The Lovely Bones by Ann Seabold

I suppose we often find beauty and hope in places where we would least expect them. Certainly, the rape and murder of a young girl is not a place where we would look for light or wisdom or hope. And yet we know from the first lines of Ann Sebold’s novel, The Lovely Bones, that the narrator, the voice that will inform and guide us through the rest of the book, is that of a fourteen year old girl who was murdered in 1973.

I, at least, am not a person who would usually even bother to pick up a book narrated by a dead person. Unlike many I know who like to believe that the body is a prison, a limitation, and that our real selves will somehow escape once we are unfettered from the organic material that makes us up, I think that we are incredibly fortunate to be embodied consciousness, to be animals among animals. I believe we can think because we have brains, can talk because we have a tongue and mouth and breathe; in short, I believe our bodies are ourselves, and that even if there were some sort of heaven, we would not be able to be the beings that we really are were we to go there. Indeed, I think those who talk of and yearn for escape from the body into some sort of non-earthly paradise are showing a kind of contempt for the very beings we are, for the very condition we find ourselves in.

And yet, once I began to read this novel (with the narrator situated somewhere between earth and heaven), I could not put it down, and I find that I have to agree with the raves on the jacket cover—that this is a beautiful book, somehow even profound and revelatory.

Let me begin by quoting a kind of prefatory paragraph, and then attempt to explain why this is such a good book.

Inside the snow globe on my father’s desk, there was a penguin wearing a red-and-white-striped scarf. When I was little my father would pull me into his lap and reach for the snow globe. He would turn it over, letting all the snow collect on the top, then quickly invert it. The two of us watched the snowfall gently around the penguin. The penguin was alone in there, I thought, and I worried for him. When I told my father this, he said, ‘Don’t worry, Susie; he has a nice life. He’s trapped in a perfect world.’

And so, I suppose, we are to think of Susie, trapped in a nice ‘heavenly’ life—able to see her family, her friends, even in some very slight and marginal ways to interact with them, and yet isolated from them by her own death. At first this book and Susie’s condition seem to be simply contrivances for a sort of mystery; with her help and her ability to subtly guide her family, the murderer will be found and brought to justice. So, Susie is a sort of heavenly sleuth.

Instead of a mystery and a search for justice, however, I think this book is really about how deaths, especially violent ones, affect the living—how the lives of the living are suddenly and completely transformed by the death. This is not really a book about transcending death or a story about the marvels of heaven; Susie’s death simply allows her to be a fly-on-the-wall narrator of how her death impacts the living.

Susie has a brilliant younger sister and a much younger brother, and these two children are as certainly victims of her murderer as Susie herself. Their father, driven nearly insane by the death of his oldest child, is utterly and completely preoccupied with the task of exposing her murderer—so absorbed by Susie’s death that he unintentionally turns away from his living wife and children. Lindsey, the sister, feeling intense guilt that she is alive while her sister is dead, identifies with her father and his relentless search. Neither Lindsey nor her father seem to have any understanding of the existential turmoil of the mother or of her desperate attempts to move beyond the death and to find meaning for the living.

Quite apart from chronicling the affects of her death on her friends and family, Susie’s narration of the book allows Sebold to talk about how everyday life is a kind of battlefield for girls and women, with neither big cities nor small towns being places that are safe for girls and women to walk. And I have no doubt that this is one of the main reasons that Sebold wrote this book. But beyond that warning and her own consternation about how the world we live in has become such a dangerous one, she seems to want her readers to understand how guilt and grief and even the desire for vindication or retribution can be paths into labyrinths of self-absorption. It may seem that intense love for a lost one is anything but absorption with the self, but it can absent one from the cares and concerns and obligations of this life as certainly as selfishness or ambition.

Eventually, we find that Susie is not quite in heaven, but instead in a kind of limbo between heaven and earth, trying to shepard her family to some new state of being that will allow forgetfulness, even joy and happiness in spite of her tragic death. “…I was beginning to wonder if this had been what I’d been waiting for, for my family to come home, not to me anymore but to one another with me gone.” While loving her father and his ceaseless struggles to expose the man who murdered her, she begins to see how that struggle causes him to abandon his living children and his wife, just as grief and loss cause her mother to more literally abandon Susie’s ghostly father and her living children.

Of course, there are ways in which the book is a mystery, and I’m not about to give away the twists and turns of plot that lead finally to a kind of resolution. Many, even most, of the readers I have talked to about this book have told me that they loved the first half, but were less enthusiastic about the second half. I think that has to do with a basic difficulty in writing, namely the attempt authors make to cover too much time, to tie up all loose ends, to finish the stories of all the main characters. The first half of the book covers quite a short space of time, a few days, a few weeks, at most a very few months; the second half tries to take us quickly forward a decade and more. We feel rushed, sense that the author feels rushed as well. Better to have told us less, to have settled for incompleteness and the uncertainty of life.

Still, flawed or not, this is a very good book, and certainly takes us beyond vindictiveness and loss. In Susie’s words:

These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence: the connections—sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent—that happened after I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it. The events that my death wrought were merely the bones of a body that would become whole at some unpredictable time in the future. The price of what I came to see as this miraculous body had been my life. My father looked at the daughter who was standing there in front of him. The shadow daughter was gone.

Oleander, Jacaranda: A Childhood Perceived by Penelopy Lively

I want to talk to you this morning about two authors and two books. What they have in common is that they are both British, both brilliant, both writing about events during and slightly after World War II, and (perhaps the most relevant commonality) both having written books that I happened to read lately in close succession. The two authors are Penelope Lively and Ian McEwan. Lively’s book is a memoir entitled Oleander, Jacaranda: A Childhood Perceived, and McEwan’s an early novel of his, The Innocent. I consider these two writers to be literary giants of the past fifty years; both write about lived time in ways that I find profound and extraordinary.

It may be that only those of you who already have a passion for Lively will really enjoy her autobiographical account of the first twelve years of her life growing up in Cairo. It is not what you would call a page-turner, no twists of plot nor adventure, simply an adult woman trying to put together a few crystalline images from her past. I am a reader who has a deep fascination for Lively’s writing, and I read this little book wanting to know just how she could have become such an incredible writer with such a deep understanding of how we humans live in the past, present, and future all at once.

Lively, like Immanuel Kant and many thinkers since, realizes that memory is a synthetic faculty rather than a strictly reproductive one. She understands that the mind is not so much a recorder and camera as it is a story-teller, a fabricator, and when telling stories about childhood, a story-teller that has to spin her tale from disparate shards of evidence. In her words:

I have tried to recover something of the anarchic vision of childhood—in so far as any of us can do such a thing—and use this as the vehicle for a reflection on the way in which children perceive. I believe that the experience of childhood is irretrievable. All that remains, for any of us, is a headful of brilliant frozen moments, already dangerously distorted by the wisdoms of maturity.

Lively was born in 1933, and her narrative covers only her first twelve years growing up in Egypt plus a handful of memories from 1945 when she returns finally to England. For someone as ignorant of history and geography as I, Lively’s account of Cairo, Alexandria, and the multifarious life-forms of the Nile is both informative and mind-boggling. She recalls for us a land populated by a rich juxtaposition of Greeks, French, Italians, British, Maltese, Lebanese, Syrian, and Turks, and all seen through the eyes of a child, though informed by the acute mind of an adult looking back.

But while Lively does want to tell her readers something about how the war impacted Cairo and the desert surrounding it, as well as a good bit about the long history of conquest and occupation by so many different powers, her primary concern is to talk about how children perceive, and how the purity of childhood perception is lost to us as adults. Again in her words:

No thought at all here, just observation—the young child’s ability to focus entirely on the moment, to direct attention upon the here and now, without the intrusion of reflection or of anticipation. It is also the Wordsworthian vision of the physical world: the splendor in the grass. And, especially, Virginia Woolf’s creation of the child’s-eye-view. A way of seeing that is almost lost in adult life. You can stare, you can observe—but within the head there is now the unstoppable obscuring onward rush of things. It is no longer possible simply to see, without the accompanying internal din of meditation.

Just as in her masterpiece, Moon Tiger, when Lively describes so wonderfully and tantalizingly the life of an old woman, near death in a care facility, her mind alive finally only to the past, the present irrelevant, in this kaleidoscopic memoir we experience life through the eyes of a child captured as it were under glass. Her ability to deal with lived time simply stuns me.

... continue to Ian McEwan's The Innocent ...

The Innocent by Ian McEwan

Ian McEwan [like Penelope Lively in Oleander, Jacaranda: A Childhood Perceived] also takes us to the past, but in this intricate little novel we see the divided Berlin of the 50’s as seen through the eyes of a young British man caught up in a joint project of England and America to spy on their Russian counterparts. McEwan uses a historical fact for the kernel of his storyline—an audacious and brazen attempt to tunnel under Berlin into the Russian controlled Eastern sector for the purposes of tapping Russian phone lines. And while the spy-story and its convoluted subplots occupy a good bit of the novel, I see it much more as a love story between the innocent Brit and a slightly older and much less innocent German woman. There is no doubt that the novel is at least partly about the arrogance of the American forces in Berlin and the duplicity of their dealings even with their supposed British allies, but it is also the story of a young man coming of age rather late in life and trying to learn how to love and trust.

McEwan is quite obviously interested in the very concept of innocence and its close neighbor, ignorance. His hero, Leonard Marnham, is an innocent in so many ways. An employee of the Post Office, he suddenly finds himself in Berlin, using his knowledge of tape recorders and telephones to help Americans spy on Russians. And he is a virgin not only to spying, but also to sex. Not so surprising, perhaps, for a twenty-five year old man in 1955, but he is profoundly naïve as well as being a virgin. The German woman whom he meets and falls in love with is only slightly older at thirty, but she has already been married and has already learned a lot about the brutality of many men. And although Leonard is instantly alarmed and ashamed when he inadvertently admits his ‘condition’ to Marie, she is heartened by it. Here is a man who can be taught—who will not assume that he already knows all there is to know about women and sex, and who might turn out to be gentle as well as worthy of trust.

And so for quite sometime, this book appears simply to be a sweet and rather lovely love story with the reader pulling for this couple to maintain and nurture their love. Of course, McEwan never lets the reader off easily. There are twists and turns to this plot that I would never give away even if I had the time to do so. Instead, I will simply remind readers unused to McEwan that he can and does often write about events that are alarming, even gruesome. Let me say simply that this is not a Hollywood love story, so readers should beware.

What continues to intrigue me about McEwan is his incredible ability to describe in great detail a moment or a day in a life, and to catch the reader up in the detail. One always knows when reading him that he has done his homework and that his meticulous descriptions are lucid and informed.

I recommend both of these books to you, and more importantly, both of these authors. They create feasts for their readers, and I am so happy to be sitting at their tables. I have been talking about Penelope Lively’s Oleander, Jacranda: A Childhood Perceived and Ian McEwan’s The Innocent.