A review by jasonfurman
The Woman Upstairs, by Claire Messud
4.0
The Woman Upstairs has the best opening of any recent novel I've read: "How angry am I? You don’t want to know. Nobody wants to know about that. I’m a good girl, I’m a nice girl, I’m a straight-A, strait-laced, good daughter, good career girl, and I never stole anybody’s boyfriend and I never ran out on a girlfriend, and I put up with my parents’ shit and my brother’s shit, and I’m not a girl anyhow, I’m over forty fucking years old, and I’m good at my job and I’m great with kids and I held my mother’s hand when she died, after four years of holding her hand while she was dying, and I speak to my father every day on the telephone— every day, mind you, and what kind of weather do you have on your side of the river, because here it’s pretty gray and a bit muggy too? It was supposed to say “Great Artist” on my tombstone, but if I died right now it would say “such a good teacher/ daughter/ friend” instead; and what I really want to shout, and want in big letters on that grave, too, is F**K YOU ALL."
And lots of great, insightful writing along the way (e.g., "And yet, while I left their home feeling welcomed, even loved, it was a different, smaller sort of love than I’d wanted— not so much a glacier or a fireworks display as a light shawl against an evening breeze. Recognizably love, but useless in a gale.")
And a fabulously strong surprise ending.
The problem was that much of the middle--and by middle I mean the large majority of the book--did not grab me. The story is about a 40-something single woman third grade teacher who becomes obsessed with the family of a new student--individually with each of the mother, father and child and collectively with them as a unit. In the course of this she discovers just how angry she is and rediscovers her love of art and expression. All of this is fascinating, the archetype Messud creates will be a lasting contribution, but much of the book itself is about the relationship between the narrator's art and the art installation project being undertaken by the woman she is obsesses with, and much of this was disappointing and unengaging, especially when compared to the white hot opening.
And lots of great, insightful writing along the way (e.g., "And yet, while I left their home feeling welcomed, even loved, it was a different, smaller sort of love than I’d wanted— not so much a glacier or a fireworks display as a light shawl against an evening breeze. Recognizably love, but useless in a gale.")
And a fabulously strong surprise ending.
The problem was that much of the middle--and by middle I mean the large majority of the book--did not grab me. The story is about a 40-something single woman third grade teacher who becomes obsessed with the family of a new student--individually with each of the mother, father and child and collectively with them as a unit. In the course of this she discovers just how angry she is and rediscovers her love of art and expression. All of this is fascinating, the archetype Messud creates will be a lasting contribution, but much of the book itself is about the relationship between the narrator's art and the art installation project being undertaken by the woman she is obsesses with, and much of this was disappointing and unengaging, especially when compared to the white hot opening.