Family Happiness

Ok, it's true that I can be something of a moralist; witness the blog title. But when I set out to find something by Laurie Colwin, who I've heard so many good things about from so many different people I can't keep track of them all, I thought I could enjoy one of her most-recommended novels, Family Happiness, without getting too stuck on how the main character, Polly, is unfaithful to her husband.

I was wrong, though. I found the whole experience of reading Family Happiness unpleasant because of how approvingly Colwin presents Polly's adulterous affair with a single man.

Maybe part of what disturbs me about Polly is how much any female reader is likely to identify with her--she thinks she needs to be "less needy and less angry" when it's clear that she needs to express more of both emotions.

Maybe what really got to me is how the characterization of her husband, a successful man who sometimes pays too much attention to his work and too little to his wife, reminded me of someone (I passed the novel over to Ron and asked him to read a page, but I don't think he saw himself there as much as I did).

For whatever reasons, I hate the choices Polly makes and I end up hating her. Even extraneous things about her--like the way she likes to lounge around with her family on a bed for the evening--irritate me (the "horizontal evenings" they spend remind me of a line from one of my favorite scenes in Louise Fitzhugh's Harriet the Spy, when Harriet looks in on an old lady who stays in bed all the time and thinks what a terrible life that would be, saying about bed "in and out, that's my motto." It's always been mine, too).

Family Happiness is, of course, an ironic title. Polly doesn't get along well with her parents or siblings, although an outsider would probably see them as close, since they see each other a lot. The moral of the novel seems to be that "it's nice to know that other people who you think have perfect lives have trouble, too."

I don't find the element of schadenfreude very satisfying, though, and really don't like any of Polly's ideas about how to cope with troubles.

I do, however, like this xkcd comic, about constructive commenting (and don't miss the mouse-over).

A Northern Morning

The flu arrived at my house in the last week. We'd all had flu shots, and that did seem to make it a milder case for everyone; the fever lasted for about 24 hours. Walker came down with it on Wednesday, Eleanor had it Saturday, and I got it Monday. It was the mildest fever I think I've ever had; rather than making me achy, it made me so lethargic I couldn't move. It was lovely to lie in bed. I had to get up and do a few things, but then I would lie down again, and it felt so nice. In real life, I'm like Harriet the Spy about bed: "in and out, that's my motto." But for two days, I felt like nothing was urgent.

When I started to recover, the sun was shining and the crocus were blooming, and my first bunch of jonquils, which have always opened by March 26, were already in full flower, a week early. Even though it's supposed to rain and turn cold again during the night, it's been an oddly peaceful interlude. Now I can face another cold and ordinary morning, appreciating my cup of tea in a new way, as in the poem "A Northern Morning" by Alistair Elliot:

It rained from dawn. The fire died in the night.
I poured hot water on some foreign leaves;
I brought the fire to life. Comfort
spread from the kitchen like a taste of chocolate
through the head-waters of a body,
accompanied by that little-water-music.
The knotted veins of the old house tremble and carry
a louder burden: the audience joining in.

People are peaceful in a world so lavish
with the ingredients of life:
the world of breakfast easy as Tahiti.
But we must leave. Head down in my new coat
I dodge to the High Street conscious of my fellows
damp and sad in their vegetable fibres.
But by the bus-stop I look up: the spring trees
exult in the downpour, radiant, clean for hours:
This is the life! This is the only life!

For the next couple of weeks, which are often damp and sad here in Ohio, I'm going to try to look up. In the movies, you see hidden attackers that way. In my yard, you can see unfurling lilac leaves.

Feeling Like Harrison Withers

I woke up this morning with a big grin like Harrison Withers' in Louise Fitzhugh's Harriet the Spy. Because yesterday we brought home a kitten. Now I'm spending the day trying to placate the older felines and comfort the younger one, who seems genuinely puzzled to find that anyone doesn't like him. Like Harrison, I'm spending a considerable amount of time watching the kitten, who just accepted my offer of a toy mouse with enthusiasm. This is what Harriet sees when she spots Harrison's new kitten:

"Into the room, as though he owned it, to the accompaniment of loud cooing and baby talk from Harrison Withers [see XKCD comic] walked the tiniest cat Harriet had ever seen. It was a funny-looking little black-and-white kitten which had a mustache which made it look as though it were sneering. It stopped, looked at Harrison Withers as though he were a curiosity, and then walked disdainfully across the room. Harrison Withers watched in adoration. Harriet leaned back and wrote:
SO THAT'S IT. WONDER WHERE HE GOT THAT CAT. I GUESS IF YOU WANT A CAT YOU RUN INTO ONE SOMEPLACE. HEE HEE."

We've always believed in serendipitous cats. They turn up (especially if you frequent the local humane society). Now if I could just persuade the older feline residents to take their very dramatic paws down from their foreheads.