Good Morning, Midnight, by Jean Rhys
Title: Good Morning, Midnight
Author: Jean Rhys a.k.a. Ella Gwendolen Rees Williams (1890-1979)
Country of Origin: England, though Rhys was born in Dominica
Year of Publication: 1939
Summary
Sasha Jansen is a woman on a mission. Abandoned by her husband and deceased infant, the whisky is all she has left, and her mission is to drink herself to death. In France. (Of course, the problem with this summary is that it almost makes the book sound interesting, which is inaccurate.)
What Others Say
"astonishing and painful, claustrophobic, utterly convincing. It is the expression of a sensibility that seems in its turn to have informed the sensibilities of later writers"
"each sentence resonates on the page, hanging in the reader's mind long after the book has been closed"
"the most subtle and complete of [Rhys'] novels, and the most humane."
What I Say
I suppose it's easiest to first address the style, which I found incredibly irritating. Rhys is apparently enamored by the ellipsis, which she gleefully and constantly abuses. Her writing seems very loose and disconnected to me; often I wasn't quite sure what was happening or who was speaking. It was too emotional for my taste, and even disregarding my personal taste, it certainly wasn't a revelation of Great Writing -- more like a weak imitation of similar (but better!) writers who wrote about much the same thing at around the same time.
The main character, Sasha, is kind of a loser, and not in a charming way. Her story is pathetic, sure, and worthy of sympathy, I guess. Her baby dies, and her husband walks out on her. Unfortunately, I found myself sympathizing with them: I, too, was positively dying to get away from her and her vain and liquor-drenched stagnation. Even her tendency to carry on conversations with the furniture was uninteresting and not-a-little annoying. It wasn't used effectively as either comedy or a manifestation of her loneliness.
At one point, one of the characters - a gigolo with whom she has an ambiguous relationship - calls her stupid. Then he says, "No, don't be vexed! I don't mean stupid. I mean you feel better than you think." I think that's a good description of Sasha, though a better one would be "vapid." Her obsession with her looks -- her clothes, her haircut and color, her hats -- is tiresome, and I found myself thinking, "Look, woman, if you're serious about drinking yourself to death, do it properly and stop wasting your time and francs, as invaluable as they may be."
After Rhys published Good Morning, Midnight, she disappeared into obscurity for ten years, and people actually thought she had died. I don't really find this surprising.
In Conclusion:
This book doesn't make the grade, especially since Rhys has two other books on the 1001 list (neither of which I have read). I didn't hate it. It's not substantial enough to hate. I guess I look on it the same way the main character looks on life - mostly indifference with a pinch of contempt.
Bonus!
The one great line in the book: "All the time I was in London, I felt as if I were being suffocated, as if a large derriére was sitting on me."
Author: Jean Rhys a.k.a. Ella Gwendolen Rees Williams (1890-1979)
Country of Origin: England, though Rhys was born in Dominica
Year of Publication: 1939
Summary
Sasha Jansen is a woman on a mission. Abandoned by her husband and deceased infant, the whisky is all she has left, and her mission is to drink herself to death. In France. (Of course, the problem with this summary is that it almost makes the book sound interesting, which is inaccurate.)
What Others Say
"astonishing and painful, claustrophobic, utterly convincing. It is the expression of a sensibility that seems in its turn to have informed the sensibilities of later writers"
"each sentence resonates on the page, hanging in the reader's mind long after the book has been closed"
"the most subtle and complete of [Rhys'] novels, and the most humane."
What I Say
I suppose it's easiest to first address the style, which I found incredibly irritating. Rhys is apparently enamored by the ellipsis, which she gleefully and constantly abuses. Her writing seems very loose and disconnected to me; often I wasn't quite sure what was happening or who was speaking. It was too emotional for my taste, and even disregarding my personal taste, it certainly wasn't a revelation of Great Writing -- more like a weak imitation of similar (but better!) writers who wrote about much the same thing at around the same time.
The main character, Sasha, is kind of a loser, and not in a charming way. Her story is pathetic, sure, and worthy of sympathy, I guess. Her baby dies, and her husband walks out on her. Unfortunately, I found myself sympathizing with them: I, too, was positively dying to get away from her and her vain and liquor-drenched stagnation. Even her tendency to carry on conversations with the furniture was uninteresting and not-a-little annoying. It wasn't used effectively as either comedy or a manifestation of her loneliness.
At one point, one of the characters - a gigolo with whom she has an ambiguous relationship - calls her stupid. Then he says, "No, don't be vexed! I don't mean stupid. I mean you feel better than you think." I think that's a good description of Sasha, though a better one would be "vapid." Her obsession with her looks -- her clothes, her haircut and color, her hats -- is tiresome, and I found myself thinking, "Look, woman, if you're serious about drinking yourself to death, do it properly and stop wasting your time and francs, as invaluable as they may be."
After Rhys published Good Morning, Midnight, she disappeared into obscurity for ten years, and people actually thought she had died. I don't really find this surprising.
In Conclusion:
This book doesn't make the grade, especially since Rhys has two other books on the 1001 list (neither of which I have read). I didn't hate it. It's not substantial enough to hate. I guess I look on it the same way the main character looks on life - mostly indifference with a pinch of contempt.
Bonus!
The one great line in the book: "All the time I was in London, I felt as if I were being suffocated, as if a large derriére was sitting on me."