Dear Reader,
I’ve been burrowing into an Ann Patchett novel the past few days. From the get-go, her newest release, Whistler, warmed Word Raccoon’s and my heart with its generosity, charm, and the possibility that connections made years before can endure and unexpectedly rebloom even after a long absence.
This is a spoiler-free zone, so read without fear of spoilers.
I was curious about the novel’s title from the get-go, wondering if, since it begins at the Met, it involved Whistler, the artist. WR and I were really hoping it would. I don’t think it’s giving anything away to tell you the artist does not make an appearance, but artwork (not related to him) does, which was enjoyable, too.
Whistler is, as the cover image suggests, in this case a horse, but a possibly mythical one. I’d like to explore the horse’s role in this novel, but that would involve spoilers. Suffice it to say that by the end I was wondering if the horse or the rabbits (appearing in art collected by Daphne’s husband’s deceased wife and still valued and preserved by Daphne) were the more important animal to the novel. And I’d like to write about that, too, but again, spoilers.
Here Patchett showcases her impressive skill at calm observation of the intricacies of human relationships and the refusal to make the inevitable complications dramatic. One of her characters says or thinks something like, We survived it.
To me, this is one of her greatest traits as a storyteller: she speaks of events of all stripes, of all temperatures, from a measured place. She does a great job of allowing the narrator, Daphne, to judiciously hear a circumstance and understand both sides of it, too, something I admire in writers and in humans.
In Whistler, Daphne and her husband are visiting the Met, as I said, at the story’s beginning and a man is following them, one who turns out to have been her mother’s second husband, Daphne’s stepfather, Eddie.
From the beginning, Daphne’s reaction to reuniting with this man that she hasn’t seen in over 40 years is precious. Slowly we learn why her mother divorced him just after a tragedy whose events are just as carefully meted out throughout the book.
I mean…Eddie is a charmer. He’s so loving and kind that you (that is, I) had my guard up for too long, worried that he might be revealed to be nothing of the kind.
Also, I admire the novel’s “sets,” if you will, the different houses and places where the action took place. Somehow I can see them all without them having been overly described. I like how she takes the most high-brow and pretentious places and events and brings a sandwich-and-shoes off sensibility to them, which is definitely my style.
And WR couldn’t help but notice that an elegant luncheon yielded a fancy bag of leftovers foisted upon the departing attendees, which is both amusing and touching. And, WR says, delicious sounding.
Without resorting to dramatic scenes or events, Patchett leads us through the lives of several characters, sharing important secrets that have shaped lives but that were kept for all the right reasons. (This is not a talk-show-tragedy-level-secrets book.)
I can’t help but admire Patchett’s restraint. Even with all of this drama and the concurrent possible outcomes, she resists bending the story with sensationalism. And the secrets, once learned, actually help all of the characters. That is, the secrets do not betray, they, once released, heal.
There are present-day pressure points that you wonder if Patchett’s going to or maybe ought to push on: someone who drinks too much without comment, another who clearly wants another life that is not compatible with what his spouse wants and you wonder how that’s going to end up. There is disillusionment in the oddest of places and yet Daphne has been deeply formed by this mere seven-month relationship when she was nine with her beloved stepfather, who then disappeared from her life. His lesson that stuck with her is that most people are good and will want to help you, that they can be trusted.
Retirement and its temptations and pitfalls are a constant theme in the novel. As a private school English teacher, Daphne does not want to retire because she loves teaching and tries to help her students in all areas, though she admits to not being able to remember their names when they come wave after wave, semester after semester. As someone who has taught, unfortunately, I relate.
Her husband, newly retired, wants her to as well, but he’s 17 years older than she is. She’s not ready. Likewise Eddie, who is older than them both, refuses to retire from publishing. (He and Daphne also bond over their fierce love of literature.)
The reveals unspool gradually, and a detail that you think is just a character trait (such as the revelation that Daphne does not fly), turns out to have very good reasons. Which not only makes you nod when the connection is made, but also keeps your curiosity meter running and you immersed for the duration.
Throughout you see how little resentment Daphne holds for her life circumstances, and what little she does hold, her sister Leda tells her is nothing compared to her patients’ trauma. (Leda is a therapist.)
This is a book that makes you wish you could read it all in one sitting, and do if you can.
Sure, there are a few conveniently timed moments in the novel and a couple of “we can talk about it later” scenes where the seams show, but I don’t care and neither does Word Raccoon.
She stood over my shoulder the whole time and asked to go to the Met. We’ve never been.
I think she’s hoping to meet an Eddie. I think we’d all like to, WR.
You might enjoy this one, Dear Reader. And I have another book on hold at the library, so I’d better return this one. Next up for me? Maggie O’Farrell’s Land.
Drema