Helpful Score: 1
This tale of a road trip between recently laid off Sylvia and the man she meets in her escape trip to Italy, Henry, uses "romance" in quotes in describing itself. Truer words were never spoken. The need to squash any sentimentality with irony has completely justified the publisher's use of those quote marks on the book jacket. Of course, all books do not need to be romantic and all romances don't end happily. Yet even the saddest, unhappiest endings can affirm life. Not so here.
The protagonist likes to tell stories and the book unfolds as a series of tales told from Sylvia to Henry. Except the book has minimal dialogue so the tales are first-person to the reader. Toward the end of each Henry is allowed one, perhaps two observations about what he has heard. Mostly he seems charmed no matter how disgusting the story. The writer uses black comedy to comment on life's absurdness. Psycho teenagers, a molesting uncle, evil brother, endlessly dying mom, crazy relatives and yes, a decapitation, are each given their due. Sylvia is a collector of sorts and keeps souvenirs of her life's memories. Her obsession with these trinkets seems to be at the expense of the experiences themselves.
Kirshenbaum is a talented writer and her prose is lyrical (when not interrupted by an annoying gimmick of witty asides residing in italic within her sentences). Yet the book has no counterbalance regarding life's up-side. The potential for a good life is chewed upon but ultimately squandered as too difficult or too late. The "romance" is supposed to represent some semblance of hope, I guess. Or perhaps the beautiful scenery described to perfection along the way is the best it's going to get. The lead character is full of memories of her own and other people's lives she's forgetting to live one of her own. Maybe that's the point and I just didn't get it. But wow, what a long journey to end up at such an empty place.
The protagonist likes to tell stories and the book unfolds as a series of tales told from Sylvia to Henry. Except the book has minimal dialogue so the tales are first-person to the reader. Toward the end of each Henry is allowed one, perhaps two observations about what he has heard. Mostly he seems charmed no matter how disgusting the story. The writer uses black comedy to comment on life's absurdness. Psycho teenagers, a molesting uncle, evil brother, endlessly dying mom, crazy relatives and yes, a decapitation, are each given their due. Sylvia is a collector of sorts and keeps souvenirs of her life's memories. Her obsession with these trinkets seems to be at the expense of the experiences themselves.
Kirshenbaum is a talented writer and her prose is lyrical (when not interrupted by an annoying gimmick of witty asides residing in italic within her sentences). Yet the book has no counterbalance regarding life's up-side. The potential for a good life is chewed upon but ultimately squandered as too difficult or too late. The "romance" is supposed to represent some semblance of hope, I guess. Or perhaps the beautiful scenery described to perfection along the way is the best it's going to get. The lead character is full of memories of her own and other people's lives she's forgetting to live one of her own. Maybe that's the point and I just didn't get it. But wow, what a long journey to end up at such an empty place.
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