The first thing that really struck me about Housekeeping was the water imagery that Robinson uses throughout the novel. It is as if she has made water and it's nature into its own character. Ruthie's grandfather is killed in a train wreck when it crashes into the water below the bridge, her mother drives her car into the water to kill herself, and the town itself is flooded whenever it rains. And, in the end, as the narrator and her aunt flee the town, they are described as being "above the water." Though that is their actual physical location, I also think this means much more. What are your thoughts on these and other references to water that I no doubt left out?
Does "good housekeeping" ultimately keep a good house?
What do you make of Lily and Nona, the two great aunts who care for Ruthie and Lucy after their grandmother dies? They only last the winter there, and don't seem to survive the flood. What drives them away? For that matter, what drives everyone else away from the town of Fingerbone?
Is Sylvie really crazy?
Is the house ultimately "kept" at the end of the novel? Is the ending positive or negative for you?
Does this story remind anyone else of Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper, or is it just me?
I think crazy is as crazy does.
ReplyDeleteLook, this is a memory-book. It's told as a girl's memory, and we as readers must remember that it is not objective. What I find so interesting is the total lack of judgment. It seems like a stream of consciousness -- this happened, and then this happened, and then this happened -- much like I imagine the perspective of a very small child. The fears of abandonment mirror that of a toddler as well -- it's as though our narrator is stuck as a toddler, even though she's older.
Mayber she's crazy, too.
But then, I am still only halfway through. Admittedly.
I feel like Sylvie may be stuck as a toddler or small child as well. I just wonder why...There is so much of this story that is left out because it occured before Ruthie was born.
DeleteI wonder if it has to do with the traumas? You know, most of the time, trauma makes adults, but instead we have child-women.
ReplyDeleteDHL lost my book so I haven't read it yet. So take this with as many grains of salt as you need, but I think that trauma works in one of two ways--if you come through the trauma, you grow, but if you don't come through the trauma, you become stuck. I've met many adult adolescents who simply haven't been able to surpass their childhood traumas.
ReplyDeleteIntriguing. I like it. It makes sense, given these are very childish women.
DeleteThe water imagery in the book is almost exclusively the lake. The beginning of the novel is framed by grandpa's need to escape the geography of his childhood home, which is like a grave, and his flight toward mountains, which are the most unlike his home that he could conceive. However, the town he ends up in is built on the old lake bed, and the lake, with its similar horizon, is the same as his grave home--he can't escape the grave, and he comes to rest there. The lake represents loss and the unknowable, and grandpa and mom are both lost there, and the lake rises up and destroys property and memories of the townspeople, though their house is only minorly affected. When we have some of the first in-scene work with the girls, they are on the surface of the frozen lake, separate but close to the site of their loss. Important moments between Ruth and her sister and aunt both occur beside (with Lucille) and on and across (with Sylvie) the lake. Lucille learns to live next to loss; Sylvie transcends it.
ReplyDeleteWhile the act of keeping (or not keeping) a house is in the foreground, the idea of being kept by the house is arguably more important. Grandpa's sisters were kept by their house and eventually wound up as fearful but proper women who ironically have no home of their own (it's a multi-resident rental) and no practical skills with raising the next generation beyond supplying canned food. Arguably grandma did well for herself with her house, but she still lost her husband and all of her children--the oldest went to become a "fisher of men" on a symbolic lake, the middle committed suicide in the lake, and the youngest was a transient who only returns after her mother's death and later is erroneously presumed to also be lost to the lake. Sylvie keeps no house and is kept by no house. Helen's attempt at keeping house was a struggle, tethering her children to keep them from falling. Grandma couldn't imagine another way to live, and despite her losses she lived next to the lake without any notable trouble. Lucille will be like this wherever she is, probably still in Fingerbone, because she isn't really the kind to flee to Boston. She accepts and leans into her fate. Ruthie flies from it. It's apparent early on that the girls will diverge because they cannot agree on the car of the car or mother's hair. If she is kept by the house, she will suffer the loss of her aunt, the only person she has left. Ruthie is passive through the novel until the game of hide and seek. She merely observes and reports and doesn't make any of her own choices. When she finally takes an active role in her own life, the novel pans out and ends. Rather than keep a house, Ruthie keeps a human bond while openly rejecting the ideals of housekeeping. She won't soldier on under the weight of loss but does escape the grave--there is probably a headstone with her name on it in Finger bone. It raises the question, did grandpa really die? Or did he escape to wander as he seemed prone?
Sorry about the format. Extremely hard to edit this on my phone. I've been working on this for days with all the interruptions.
I finally read the book and I'd agree with most of what has been written above so I don't have anything to add except that I enjoyed the novel more than I thought I would. I sent it on to my mom. I think she'll like it.
ReplyDelete