Skip to main content

A Beautiful Memoir

 A book I sometimes recall is the memoir "Smile," by Sarah Ruhl.


Ruhl was a big-deal playwright when she learned she would be giving birth to twins. The pregnancy had complications; Ruhl was told to remain on bed rest. (Ruhl observes that men invented the concept of "bed rest," and that the efficacy of the "treatment" is debatable, at best. This is the first of many cool-yet-scathing moments in Ruhl's story.)

Ruhl sleeps; she reads "Twilight." She sees all the "Twilight" films. She borrows the letters of Elizabeth Bishop.

After Ruhl gives birth, her face collapses. The problem is Bell's Palsy--something that could be temporary, or could be permanent.

And ten years elapse. Ruhl's life is turned on its head. She sits at home and feels anger toward her spouse. ("No one notes that Shakespeare had twins. There is an approximate decade of silence in Shakespeare's career. No one says, that's when Anne Hathaway smacked her husband. Anne hissed, You'd better stop writing those fucking plays. You'd better get over here and hold a fucking baby.")

Ruhl sees several doctors--many of them men, many showing questionable levels of competence. Doctors tend to say, "Too much time has passed. You'll never get your face back." One really sharp doctor hears Ruhl mention her Irish heritage in a joke; the doctor says, "You're Irish, and so you probably have celiac disease." This blithe remark then has life-saving consequences.

Ruhl does triumph over her facial paralysis, in a way that is surprising and inspiring. Alongside her, you note her brilliant observations about rage, about how much we all rely on our lips and teeth, about how much nonsense women must tolerate in America. ("Who decided that Nicole Kidman had to become dour and unrecognizable to play Virginia Woolf? Who decided that Virginia Woolf was not a beauty?")

Ruhl herself observes that the story is not a major-key drama: This is a story of disappointment, and coping. Because Ruhl has kaleidoscopic gifts, and a great soul, you're happy to follow her wherever she chooses to go.

This is one purchase I will defend to the grave--one of my few smart purchases in recent history.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...