I’ve always loved Jonathan Franzen’s fiction, but Crossroads is on a whole other level, even from contemporary classics like The Corrections and Freedom.
It’s one of the most absorbing and probing analyses of the American family that I’ve ever read. And while it’s the first part of a projected trilogy – called, perhaps tongue in cheek, A Key To All Mythologies (a reference to Casaubon’s incomplete opus in Middlemarch) – this novel stands on its own as an intriguing and penetrating look into some themes and obsessions that have helped shape America in the last half a century.
Franzen eschews plot for a deep dive into one family in the early 70s. It’s two days before Christmas in 1971, and each member of the Hildebrandt family is at a crossroads in his or her life.
• Family head Russ is an associate pastor at a church outside Chicago. Still smarting from a situation with a junior colleague that crushed his ego a few years earlier, he’s lusting after a parishioner, a recent widow, who’s joined the church.
• Russ’s wife, Marion, knows or suspects what he’s doing. But she’s got her own secrets, which go back decades, some of which she’s told to her psychiatrist, whom nobody knows about.
• Oldest son Clem is away at university, and has a girlfriend, but he’s just made a rash decision that will affect his life – and probably devastate his parents – forever.
• Clem’s favourite family member, Becky, is one of the most popular girls at high school, and she’s looking forward to university and perhaps a trip to Europe in the summer before college begins. But she’s also caught the eye of a handsome folk singer who plays at the club where she works part-time.
• Second-oldest son Perry is a genius but something of a social outsider – until, that is, he joins a youth group at his father’s church. But he’s also a low-level drug dealer, and his experimentation with other substances will either bring him to another level of consciousness or help fuck up his mind.
• The youngest, Judson, is a bright, handsome nine-year-old kid. But he’s the only Hildebrandt family member whose POV we don’t have access to.
Franzen gets incredibly deep into these people’s lives and minds, against the backdrop of the Vietnam War and the emergence of the counterculture. They’re all dealing in some way with how to live a good and honourable life. But they’re flawed, blinded by pride, lust, anger, guilt and vanity. Even their acts of charity – be it donating things to inner city churches, building schools for Navajos in the 1940s or simply talking to less popular kids in high school – are complicated by ulterior motives.
Despite the line-by-line, page-by-page brilliance of the book, at times I found myself overwhelmed by the intensity of the writing and the unsparing observations. If I have one issue with the book, it’s that it needs some occasional comic relief. There are funny lines – often from Perry’s skewed perspective – but they come in the second half of a very long novel.
I love how Franzen tells the story. If there are gaps in someone’s narrative, you may have to wait until another character’s chapter to fill them in. In the first half, Marion has an extremely long chapter in which we dig far, far back into her history. I wondered why Russ didn’t receive similar treatment, but Franzen makes you wait. When his hefty backstory comes, it will change how you feel about him and perhaps make you think differently about how he behaves at the beginning of the book.
Will we follow these characters into the next two books? Or will there be others? The idea of ecological destruction crops up subtly, and that is a theme Franzen has dealt with in some of his fiction and a lot of his non-fiction. And I imagine Franzen will look at the rise of the religious right in the 80s and 90s, as well as the current persistent division between red and blue states.
One thing is clear, however. I was hoping that Franzen would stick his landing. After so much delving into misery and pain, so much striving after things for morally questionable reasons, I was hoping that he would offer up something transcendent, a moment or two of grace and redemption.
He does.