“‘Do you remember that day right before she died, when Granny K told us there were two moments at the gate in every life?’
Evie nodded. ‘One at the beginning.’
‘And one in the middle.’
It had been her last summer. They had filled the golf cart with pillows from the Katherine and driven her up to the house, carrying her through the door into the second parlor, where they had fixed a bed onto which Uncle Dickie had carefully, gently, set her down. And she lay there, all the windows open to the air and facing down the lawn – through the foggy mornings, the sunny days, the screen door opening and shutting, all of them calling out around the house, coming in to sit beside her. It had been one of those mornings she had pulled the cousins in, pointed them to the chairs at the foot of the bed, and told them about those gates…”
- Sarah Blake, The Guest Book
In the opening, two-page teaser of Sarah Blake’s The Guest Book, a smug, new-monied day-sailor takes his companions past Crockett’s Island, off the coast of Maine. The island belonged to the Milton family, he explains. The Milton family of old-money investment house fame. Someone died there, he adds portentiously. Someone drowned.
As prologues go, this is pretty damn effective. Once I read it, I was compelled to keep reading.
Based on that tease, I assumed The Guest Book would be a lush, involving tale of the loves, betrayals, buried sins, and ultimate downfall of a super-rich family. I thought it would be the kind of novel where you get to simultaneously worship and despise the Masters of the Universe; the kind of book you might read on the beach, or read while dreaming of the beach, and of lobsters, and of playing croquet while wearing a white cable knit sweater.
I was wrong.
And if that’s what you’re looking for, stop. Put down your G & T and just stop.
The Guest Book is not here to entertain you, or carry you away, or let you experience a bit of schadenfreude against your social betters, while also imagining a pot of mussels floating in butter. No, in the end, it is here to lecture you. It is here to discuss themes; it is here to say something about America.
Blake’s novel encompasses three generations of the Milton family and their relationship to Crockett Island (it is probably no mistake that the Milton’s share a surname with the author of Paradise Lost). These three generations exist in two separate timelines. The first begins in the 1930s, with Ogden and Kitty, and their children: Moss, Evelyn, and Joan. This timeline moves forward in hurry, taking big chronological leaps in order to arrive at a climatic pre-wedding party held on Crockett’s Island in 1959.
The second timeline takes place in the present day, and is focused on Evie, the daughter of Joan Milton.
When we meet Evie Milton, she is a feminist historian on the downslope of her career. She has two big problems in her life, which aren’t really problems at all, unless you inhabit a certain economic stratum. First, she finds her previous work being outflanked on the left, discarded as insufficiently doctrinaire (in an uncooked sub-subplot that is hardly addressed once introduced). Second, she is worried about losing the Island, which she owns in part along with several of her cousins. The trust devoted to maintaining the property is running out, and Evie is faced with the horrendous possibility that they will have to sell it and split $3.5 million.
Evie’s husband, also a historian, despises the Milton clan, and in several scenes of acute psychological abuse (which is passed off as righteousness), he essentially gaslights her for the sin of loving her grandparents.
This sets Evie down the path of exploring her family’s past, uncovering the secrets of the Milton’s wealth and legacy, and coming to terms with their place in the modern world.
The two different timelines are structured so as to inform each other. As Evie is pulling on the threads in the present, we are given answers – eventually – in the past. While this is not a bad idea in concept, its execution is lacking. The problem is that many of the mysteries can only be solved by knowing the internal thoughts and motivations of the characters. As the reader, we are privy to this knowledge, because Blake writes in an omniscient, third-person voice. Evie, though, cannot possibly learn this information, so her search for clues is doomed from the start (requiring an eleventh hour deus ex explainer). Thus, there is a striking lack of tension in the present-day timeline. It is, in fact, rather redundant, as significant portions follow Evie discovering what we’ve already been told.
Blake is a very talented writer. There are some beautiful scenes, especially in term of descriptions. There were moments when I could hear the pock of a tennis ball, when I could feel the salt breeze as we sailed around the coast.
The descriptions, though, are really all we have. In nearly 500 pages, nothing much really happens, save for the microscopically-detailed 1959 party on which so much of the story turns. Most of the narrative consists of small groups of people in a room having really fraught, self-important conversations, filled with the kind of “big ideas” and “deep insights” you might have experienced the first time you got high in college.
Blake clearly has serious ideas she wants to impart. Far be it from me to criticize that. I will, however, criticize the manner in which she undertakes to present those ideas.
Specifically, Blake gives us the characters of Len Levy and Reg Pauling. Len is Jewish, and though he has been hired by Ogden Milton, he is convinced that Ogden supported the Nazis in World War II. Reg is black, and though he has no particular grievance against the Miltons, he believes that their inherent aversion towards upheaval and change stands in the way of social progress.
The result is a series of uninspired dialectics that are neither profound nor effective. Despite being an epic-sized novel, Blake seems unable to find the space to show, rather than tell. Rather than demonstrating the Milton’s impact on America, for good or ill, she relies on a series of subpar wannabe-TED Talks.
The ineffectiveness of these sermons is a function of the general confusion in the message. Reg and Len provide a postmodernist/structuralist critique of history, which is then refuted by what we know about the Milton family members as individuals. For example, Len is convinced of Ogden’s pre-WWII Nazi ties, and we are supposed to agree with him and be shocked. However, Blake also puts us squarely inside the head of Ogden, and we know that he is not a bad person. Flawed, perhaps, but far from evil.
And that’s the thing: even though half the characters in the book spend all their time attacking the Miltons, Blake never gives us any evidence that they are other than fundamentally decent human beings.
(In an unexpected twist, I found myself siding with the blue-blooded, Harvard-matriculated, lobster-fed Island owners, which is not a position I expected to inhabit).
On the other hand, Reg Pauling isn’t given any kind of interior life. He seems to have no purpose save to deliver sharp lessons to clueless white folk. To be sure, he may be imbued with moral rightness, but because he is not so much a character as a mouthpiece, the lesson falls flat.
I picked up The Guest Book with some vague notion that it might be a good summer read. Big and sprawling and maybe even a little fun. It is, instead, big and dreary and surprisingly dull. The biggest knock against it, though, is that it badly confuses good intentions and high ideals with actual substance.