son Matthew. Experimental artist Bill Weschler, his wife, Lucille, and their son, Mark, move into the apartment upstairs. Bill and Lucille divorce, and Bill marries his muse, Violet. Each character is an artist, academic, or writer. It begins in 1975 and covers a period of approximately twenty-five years. It is a psychological character study of a small number of people – primarily Leo, Bill, Mark, and Violet – revolving around the New York art scene. It is a book to be experienced, as a plot summary will not do it justice.

The story is told by Leo, looking back on what happened in the lives of these two families. It takes time to set the stage, but once everything is in place, it is an intriguing story that is hard to put down. The characters are strikingly well-drawn. The writing is erudite and expressive. The interactions among the characters are intense. I particularly enjoyed the descriptions of the artistic processes. It is a story of relationships, friendship, grief, art, narcissism, and wishful thinking. It is brilliant. I am adding it to my list of favorites.

“But spectacular lies don’t need to be perfect. They rely less on the liar’s skill than on the listener’s expectations and wishes.”

[Kerry · Rating 5 out of 5]

Best book of 2022--This book has been on my shelf for a while. I bought it used as I had read Hustvedt's, Memories of the Future, which I liked but did not love, yet it had a sticking power so I wanted experience another novel of hers.
This was an outstanding read for me. The novel started with its ending but gave only hints at the events that got it to that point. The intrigue of finding out the full story never left me, and I found I was fully engaged with the two couples and their children and various relationships and pairing that occur along the way.

"Every story we tell about ourselves can only be told in the past tense. It winds backward from where we now stand, no longer actors in the story but its spectators who have chosen to speak."

It is hard when you read a lot not to have one book remind you of another. This book reminded me of another I loved, Crossing to Safety by Wallace Stegner. Like that book this one explores the life and times of two couples.
The story, What I Loved, begins when Leo, an art historian professor in NYC sees a painting at a gallery and ends up purchasing it and making a point to meet its creator. From that beginning the reader meets the artist Bill and begins to know a little of his work. The plot is a recording of the history of the friendship between these two men, the art that surrounds them in the New York Art scene, the women they marry and the two boys, one each that are the product of these two couples.
I had a hard time at first deciding if this novel was largely a character study or plot driven but so much happens and there is such depth in these relationships that I just stopped analyzing and became fully invested in how Hustvedt tell this story, she really does a most interesting tale justice.
There is much here about art and the growth and thoughts expressed in art, about being a parent and how central that is to a couple’s life, grief in its many forms and just the problems of living day to day. We see all of it through the eyes of Leo and how he interrupts what happens to him and those around him.
I could go on and on about the many things I liked in the reading of this book. It surprised me and I was never bored and made time to sit down and read it. I really did love the time spent with it. A bit of a book hangover as I am not sure where to turn next for a read such as this.

[Michela De Bartolo · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Quello che ho amato”, il libro con cui la Hustvedt ha conquistato la notorietà.
La figura di Bill Wechsler mi ha accompagnata, e alternativamente ho provato per lui ammirazione, invidia, tenerezza, compassione. Wechsler è un personaggio carismatico, complesso e inclassificabile come solo le grandi menti possono essere. Chiunque entri in contatto con lui non può fare a meno di restarne colpito, di farsi in qualche modo influenzare. Lui non fa nulla per imporsi nella vita degli altri, ma questa peculiarità gli deriva dal fatto stesso di esistere e di essere in una determinata maniera. Tutti i personaggi del romanzo ruotano intorno a ciò che Bill ha costruito nella sua breve vita, a partire dalla voce narrante, lo storico dell’arte Leo Hertzberg. Ormai sessantenne, con gravi problemi di vista, racconta la vicenda che ha portato alla fusione dei loro due mondi. Leo s’imbatte in un dipinto di Wechsler, un “Autoritratto”. Leo ne rimane affascinato, compra il dipinto e vuole conoscere l’artista per arrivare a comprendere perché abbia eseguito un autoritratto raffigurandosi in un corpo del sesso opposto. Dalla conoscenza dei due scaturirà un’amicizia che durerà fino alla fine dei loro giorni, e che li porterà a intrecciare il loro destino attraverso la passione per l’arte e la condivisione della vita familiare. Una vena di pazzia attraversa la sua famiglia, dal fratello Dan al figlio Mark, e sembra che solo lui riesca a salvarsi, forse grazie proprio alla catarsi artistica. Un romanzo pieno di emozioni ed intrecci , amicizia , rispetto , amore. Le vicende che travolgono entrambe le famiglie portano a l’evoluzione di tutto il romanzo , la preoccupazione per il figlio Mark, causando forse la fine prematura di Bill . Personaggi dalla personalità ben definita che mi lasceranno un segno indelebile .

[David Carrasco · Rating 4 out of 5]

A veces una novela empieza con un cuadro y termina pareciéndose demasiado a una autopsia de la propia vida.

Uno entra mirando colores, formas, nombres de artistas, matrimonios neoyorquinos, conversaciones inteligentes entre gente capaz de decir tres veces seguidas palabras como “performatividad” sin tropezarse, y cuando quiere darse cuenta está metido hasta el cuello en algo bastante más desagradable: la sospecha de que mirar mucho no siempre significa haber visto bien.

Porque, ¿cuánto puede contener una sola vida antes de desbordarse? Todo cuanto amé nace de esa pregunta, pero Siri Hustvedt no la lanza como quien coloca una frase bonita en la entrada del museo. La deja fermentar despacio, hasta que empieza a oler raro.

La novela es una historia sobre el arte, sí, pero conviene no dejarse engañar por esa etiqueta, tan limpia y tan museística. Siri Hustvedt utiliza el mundo artístico de Nueva York como quien enciende una lámpara en una habitación: no para que miremos la bombilla, sino para que veamos mejor las grietas de la pared. El narrador, Leo Hertzberg, historiador del arte, recuerda su amistad con Bill Wechsler, un pintor cuya obra lo fascina desde el primer momento. A partir de ese encuentro se va formando una constelación de afectos: matrimonios, hijos, amantes, pérdidas, conversaciones, mudanzas, lealtades frágiles y pequeños autoengaños domésticos.

Dicho así podría parecer una novela de vidas cruzadas con barniz intelectual. Y bueno, algo de eso hay. Pero reducirla a eso sería como mirar un Rothko y decir: “Bonito rectángulo”. Hay que tener un poco de decencia visual. También sería injusto fingir que al principio uno no teme, durante unas páginas, haber quedado atrapado en una galería de SoHo donde todo el mundo tiene algo inteligentísimo que decir sobre la textura del vacío. Hustvedt juega con ese riesgo. Lo sabe. Y luego, por suerte, deja que la vida irrumpa con los zapatos sucios.

Ahí Hustvedt acierta de lleno: convierte la mirada en un asunto moral. Leo observa cuadros, observa cuerpos, observa gestos, observa a sus amigos, observa su propio pasado. Pero cuanto más mira, menos seguro parece estar de lo que ha visto. Esa es una de las fuerzas secretas de la novela: la distancia entre mirar y comprender. Entre convivir con alguien durante años y descubrir, demasiado tarde, que había zonas enteras de esa persona donde uno apenas había puesto el pie. Hustvedt escribe desde ahí, desde esa mezcla de inteligencia y vulnerabilidad que tiene quien ha ordenado su vida a través del pensamiento y de pronto se encuentra con que el pensamiento no alcanza para sujetar la desgracia.

La novela tiene una primera parte magnífica, casi hipnótica, donde la amistad entre Leo y Bill se va construyendo con una naturalidad extraña, sin grandes declaraciones, a través de afinidades, comidas, visitas al estudio, niños que crecen cerca, mujeres que sostienen más de lo que la narración parece admitir al principio. Hay algo muy hermoso en esa intimidad adulta, ya lejos del estruendo fundacional de la juventud, hecha de vínculos que aparecen cuando uno arrastra matrimonios, neurosis, ambiciones, daños heredados y una biblioteca mental llena de excusas. Bill, Violet, Erica, Lucille y Leo tienen demasiadas zonas ciegas para funcionar como simples piezas de una tesis sobre el arte contemporáneo. Y Hustvedt, cuando está más fina, las acompaña desde cerca: las deja moverse, hablar, equivocarse, protegerse mal.

Después todo se oscurece. Y aquí conviene decirlo sin rodeos: Todo cuanto amé empieza hablando de la amistad, el arte y la vida compartida, y acaba internándose en territorios bastante más turbios, donde la enfermedad, la impostura, la manipulación emocional y cierta forma de vacío moral se sientan a la mesa como si llevaran allí toda la vida. No diré más, porque parte de la experiencia consiste en sentir cómo el libro cambia de temperatura. Al principio parece que estamos ante una elegía intelectual, una de esas novelas donde la gente sufre con libros cerca y frases inteligentes a mano. Luego Hustvedt empieza a apretar, y lo que parecía una historia de vínculos se va convirtiendo en una investigación sobre la identidad, el duelo y la posibilidad —terrible, pero muy humana— de amar una imagen que nosotros mismos hemos ayudado a fabricar. El relato se va desplazando casi sin que nos demos cuenta: una comida, un cuadro, una conversación, una pérdida, y de pronto el arte queda al fondo mientras frente a nosotros se abre el agujero de una familia que ya no sabe exactamente dónde empezó a fallar todo.

Y en el centro de esa zona turbia aparece Mark. Conviene nombrarlo, porque su presencia altera la novela como una mancha de humedad que aparece en una pared demasiado blanca. Mark vuelve inútil enseguida la etiqueta de “hijo problemático”, esa comodidad con la que las familias y las novelas a veces intentan ordenar el desastre. Inquieta porque parece vivir en una relación averiada con la realidad, como si las palabras, los afectos y las consecuencias pertenecieran a sistemas distintos que él pudiera reorganizar a su antojo. Hustvedt lo escribe con una ambigüedad muy bien dosificada: no sabemos hasta qué punto estamos ante una enfermedad, una impostura, una herida mal leída o una mezcla venenosa de todo eso. Ahí la novela toca una fibra bastante desagradable: qué hacemos cuando alguien a quien hemos visto crecer se vuelve ilegible.

Parte de esa inquietud viene de la propia prosa de Hustvedt, que piensa mucho, pero no se queda encerrada en la cabeza. En sus mejores páginas, las ideas nacen del cuerpo, de la memoria, de una escena doméstica, de un objeto, de un cuadro, de una frase dicha cuando nadie sabía todavía que iba a doler años después. Es una prosa cerebral, sí, pero con pulso. A veces puede cargar la mano, sobre todo cuando asoma su vena ensayística y se acerca demasiado a la explicación psicológica o teórica; hay momentos en los que uno siente que la novela confía menos en sus escenas de lo que debería. Pero incluso entonces hay una seriedad de fondo que la salva de la pedantería: Hustvedt pone la inteligencia a trabajar en el único lugar donde de verdad importa, cuando la vida se vuelve insoportable. Ahí la novela deja de parecer inteligente para empezar a serlo.

Esa inteligencia también se nota en la forma en que Hustvedt mira a sus hombres. Leo y Bill son sensibles, cultos, atentos, capaces de amor y de ternura, pero también profundamente torpes ante ciertas formas de dolor ajeno. Su torpeza nace de la vieja costumbre masculina de creer que mirar intensamente equivale a cuidar bien, con la maldad rondando a veces por los bordes, pero sin ocupar siempre el centro. Hustvedt los trata con una mezcla de afecto y lucidez que me parece mucho más devastadora que el ajuste de cuentas. Leo, en particular, es un narrador fascinante porque su tono sereno nunca termina de ocultar la grieta. Cuenta desde una edad avanzada, desde la memoria, desde la pérdida, desde una especie de lucidez tardía que no lo absuelve de nada. Y ahí la novela gana profundidad: en la sensación de que recordar también puede ser una forma de seguir fallando.

Y claro, cada vez que leo a Siri Hustvedt, me pasa algo quizá inevitable: Paul Auster aparece por el rabillo del ojo. En Todo cuanto amé volvió a ocurrirme: la conexión evidente entre ambos está ahí, pero también ese Nueva York de artistas, azares, identidades desplazadas y vidas que se doblan sobre sí mismas. Auster tiende a convertir el azar en una arquitectura casi metafísica; Hustvedt parece más interesada en las consecuencias íntimas de lo que no supimos leer a tiempo. También encontré ecos de Henry James, sobre todo en esa atención a lo que una conciencia percibe, interpreta, distorsiona o se niega a saber. Y por momentos, en la relación entre arte, enfermedad y vida privada, uno puede acordarse de ciertas novelas de Philip Roth, aunque Hustvedt trabaja desde otro lugar: menos volcánico, menos exhibicionista, más atento al temblor soterrado.

Pero lo que más me ha impresionado de Todo cuanto amé es la forma en que Hustvedt acaba llevando el arte, el duelo y la vida compartida hacia un lugar más inquietante: la fragilidad de nuestras interpretaciones. Creemos conocer a quienes amamos porque hemos compartido años, casas, rutinas, desgracias, fotografías, cumpleaños, habitaciones de hospital, conversaciones repetidas hasta el cansancio. Luego llega una grieta, una conducta inexplicable, una revelación, una pérdida, y descubrimos que aquella persona también era un relato que nos habíamos contado para poder seguir viviendo. Hustvedt entiende muy bien esa humillación: la de haber sido inteligentes, sensibles, atentos incluso, y aun así haber visto demasiado poco.

Quizá por eso, en algún momento Leo deja caer una frase que parece tranquila hasta que la novela se encarga de volverla peligrosa: “Siempre he pensado que el amor prospera si se le somete a cierta distancia; que exige una cierta separación respetuosa para perpetuarse”. La frase es preciosa, claro. También es peligrosísima. Leída dentro de esta novela, deja de sonar elegante y empieza a sonar como una coartada íntima. Porque quizá esa distancia que preserva el amor también permite no mirar demasiado, no preguntar demasiado, no abrir ciertas habitaciones hasta que ya huelen a algo que nadie quiere nombrar. Hustvedt tiene esa mala costumbre de tomar una frase aparentemente hermosa y dejarla caer sobre la mesa con el peso de una prueba judicial. Muy amable por su parte.

De ahí viene, me parece, esa tristeza tan rara que deja la novela: una tristeza poco limpia, sin música de violín ni ventana abierta; algo más pegajoso, más adulto, nacido de reconocer que el amor no siempre ilumina. A veces deforma. A veces tapa. A veces nos vuelve indulgentes cuando deberíamos estar atentos, o atentos cuando ya es demasiado tarde. Y aun así, seguimos amando, porque tampoco parece que tengamos un plan mejor. Somos así de brillantes.

Todo cuanto amé es una novela exigente, envolvente, a ratos dolorosa, que pide una lectura pausada porque va ganando fuerza por acumulación: una amistad, una obra de arte, un matrimonio, un hijo, una ausencia, una sospecha, otra sospecha, y de pronto la vida entera convertida en una sala mal iluminada donde cada cuadro parece, en realidad, mirarnos a nosotros.

Siri Hustvedt ha escrito una novela que trabaja sobre esa grieta entre los hechos y la versión que nos contamos para sobrevivirlos. Quiere saber qué demonios creímos que estaba pasando mientras pasaba. Quiere saber cuánto amor, cuánta ceguera, cuánta memoria y cuánta mentira caben en una vida antes de que alguien tenga la mala educación de llamar a eso verdad.

Y al cerrar el libro, uno entiende que la pregunta ha bajado de la pared y se ha sentado a la mesa.

DC

[Oscar · Rating 4 out of 5]

'Todo cuanto amé', de Siri Hustvedt, es una de las novelas más inteligentes que he leído últimamente. ¿Cómo calificar un libro de inteligente, por su erudición, por su estructura narrativa, por las ideas y pensamientos que desarrolla, por la trama...? Sin duda, 'Todo cuanto amé' cumple todos estos requisitos y algunos más.

¿De qué trata? Es una historia de amor, como bien indica el título, pero no sólo de amor entre personas, también de amor por el arte y la creación. Leo es un profesor de historia del arte que rememora parte de su vida cuando casi es un anciano. Un buen día encuentra por casualidad cinco cartas en el interior de un libro que perteneció a su buen amigo Bill Wechler, un pintor al que conoció hace años, cuando compró uno de sus primeros cuadros. Es entonces cuando decide escribir su historia, tanto la suya propia, como la de su mujer Erica, también proferora, como la de Bill y sus mujeres, Lucille, poetisa, y Violet, modelo del artista y autora de las cartas. Pero esto no es todo, ya que un trágico suceso desencadenará los acontecimientos en ambas familias, y desvelará oscuros secretos.

Siri Hustvedt tiene una prosa de gran sensibilidad, agudeza y sabiduría, que te va calando poco a poco hasta que te absorbe por completo, y que descubrí en su último y maravilloso libro, 'Elegía para un americano'. En 'Todo cuanto amé', la historia se desarrolla despaciosamente, sin prisas, y aún así hay veces que vuelves atrás para releer alguna frase de gran profundidad. No exagero si afirmo que Siri Hustvedt es una grandísima escritora.

[Mark · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is a tremendous book, and I was sorry that it had to end. I would appreciate a sequel, because Hustvedt has given so much intricacy to her characters; it would be wonderful to find out what happens to them. She mixes art, both modern and classical, into a novel with rich themes such as art's immortal quality juxtaposed with our mortal inevitability. (Her immense knowledge is not boastful like Byatt's, though.) She examines the many facets of love, unrequited love being the most painfully sublime. Her characters love deeply, palpably. The Jewish holocaust lurks in the background, all of those needless deaths, and it is echoed in similar ways in the events here. This book reminded me of the books of Emile Zola, of Isaac Bashevis Singer, and of Henry James, all great masters in my mind, but updated to the present by Hustvedt's book. The inevitable tragedies in this book are honest, not at all contrived, part of the way life really happens. But the way she examines the tragedies makes this not only a novel about art but more so, it makes it a novel that is itself a work of art. Now, please excuse me while I go find her other novels and eagerly await the one that is in press for release in 2008.

[Rebecca · Rating 4 out of 5]

This 2003 novel could just as well have been titled “What I Lost,” which might be truer to its elegiac tone. Narrated by Professor Leo Hertzberg and set between the 1970s and 1990s, it’s about two New York City couples – academics and artists – and the losses they suffer over the years. With themes of modern art, perspective, memory, separation and varieties of mental illness, it asks to what extent we can ever know other people or use replacements to fill the gaps left by who and what is missing. Read it if you’ve enjoyed The Suicide of Claire Bishop by Carmiel Banasky, other books by Siri Hustvedt, or anything by Howard Norman. My favorite lines about love were “I often thought of our marriage as one long conversation” and “love thrives on a certain kind of distance … it requires an awed separateness to continue.”

Reviewed with five other “love” titles for a Valentine’s-themed post on my blog, Bookish Beck.

[Chrissie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Now I have finished it. Excellent! Superb! Who should read it? Well, you sort of have to like cerebral books. Absolutely never dull, never boring. Always something that gets you thinking. Kirkus say that Hustvedt "writes spectacular sentences that embody the American experience in brilliantly specific physical imagery." I cannot expresss this better than they do.

There is so much in this book - add adolescence, a superb description that reflects what we have all been through. There is so much to think about. One has to stop reading to "digest" it. One minute I am in total support and then it flips and I say, no, no way do I agree with this or perhaps do I? Through it all your thoughts run non-stop.

Another thought about this book - love and sex and life are gorgeously intertwined; intellectually, emotionally and beautifully limned

Wonderfully intriguing characters. Hustvedt's description of Bill's artwork is so wonderful that it seems as magical as the real thing. I wish they existed. I wish I too could see and touch them. And the character analysis is marvelous. Here is a direct quote of a conversation occurring between father(Leo) and his young son(Matt):

"That was a funny man," Matt said to me on the street as he took my hand.
"Yes," I said(Leo). He's funny, but you know he can't help the way he looks."
"But he talks funny too, Dad." Matt stopped talking and I waited. I could see that he was thinking hard. My son thought with his face in those days. His eyes narrowed. He screwed up his nose and tightened his mouth. After several seconds he said,"He talks like me when I am pretending." Matt deepened his voice, "Like this - I'm Spiderman."
I stared down at Matthew. "Well you're right, Matt" I said. "He is pretending."
"But who is he pretending to be?" Matt asked.
"Himself," I said.

I love the integrity that Hustvedt acknowledges in the young son Matt.

Two books - both having 5 stars - can be so very different. Isn't that what makes literature so marvelous?!

The author is born in the US. Does anybody know if she has Norwegian ancestors? The name sounds Norwegian.

[merixien · Rating 5 out of 5]

Benim için oldukça farklı bir okuma deneyimiydi. Bir yandan kitabı okurken bir yandan da Paul Auster ile Siri Hustvedt çiftinin hayatındaki olayların peşine düştüm.

Hikaye 1970'lerin ortalarından milenyuma uzanan iki adamın aralarındaki dostluğun ailelerini de içine alarak gelişmesi ve değişimlerini anlatıyor. Çok başarılı bir roman à clef örneği aslında. Kitabı takip ederken ipuçlarında da Siri Hustvedt'in, Paul Auster'ın ve Lydia Davis'in izlerini topluyorsunuz. Açıkcası bu kadar sarsılmayı beklemiyordum. "Sevdiklerim" başlığının altındaki imanın her daim iyiliğe ve huzura işaret olmadığını beklemediğim bir şekilde yüzüme vurdu. Bu arada tam da Paul Auster'ın New York Üçlemesi üzerine okuduğum için mi böyle bir şey hissettim bilmiyorum ama Siri Hustvedt'in yazım stili çok fazla Auster anımsatıyor. Bunun yanında ise kitabı bir erkeğin gözünden anlatması ve bunu yadsımadan okuyabilmeniz çok hoşuma gitti. Son olarak kitabın ana karakterinin kim olduğu kitabın her bölümünde değişiyor adeta, bu şekilde değişken bir zeminde heyecanı bu kadar stabil tutabilmesi çok iyiydi.

Kitap üzerine söylemek istediğim çok fazla şey var aslında, hatta çok sevdiğim bir kitaptaki kurgunun gerçeğe dönüşmesini okumanın heyecanı üzerine uzun uzun anlatmak istediklerim var. Lakin o kitabın ismini verdiğim anda bütün gizem dağılıp kitabın tadı kaçacağı için susuyorum. Umarım Can yayınları bu kitabı yakın zamanda yeniden yayın programına alır. Çok beğendim.

Son olarak Lydia Davis, genel yapısı itibariyle hepimizin malumu iken bu kitap üzerine sessizliğini nasıl korudu aşırı merak ediyorum.

[HajarRead · Rating 4 out of 5]

Angoissant, angoissant, angoissant... Jamais lu un roman pareil sur la folie, un sentiment très désagréable pendant les cinquante dernières pages. Plein de vérité glaçante. Je garderai un mauvais souvenir de cette angoisse dans laquelle il m’a plongée et de cet univers impur.

[Gemma · Rating 5 out of 5]

I consider this book to be truly wonderful. My fellow London commuters clearly thought I was crazy as I cried over passages on a number of trains. I think the past tense in the title succinctly communicates the loss dealt with by Hustvedt.

I didn't initially like the descriptions of the art installations, and had difficulty visualising them. As I progressed through the novel I began to enjoy them more.

[Kelly · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is a book, like most amazing books, which is about how exhausting and glorious and terrible it is to live. Especially if you are the one who lives.

A new favorite. I soak in her prose, whether I planned to or not.

More soon.

[Neil · Rating 4 out of 5]

In this moving story, a man who once wrote a book called "A Brief History of Seeing in Western Painting" but who is now older and is, ironically, losing his eyesight looks back on his life. Even in just that short summary, there are layers of seeing, losing sight and looking back. Hustvedt’s book plays with these kinds of layers and perceptions.

The story focuses on our narrator, Leo Hertzberg, his wife, Erica, their son, Matthew and the family of Bill Weschler. I’m deliberately not saying much about Bill’s family as I don’t want to accidentally post spoilers. Leo recounts to us the lives of his and Bill’s families as they go from young adults to old people. There is tragedy, there is love and, being Siri Hustvedt, there is art and philosophy.

The books consists of three long chapters. These chapters are very different from one another. In fact, I wasn’t sure how I was going to feel about this book as I read the first chapter. Bill is an artist and Leo’s friendship with him begins when he buys one of Bill’s paintings. Not a lot really happens in this first section, but we do learn a lot about Leo and his family and about Bill and his family. At this stage, I have to admit I wasn’t bowled over by the book although I was intrigued as to where it was heading. And I always enjoy reading Hustvedt's descriptions of art works. I often catch myself thinking "I'd like to go to see that one" and then remembering they are made up.

Tragedy strikes in chapter 2 and this chapter becomes a very moving portrayal of grief. Each character has to come to terms with the impact of tragedy with some of them clearly more affected than others. All of them have to work out how to live in a world that is changed by a single event.

Then, in the third chapter, the book really takes off. Bill has a son called Mark who will, I think, be a character who I will not forget for a long time. His actions disrupt all those around him and he becomes a central puzzle of the book. Is he mad, bad or something else? Whatever he is, he is brilliantly brought to life by Hustvedt. As, in fact, are all the other characters, but I have a feeling it is Mark who will stay with me for the longest time.

The drama of the story is set against the New York art scene. There is a lot in this book about perception of art (a common theme in Hustvedt’s books, I think, although this is only the third one I have read). I’m struggling to articulate something about Bill’s art (he paints and sculpts and places the pictures and sculptures in boxes or behind doors) and Mark’s life. It’s almost like Mark lives out something his father might have created, but Mark shows us the hidden elements that come from him being human and not just a work of art. I need to think about this a bit more. I read a review in The Guardian that says: "She (Hustvedt) is interested in the gap between the shared story and the individual reading." And it is almost as if Bill’s art is the individual reading and Mark’s life is the shared story. I really do need to think on that, though, as it could be complete rubbish!

Leo, our narrator, has a drawer in which he stores mementos. At one point, he puts something new in the drawer and records: "I had never put anything to remind me of Bill and Violet in the drawer before that, and I understood why. It was a place to record what I missed." Clearly, the drawer is a metaphor for the title of the book. Leo has a game he plays to help him process some of his grief or confusion. He moves the objects in the drawer around into different configurations. I was going to include a quote about this, but then I realised it gives away two key events in the story! Suffice to say, he uses different principles to arrange the objects and has to have a good reason for why he does something, for a connection that justifies one object being next to another. It helps him process what is happening to people around him and is a recurring motif in the book.

It is a moving story filled with astute observations. I would give it 5 stars except that I didn’t quite know whether I liked the first chapter so much. There is nothing about that first chapter that would make me consider stopping reading at any point, but it was enough to make me wonder how much I was going to like the book. Chapters 2 and 3 are full of emotion and great story-telling.

[reading is my hustle · Rating 1 out of 5]

exploitation:
noun
1. the action or fact of treating someone unfairly in order to benefit their work

I came to this book because of the NYT's piece on Daniel Auster after he died of a drug overdose & was charged in the death of his 10 month old daughter. Daniel Auster is the son of Paul Auster & Lydia Davis now divorced. Paul Auster later married Siri Hustvedt who is Daniel's cruel stepmother. In this "novel" Hustvedt writes about Daniel's life & events mirroring their family life. What I Loved is a breathtaking violation of Daniel's privacy. Daniel plead guilty to stealing money & had an unclear role in the murder of Angel Melendez by Michael Alig & Robert Riggs. All met & were part of early rave culture just as "Mark" is in this novel. Immediately after finishing this faction novel I found a review in the Observer that summarizes the overlap between fact & fiction. Hustvedt refuses to talk about it when asked directly about her "emotional autobiography" or through her spokesperson "no comment." She wants to write about Daniel & share painful details of his life (while writing only the best parts about their part (the character's Violet & Bill are stand ins for Siri & Paul). It's unconscionable. She takes aim at Daniel & his mom Lydia Davis (Lucille's character) & it is savage & mean. I felt dirty having read her unfiltered thoughts on both. But wait. It turns out Auster has done the same in his novel Oracle Night. The narrator named Trause (anagram for Auster) tells the story of his son who is a drug addict & intimidates his stepmom. Read the interviews or google the Observer review. Auster & Hustvedt are monsters. Daniel Auster led a troubled life that ended in tragedy. His life seemed to be but fodder for his dad & stepmom to use in their work. It's a shame because both are gifted authors & the writing in this one is excellent.