3.5 stars
If you’re suffering from a bad relationship or breakup and want some literary companionship (though not uplift), Megan Mayhew Bergman’s How Strange a Season is just for you. In this collection of stories, plus a novella, Bergman focuses on women (and a man and two children in the novella) whose lives are careening toward, if not into, an emotional abyss. It’s pretty grim, as these samples underscore:
-- It’s amazing how broken lovers can conjure years of hurt and let it hang there, invisible, in a room between them. How two people who are supposed to love each other best destroy one another, day after day, and with such skill.
-- Something I hate about myself: my needful heart. I’ve tried a hundred ways to disguise and disfigure it: wearing all black, cutting my bangs crooked like the truly artistic women do, feigning disinterest in the world around me. But it beats on its own program.
-- There was the house as her mother had left it—honest. The pink, gelatinous vibrator on the bed stand. The bottle of Lexapro. That was a strange and important gift, to know that the world was as fucked-up and lonely as it seemed. That a woman gathered pain and taught herself to bear it along the way.
In tightly focusing on events and situations that undo her characters’ ordered lives, Bergman’s stories are much stronger than her novella, which plots along, a sort of plantation un-romance with predictable situations and outcomes. The stories, on the other hand, are almost minimalist in portraying the mostly quiet and hidden ways that women suffer in relationships and/or their aftermath, following their trials and tribulations in getting through the day when they have no idea how they are going to or even if they want to. Bergman’s prose likewise tends toward the minimalist, with occasional outbursts of grandiloquence, usually when a character comes to some piercing realization of her fractured life.
I read one commentator who said she hoped Bergman would write a novel. My response: be careful what you wish for.