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In Ann Patchett’s New Novel, a Glass House and a Family With Things to Hide In Ann Patchett’s New Novel, a Glass House and a Family With Things to Hide
(4 days later)
By Ann Patchett’s own admission, she has been writing the same story throughout her nearly 30-year career. A group of strangers are flung together by a catastrophe of some sort — a hostage situation, perhaps, as in the Orange Prize-winning “Bel Canto,” but usually a sudden death (“State of Wonder,” “Run,” “The Magician’s Assistant”). They must learn to trust each other to survive.By Ann Patchett’s own admission, she has been writing the same story throughout her nearly 30-year career. A group of strangers are flung together by a catastrophe of some sort — a hostage situation, perhaps, as in the Orange Prize-winning “Bel Canto,” but usually a sudden death (“State of Wonder,” “Run,” “The Magician’s Assistant”). They must learn to trust each other to survive.
It’s the story of her childhood, she has said, of growing up in a blended family, but told slant: “You’re in one family, and all of a sudden, you’re in another family and it’s not your choice and you can’t get out.” With her previous novel, “Commonwealth,” she tried to break the grip of the obsession, approaching her family history directly for the first time.It’s the story of her childhood, she has said, of growing up in a blended family, but told slant: “You’re in one family, and all of a sudden, you’re in another family and it’s not your choice and you can’t get out.” With her previous novel, “Commonwealth,” she tried to break the grip of the obsession, approaching her family history directly for the first time.
“The Dutch House” is Patchett’s latest. Did her trick work?“The Dutch House” is Patchett’s latest. Did her trick work?
Of course not. Root out gravity while you’re at it; writerly obsessions are deeply ingrained.Of course not. Root out gravity while you’re at it; writerly obsessions are deeply ingrained.
The novel follows a pair of siblings — Danny and his older sister, the beautiful, protective Maeve — growing up midcentury outside Philadelphia. Their mother disappeared long ago, and they’ve been left in the care of the household staff and their distant father. If you’re experiencing a prickly feeling of familiarity — of fairy tale scaffolding — along comes Andrea, and right on time.The novel follows a pair of siblings — Danny and his older sister, the beautiful, protective Maeve — growing up midcentury outside Philadelphia. Their mother disappeared long ago, and they’ve been left in the care of the household staff and their distant father. If you’re experiencing a prickly feeling of familiarity — of fairy tale scaffolding — along comes Andrea, and right on time.
[ Read our profile of Ann Patchett. ][ Read our profile of Ann Patchett. ]
She is the engine of the story: the terrifically loathsome stepmother, drawn to the family for their house, the grandest in the small town, a home loathed by Danny and Maeve’s mother, who found its opulence obscene. Built by the VanHoebeeks, a Dutch couple (hence the title) who made their fortune in a cigarette distribution business they started before World War I, its facade is constructed out of glass; you can see right into it — heavily ironic given the family’s opaque, stubborn secrets. She is the engine of the story: the terrifically loathsome stepmother, drawn to the family for their house, the grandest in the small town, a home despised by Danny and Maeve’s mother, who found its opulence obscene. Built by the VanHoebeeks, a Dutch couple (hence the title) who made their fortune in a cigarette distribution business they started before World War I, its facade is constructed out of glass; you can see right into it — heavily ironic given the family’s opaque, stubborn secrets.
Andrea arrives with two small daughters, and Patchett’s quorum is met, the unhappy individuals forced together. Instead of the group dynamics Patchett is normally so fond of exploring, she trains her focus here on that most vulnerable unit of human organization: the pair.Andrea arrives with two small daughters, and Patchett’s quorum is met, the unhappy individuals forced together. Instead of the group dynamics Patchett is normally so fond of exploring, she trains her focus here on that most vulnerable unit of human organization: the pair.
The novel opens with the young Danny playing, hiding in the curtains, when he is told a visitor has arrived. He and Maeve peer over the top of the stairs to see their father and a woman — Andrea — observing the two large paintings of the VanHoebeeks still hanging on the wall. It is a quiet, beautifully orchestrated scene, introducing three pairs and their overlapping gazes: the siblings, the couple, the portraits.The novel opens with the young Danny playing, hiding in the curtains, when he is told a visitor has arrived. He and Maeve peer over the top of the stairs to see their father and a woman — Andrea — observing the two large paintings of the VanHoebeeks still hanging on the wall. It is a quiet, beautifully orchestrated scene, introducing three pairs and their overlapping gazes: the siblings, the couple, the portraits.
The pairs multiply as the novel goes on. There is the household staff comprising two sisters; Andrea’s two daughters (“I thought of them as a single unit: Norma-and-Bright,” Danny says); and eventually Danny’s own two children. The anxious, greedy love of the pair runs through the novel — the ways it sometimes must be broken and remade, to free up affection and care for others.The pairs multiply as the novel goes on. There is the household staff comprising two sisters; Andrea’s two daughters (“I thought of them as a single unit: Norma-and-Bright,” Danny says); and eventually Danny’s own two children. The anxious, greedy love of the pair runs through the novel — the ways it sometimes must be broken and remade, to free up affection and care for others.
That opening scene is lavish with literary allusions. The motherless child hiding in the curtains is from “Jane Eyre.” Children observing adults from the top of the stairs recalls Henry James’s “What Maisie Knew.” And any tight, inscrutable sibling bond will always summon up “The Turn of the Screw,” which Maeve happens to keep on her nightstand. Later we see her reading “Housekeeping,” Marilynne Robinson’s novel about a pair of siblings abandoned by their mother.That opening scene is lavish with literary allusions. The motherless child hiding in the curtains is from “Jane Eyre.” Children observing adults from the top of the stairs recalls Henry James’s “What Maisie Knew.” And any tight, inscrutable sibling bond will always summon up “The Turn of the Screw,” which Maeve happens to keep on her nightstand. Later we see her reading “Housekeeping,” Marilynne Robinson’s novel about a pair of siblings abandoned by their mother.
Patchett’s prose is confident, unfussy and unadorned. I can’t pluck out one sentence worth quoting, but how effective they are when woven together — these translucent lines that envelop you like a spider’s web. It can feel old-fashioned: her style, her attachment to a very traditional kind of storytelling — a vision of the novel as a Dutch house, with a clarity and transparency of purpose and method, a refusal of narrative tricksiness. But like the family’s Dutch house, it’s an enduring structure, which gives an added dimension to the references in the text — its way of gesturing toward a lineage.Patchett’s prose is confident, unfussy and unadorned. I can’t pluck out one sentence worth quoting, but how effective they are when woven together — these translucent lines that envelop you like a spider’s web. It can feel old-fashioned: her style, her attachment to a very traditional kind of storytelling — a vision of the novel as a Dutch house, with a clarity and transparency of purpose and method, a refusal of narrative tricksiness. But like the family’s Dutch house, it’s an enduring structure, which gives an added dimension to the references in the text — its way of gesturing toward a lineage.
Another lineage flows through the book: the theme that unites Patchett’s fiction and nonfiction. “Mothers were the measure of safety,” Danny thinks, grateful for Maeve’s protection after his mother’s disappearance. “Home, bed, sleep, mother — who knew more beautiful words than these?” Patchett wrote in her 2007 book “Run.” “Don’t have a baby,” she describes her grandmother pleading, in an essay on caring for her in her final years. “What she meant was that she was my baby and I didn’t need another one.” In “Truth and Beauty,” Patchett’s memoir of her friendship with the poet Lucy Grealy, she writes about Grealy’s claim on her. “Do you love me?” Grealy would ask her, climbing into her lap, even in the middle of dinner parties, begging to be held and carried. “Of course I love you,” Patchett would respond. “Best?” “Yes, best, but you are crushing my thigh.”Another lineage flows through the book: the theme that unites Patchett’s fiction and nonfiction. “Mothers were the measure of safety,” Danny thinks, grateful for Maeve’s protection after his mother’s disappearance. “Home, bed, sleep, mother — who knew more beautiful words than these?” Patchett wrote in her 2007 book “Run.” “Don’t have a baby,” she describes her grandmother pleading, in an essay on caring for her in her final years. “What she meant was that she was my baby and I didn’t need another one.” In “Truth and Beauty,” Patchett’s memoir of her friendship with the poet Lucy Grealy, she writes about Grealy’s claim on her. “Do you love me?” Grealy would ask her, climbing into her lap, even in the middle of dinner parties, begging to be held and carried. “Of course I love you,” Patchett would respond. “Best?” “Yes, best, but you are crushing my thigh.”
Our willingness to serve each other represents the best of us, according to Patchett, and it is almost as if she wants to take the notion of motherhood and release its power into the commons — what if we were willing to mother one another, mother strangers? But she is also always full of warnings about the self-abnegation it requires, especially of women — and never more clearly than in this new novel.Our willingness to serve each other represents the best of us, according to Patchett, and it is almost as if she wants to take the notion of motherhood and release its power into the commons — what if we were willing to mother one another, mother strangers? But she is also always full of warnings about the self-abnegation it requires, especially of women — and never more clearly than in this new novel.
When Danny marries, it is to a bright woman for whom renunciation comes easily. “Celeste was plenty happy in those days, though in retrospect she was the ultimate victim of bad timing, thinking that because she was good in chemistry she should marry a doctor instead of becoming a doctor herself. Had she come along a few years later she might have missed that trap altogether.” Meanwhile, Maeve, a brilliant student in her youth — the winner of a math medal at Barnard — leads a pinched life, moving back home, working as bookkeeper, keeping herself single and available to care for her brother into adulthood. When Danny marries, it is to a bright woman for whom renunciation comes easily. “Celeste was plenty happy in those days, though in retrospect she was the ultimate victim of bad timing, thinking that because she was good in chemistry she should marry a doctor instead of becoming a doctor herself. Had she come along a few years later she might have missed that trap altogether.” Meanwhile, Maeve, a brilliant student in her youth — the winner of a math medal at Barnard — leads a pinched life, moving back home, working as a bookkeeper, keeping herself single and available to care for her brother into adulthood.
“The love between humans is the thing that nails us to this earth,” Patchett wrote in her memoir “This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage” — a belief her new novel shares but shades with caution. There’s no missing the statement’s brutal, brilliant ambivalence.“The love between humans is the thing that nails us to this earth,” Patchett wrote in her memoir “This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage” — a belief her new novel shares but shades with caution. There’s no missing the statement’s brutal, brilliant ambivalence.