It's trendy to dislike Anne Tyler's novels. Even Ron Charles--who praises almost everything in "The Washington Post"--had some reservations about the most recent Tyler novel, "Clock Dance."
Bizarrely, Lorrie Moore makes some observations about Tyler in an essay on "The Wire." Moore notes all the prominent Baltimore artists who get shout-outs in "The Wire," then points out the omission of references to Tyler. Moore then speculates that the omission is a result of Tyler's work's refusal to change; Tyler isn't in "The Wire" because she hasn't "kept up with the times."
All of this makes me think of a funny and astute essay Hilary Mantel wrote about Anita Brookner toward the end of Brookner's career. Brookner had fallen out of favor, in some circles, because she had written about too many gloomy protagonists. Enough already, people said. Write about someone who sticks to a Prozac regimen--someone who goes out and achieves something. As if the artist's obligation were to make her reader feel a bit sunnier.
Anne Tyler's work remains as enchanting and smart now as it was thirty years ago; after she dies, she'll have a renaissance. Michiko Kakutani and Ron Charles will eat their words, if they are gracious enough to reconsider their own foolishness.
Mantel, writing about another artist, Tessa Hadley, identified some things you might want in a writer: "You want a writer you can trust--someone who speaks plainly and explores nuance."
That's how I feel with Tyler. I don't have to worry about digressions. I don't have to worry about irritating postmodern "experiments." I don't have to worry there will be some kind of sermon--a feeling that the gross medicinal thing I'm ingesting must be "good for me."
"Clock Dance," Tyler's most recent novel, gives us Willa, who seems sui generis and also seems to be someone we've known all our lives. We see her in childhood. Her slightly-deranged mother has disappeared. Terrified, Willa tries to make inferences based on the tiny scraps that adults feed to her; she attempts to whip up some chocolate pudding, and takes some shortcuts, and has a full meltdown when things fall apart. This opening section is frightening; it feels like something from a horror story. Tyler has said that she is interested in the ways that "families do and do not work"--and you see, in this opening section, the beginnings of major wounds that will bother Willa for the rest of her life.
Snapshot, years later: Willa's boyfriend is a bit short-tempered with Willa's imperious mother, and it's this event, more than anything, that leads Willa to say "yes" to a marriage proposal. ("I married him because he stood up to my mother.")
And, later still: A moment of ambient rage on the highway leads to one senseless and shocking death.
Tyler is interested in life's randomness--in the way we can't make predictions, no matter how smart we are. She seems to have full control over her story, and at the same time, at her best, she can give you the impression that *anything* might happen (just as in life).
Tyler also seems interested--as William Trevor was interested--in the way that "the passage of time can be its own plot." Watching people change, almost in spite of themselves, over many years. Notice how often time comes up explicitly in Tyler's titles: "Clock Dance," "The Clock Winder," "Celestial Navigation," "Ladder of Years," "If Morning Ever Comes." Stick around, Tyler seems to say: If you're bewildered or unhappy right now, know that life will do something bizarre and unsettling to you, or for you, eventually.
These are just some observations. I don't have any kind of thesis about "Clock Dance." I just know that I'm hooked. I'm happy that this writer has persevered--despite Michiko Kakutani's silly ranting. I'll finish "Clock Dance" today, and I don't have any intention of going anywhere near Kakutani's "Death of Truth." Maybe some other time.
Bizarrely, Lorrie Moore makes some observations about Tyler in an essay on "The Wire." Moore notes all the prominent Baltimore artists who get shout-outs in "The Wire," then points out the omission of references to Tyler. Moore then speculates that the omission is a result of Tyler's work's refusal to change; Tyler isn't in "The Wire" because she hasn't "kept up with the times."
All of this makes me think of a funny and astute essay Hilary Mantel wrote about Anita Brookner toward the end of Brookner's career. Brookner had fallen out of favor, in some circles, because she had written about too many gloomy protagonists. Enough already, people said. Write about someone who sticks to a Prozac regimen--someone who goes out and achieves something. As if the artist's obligation were to make her reader feel a bit sunnier.
Anne Tyler's work remains as enchanting and smart now as it was thirty years ago; after she dies, she'll have a renaissance. Michiko Kakutani and Ron Charles will eat their words, if they are gracious enough to reconsider their own foolishness.
Mantel, writing about another artist, Tessa Hadley, identified some things you might want in a writer: "You want a writer you can trust--someone who speaks plainly and explores nuance."
That's how I feel with Tyler. I don't have to worry about digressions. I don't have to worry about irritating postmodern "experiments." I don't have to worry there will be some kind of sermon--a feeling that the gross medicinal thing I'm ingesting must be "good for me."
"Clock Dance," Tyler's most recent novel, gives us Willa, who seems sui generis and also seems to be someone we've known all our lives. We see her in childhood. Her slightly-deranged mother has disappeared. Terrified, Willa tries to make inferences based on the tiny scraps that adults feed to her; she attempts to whip up some chocolate pudding, and takes some shortcuts, and has a full meltdown when things fall apart. This opening section is frightening; it feels like something from a horror story. Tyler has said that she is interested in the ways that "families do and do not work"--and you see, in this opening section, the beginnings of major wounds that will bother Willa for the rest of her life.
Snapshot, years later: Willa's boyfriend is a bit short-tempered with Willa's imperious mother, and it's this event, more than anything, that leads Willa to say "yes" to a marriage proposal. ("I married him because he stood up to my mother.")
And, later still: A moment of ambient rage on the highway leads to one senseless and shocking death.
Tyler is interested in life's randomness--in the way we can't make predictions, no matter how smart we are. She seems to have full control over her story, and at the same time, at her best, she can give you the impression that *anything* might happen (just as in life).
Tyler also seems interested--as William Trevor was interested--in the way that "the passage of time can be its own plot." Watching people change, almost in spite of themselves, over many years. Notice how often time comes up explicitly in Tyler's titles: "Clock Dance," "The Clock Winder," "Celestial Navigation," "Ladder of Years," "If Morning Ever Comes." Stick around, Tyler seems to say: If you're bewildered or unhappy right now, know that life will do something bizarre and unsettling to you, or for you, eventually.
These are just some observations. I don't have any kind of thesis about "Clock Dance." I just know that I'm hooked. I'm happy that this writer has persevered--despite Michiko Kakutani's silly ranting. I'll finish "Clock Dance" today, and I don't have any intention of going anywhere near Kakutani's "Death of Truth." Maybe some other time.
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