Skylight Confessions

This one has seeped into my brain like memories that aren't mine. Without a definite beginning or ending, I get a sense that I have always known pieces of this story, and I find myself pondering parts of this story without having a clear sense of where they came from--

It seems that Alice Hoffman's books do this to me. In The Ice Queen, I identified so fully with the protagonist that, occasionally on some mornings, half asleep in bed, I still find myself half dreaming that I have been hit by lightning and forever changed. It feel utterly natural in the moment, of course, although so often dreamlike morning thoughts sound like lunacy in daylight.

In this book, young Arlyn, raw from her father's death, decides that she will marry the next man who walks down the street, not simply out of necessity or loneliness, but because she declares that he "will be my one love and I will be true to him as long as he's true to me." So when Yale architecture student John Moody pulls up in his car asking for directions, her path becomes clear and her resolve unshakable.

Years later, it's clear that Arlyn and John have a terrible but complex relationship, a son named Sam with disturbing emotional issues, and a daughter named Blanca upon whose shoulders so much responsibility for family cohesiveness rests. They all live in John's family's house named the Glass Slipper, a giant architectural wonder made all of glass.

What I have told you here is merely a stepping stone for the rest of the story.

p. 30: "Watching John in the half-light of spring, with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, Arlyn remembered how she had felt the first time she saw him, back when he was lost and she was so dead set on finding him."

The Ice Queen

I loved this book. Loved it for its protagonist, its story-telling rhythm that aches to be read aloud, and its wild Grimm-like fairy-tale descriptions. I feel so akin to her character, and I wish that her words were mine. I am lost for words on this one, so I'll say it again: I simply loved this book.

p. 23: "It was my first cry in a long time, and I overdid it. I sat there sobbing, shudders running through me. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by everything, a wreck, true enough. My hair had fallen out in clumps and there was that dreadful clicking noise in the back of my head. I still wasn't able to hold down solid food. The doctor had told me the symptoms were similar to someone suffering from radiation poisoning. That's how I felt--to my bones, to my toes--poisoned. All down my afflicted side there was a wrenched sort of feeling, as if something had been twisted. A short in my electrical system, I supposed. My very essence, my inner self was gone. I reached for things and couldn't feel them. It was as though everything solid had slipped away from me. Inside, my heart felt frozen."

p. 160: "I thought about the way old blind women in stories found their lost loves and recognized them even though fifty or a hundred years had passed, even if their husbands or lovers had been turned into stags or monsters. I thought about how the familiar imprinted itself on you--a hedge, a scent, a touch. If someone had taken a photograph of Lazarus and me together and pinned it to a wall, anyone who'd seen it would have thought, They aren't meant for each other. They don't belong together. So we didn't take any photographs. I had questioned how it was possible for this man to love me all along, but I had finally begun to understand the reason: I knew him. If he came to me as a bear or a deer, I would still know him. If I were blind, if it was at dusk, if a hundred years had passed, I'd still know."

Heart of the Matter

Giffin does it again. My favorite of hers is still Love the One You're With, but Heart of the Matter is just as real, empathetic, well-written and often painful as her other books. This one addresses the question: how does an affair start? Can anyone be considered blameless in that situation?

p. 336: "Grief is a more complicated matter. It is something I can't direct at Nick, as it is also about my loss, my children's loss, the loss of our family and everything I once cherished and believed in. It has a component of fear and one of regret--of wishing I could turn back the clock and do things differently, more vigilantly guard my marriage. Be a better wife. Pay him more attention. Have more sex. Be more attractive. When the grief hits, I find myself looking inward, blaming myself for somehow allowing this to happen, for not seeing it coming at all. Grief also has a disorienting effect, offering no game plan whatsoever, leaving me only one option: to suffer there in the moment, until it is usurped by rage once again."