Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson

I haven't blogged on here in quite awhile, although I have read and reread some books in the interim. Most of them were fluffy and not warranting serious consideration, but I did read a remarkable book recently that has lingered in my recollection. The book is called Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson. I first heard about it at a book exchange party when my good friend Melanie brought it to exchange. Meg received it, so you can ask her about her impressions, too, if you care to do so.

It's a fairly short book and somewhat indeterminate as to time period. The first person protagonist experiences significant loss in her young life. Almost every person whom she has ever loved leaves or dies more or less tragically. It's not a frivolous Suzie Sunshine book by any means, but it is deeply felt and spiritually written--a meditation on loss and the evanescence and fleeting nature of the human condition.

Housekeeping explores the dark side of permanence and routine, of stability and consistency. The eccentric aunt who becomes caretaker for Ruth, the narrator, and her sister, Lucille, is a quirky transient who sleeps with her shoes on. The residents of the small Idahoan town of Fingerbone live in terror of anything different than their small provincial lives and consider the aunt a grossly insufficient caretaker as the girls spend much of the year playing hooky and sitting by the frozen lake.

Since it's written in lyrical prose, it's somewhat difficult to neatly encapsulate the story in a few words. There isn't much of a direct plot as the story sort of ambles through philosophical reflections. If really action packed page-turners are more your style, perhaps look elsewhere. Not that there's a problem with preferring a story that moves along, but the writing here is really lovely and I suggest giving it a chance even if it's not your typical modus operandi.

The transformation of Ruth is one of the most complete I have seen in literature, yet I felt that I actually didn't know that much about her by the time the novel ended. Perhaps it is Robinson's way of communicating that on some level, we never really know even those we really love.

I'm having a hard time adequately describing the book. It is beautiful and disturbing like Megan described it to me, as well as full of aching and longing mingled with a restless sense of flowing motion.

I'll close with a couple of quotes to give you a sense of the writing style. I would give the book a solid 4 stars.

“There is so little to remember of anyone - an anecdote, a conversation at a table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming habitual fondness not having meant to keep us waiting long.” 

“Cain killed Abel, and the blood cried out from the ground--a story so sad that even God took notice of it. Maybe it was not the sadness of the story, since worse things have happened every minute since that day, but its novelty that He found striking. In the newness of the world God was a young man, and grew indignant over the slightest things. In the newness of the world God had perhaps not Himself realized the ramifications of certain of his laws, for example, that shock will spend itself in waves; that our images will mimic every gesture, and that shattered they will multiply and mimic every gesture ten, a hundred, or a thousand times. Cain, the image of God, gave the simple earth of the field a voice and a sorrow, and God himself heard the voice, and grieved for the sorrow, so Cain was a creator, in the image of his creator.” 

“It was a source of both terror and comfort to me then that I often seemed invisible — incompletely and minimally existent, in fact. It seemed to me that I made no impact on the world, and that in exchange I was privileged to watch it unawares.”