As a writer with very particular tastes in what I read, dissecting the work of others is an occupational hazard. Let me preface my review by saying three things. First, I found Phillips' latest novel to be entirely satisfying and complex. Second, I pay close attention to the significance of titles and found this one to be particularly poignant. Third, the comments that follow reveal key aspects of the story, so please stop here, for now, if you are yet to read this book and wish to discover all of these details on your own.
The nonlinear structure of this story has the effect of mirroring one’s thought process. It is a perfect vehicle for sharpening focus on the life of Keith Gordon as the story of his life unfolds. Keith is the child of West Indian immigrants who succumbed to the lure of England as a better way of life. Keith is a successful social worker whose journey involves eroding the borders that he has placed around his emotions. These limitations lead to a divorce instigated by his response to midlife crisis, in the form of a fling with a younger woman named, Yvette, who just happens to report to him at work. The other partner in the divorce is his wife, Annabelle, who is also the mother of their rebellious son, Laurie.
At the beginning of this novel, one of the biggest story questions is what causes Keith to be so detached from everyone he meets. Many of his actions are illogical, which serve to validate the extent of his being at odds with his own process of aging. Perhaps the greatest example of this behavior is his infatuation with Danuta, a young Polish woman, who he meets at a library while doing research for a book about African American musicians.
Keith’s indiscretion with Yvette causes him to be suspended from his job. As he loses interest in reclaiming it, it seems that his instincts might have told him that his life was about to change to a very great degree. Unsure what to do with himself while not working in his office, he ventures north to see his father from whom he has always been estranged. Before long, his father becomes gravely ill and reveals the story of his life to Keith in extended streams of consciousness that are entirely compelling.
Phillips has written a masterpiece that adds handsomely to his body of work on the subject of diaspora, characteristically dealing with the intricacies of race with tremendous skill. As an exemplary study of character motivations, In the Falling Snow convincingly addresses the big-picture themes of midlife emotions and behaviors; adolescence; race; work/life purpose/artistic pursuits; responsiblity; dreams and aspirations; and above all family, in the splendor of its considerable imperfections. This contemplative novel leaves the reader with the feeling that each character does the best that they can, given their respective circumstances, which renders them entirely sympathetic.
2 comments:
Reading "In the Falling Snow" was a difficult and necessary journey. You see, I was stripped of the safety of simply being a reader and morphed into several characters as the story unfolded. And by "characters" I mean more than the obvious and not-so-obvious people. For example, the book manuscript, that Keith may or may not complete, is also a character as is the incessantly falling snow.
Falling snow. It can be stealthy. You can go to bed with barely a trace on the ground and awake to snow so deep that opening your front door (assuming that you live on ground level) is virtually impossible. When did that happen? What were the signals? How could such a life-changing event take place so quickly and quietly? Sometimes falling snow comes at your face at a diagonal and renders it impossible to see. Your face and eyes feel like they are being sandblasted. Falling snow gathers on the shoulders making it hard to walk. It can gather a little at a time and it's easy to get used to the feeling of it. The persistent presence of it. The cold can radiate from our shoulders to our arms to our spines and from there, branch out to our extremities. It's easy to seek relief in relationships that don't appear to make any sense, wine and other liquids while we carry around essential stuff like unfinished manuscripts (representative of incomplete lives) tucked under our arms. One problem. The African diaspora does not, for the most part, include places where snow is prevalent.
The book presents several questions for me. Perhaps the most salient is: where does my father's story end and mine begin? When will I unstrap the piano that I've been lugging around on my back and play my own tune on the instrument of my choice? I don't know. Maybe that's why my back hurts now. Maybe that's why I plan to move to a place where snow can be seen at a distance. Of course there's more. There always is. Maybe the trick is to see where we are, appreciate how and why we have come to this place and accept the notion that awareness of the present moment is required to take the next step. Oh. It is true that one will walk in circles if lost in the woods. Not being lost means knowing where you are. The next step will take care of itself. In fact, it has already happened. These are some of the thoughts and feelings generated by "In the Falling Snow." I suggest that you read it. It will not be an easy, fun read. But read it. You'll be stronger and clearer if you do and chances are pretty good that you'll survive the reading.
Dear Kenny,
I particularly love your line, "Not being lost means knowing where you are."
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