Meditating in Middlesex
Jeffrey Eugenides. Taking a stroll down what I can only guess is a familiar Detroit street.
DISCLAIMER: I'll try to minimize spoilers. But to those purist who like to know nothing about a novel before they read it, skip this post.
It took me about 3 months to read Middlesex. In part due to my tragic illiteracy, and in part due to the onion of layers that is Middlesex. Good authors make it transparent how much of their life they put into a book - how much of their struggle they transcribed into words. Well Eugenides put in a lot. He traces not only his childhood but the childhood of his bloodlines. He delivers the supernatural ability of both a time machine and a teleporter. From my understanding, it is a combination of diligent research, brilliant fiction, and personal touch that he can inject lucid scene description and insight regarding the 1967 Detroit riots (which occurred when he was only 7). To my knowledge, he did not have any personal experience with sexual ambiguity - but his writing does seem inspired.
The beauty of injecting all these subtleties is that there is just a greater level of honesty achieved. There is no reprehensible plot twists or deus machina fireworks - just the honesty of a people residing in the struggle of a unique situation. I tend to get more from these books. But I will say, they are not terribly entertaining for me to read. Often times they are just depressing.
I find this common thread in the novels I often like - there is never a "happy" ending. The main character is left sickly and jaded from 400 pages of getting walked over in more ways than one. The somber weight of a death usually resides casting an unsettling tone as you turn those last few pages. The reader is left with one thing - a glimmer of hope. The main character usually turns his or her cheek to the wind on a murky December day and says something like "The autumn leaves have fell leaving the trees barren. Alas I know Spring will come."
Why must all the great writers be manically depressive - sad shells of unrequited love and life? I mean seriously, who was the girl that hollowed out Haruki Murakami so bad that he felt the need to write 10 books reliving the pain from different angles - of course never with resolution. The recurring dream of that struggle often makes for great writing. The authors tend to have an almost unnatural level of observability and insight on the subject - but at what cost? I enjoy reading these novels for the appreciation of the pinpoint descriptions and raw emotions, but I don't want to allow myself to relate to these characters. I don't want to see myself as the reflection of these depressing authors. My life isn't that tragic and I don't plan on making it so.
