This book is narrated by Ruth, and it commences with a concise family history. Her eccentric maternal grandfather's tragic demise leaves an indelible mark on the family. Her grandmother, in her own unique way, endeavors to cope with the sorrow and raise her children. Among them are the three sisters, and Helen is Ruth's mother. After yet another tragedy, Ruth and her sister Lucille are brought up by their grandmother. They grow up semi-isolated from the rest of the small town of Fingerbone and are constantly drawn to the town's lake, which is the source of the family's tragedy. When Ruth's grandmother passes away, and after a brief period with their grandfather's relatives, their aunt Sylvie arrives to be their guardian.

Sylvie is one of the most captivating and enigmatic characters I have ever encountered in literature. She is a rare breed, a woman whom Ruth describes as a transient. Sylvie finds joy in riding trains and traveling around without any indication of permanence or stability. The two sisters have different reactions. Lucille attempts to resist Sylvie by cleaning and striving for a more ordinary life, while Ruth is initially both drawn to and scared of her.

A Doris Lessing blurb on the back page of my copy informs me that "this is not a novel to be hurried through, for every sentence is a delight." This brief and accurate statement perfectly encapsulates this book.

After finishing a challenging yet excellent book, I desired to read something that flowed more smoothly and demanded less effort from me. I should have known better than to approach "Housekeeping" with this mindset. As I attempted to rush through the book, I was tripped up by the exquisitely crafted sentences and plunged right into the richness of the story. Each time I managed to disentangle myself and stubbornly rise again, I would be caught and stumble once more. Eventually, in a sense, the book compelled me to slow down and engage in a more perceptive reading. It is a difficult read, dealing with themes such as death, loss, abandonment, family, loneliness, and independence. Nevertheless, it is a truly wonderful read.

Fingerbone was never an impressive town. It was chastened by an outsized landscape and extravagant weather, and chastened again by an awareness that the whole of human history had occurred elsewhere. This quote really hit the nail on the head for me regarding this book. Oh dear, indeed. My mind simply couldn't stay focused on it. It was excruciatingly dull. I found myself completely unable to work up any enthusiasm for the characters or the storyline. In fact, I'm not even sure there was a proper storyline. It seemed to just meander along aimlessly. I really struggle to admit defeat, but unfortunately, this one has ended up on my DNF (Did Not Finish) shelf. It's a pity, really, because I was hoping for something more engaging and captivating. But alas, this book just didn't do it for me.

Two things you should know about my thoughts on Housekeeping:

1) I firmly believe that Housekeeping is an outstanding book. It delves deep into the human psyche and explores themes of loss, identity, and the complex nature of relationships. The author's writing style is both beautiful and challenging, requiring the reader to pay close attention and often reread passages to fully understand the profound ideas being presented.

2) Completing Housekeeping gave me a tangible sense of relief. The book is not an easy read, and at times, I found myself struggling to keep up with the intense emotions and the dark, brooding atmosphere. However, once I reached the end, I felt a sense of accomplishment and a deeper understanding of the human condition.

Housekeeping is indeed darker and more intense than the author's better-known Gilead. It is a tougher read, but one that is well worth the effort. Even the most careful reader will likely find herself returning to certain passages to fully appreciate the beauty and complexity of the language.

While I don't regret reading this tough and rewarding novel, there were moments when I felt like I was reading it more out of a sense of duty than for pure enjoyment. The exploration of loss, depth, and identity is both caliginous and meticulous, and while I would gladly recommend Housekeeping to anyone up for such a challenging journey, I would also be sure to point out that it won't be an easy ride.

Despite this, I'm giving the book four stars, which is more than I give to most books. I might even read it again someday, as it seems like the type of book that reveals new layers of meaning with each reading. Although the psychological and metaphorical explorations are intense, the book will haunt me in ways that I can appreciate for the foreseeable future. So, if you're up for a challenging and thought-provoking read, I highly recommend checking out Housekeeping. But be warned, it won't be an easy journey.

I'm going to throw the gauntlet down and say that I thought this book was terribly overrated.

So many of my friends, whose taste I've come to respect, recommended it to me. However, all the critics from 1980 seemed amazed that this was a debut. To me, it seemed like a first novel.

The thing that people praise most about the book was the beauty of her language. I'll admit that there were some wonderful passages and great imagery. But there was also just as much "writerly" prose, overwritten prose, and pyrite prose. I felt like I was possessed by the spirit of George Orwell as I read poor word choices again and again. For example, "achromatic" for "colorless" and "simulacra" for "semblance". These words are not poetic substitutes but verge on jargon. And "blandishment"? Come on. That's about as poetic as "esophagus".

I also thought the philosophical meanderings of Ruthie bordered on pretentiousness. Her statements like "So memory pulls us forward, so prophecy is only brilliant memory--there will be a garden where all of us as one child will sleep in our mother Eve, hooped in her ribs and staved by her spine" seemed to stifle what little story there was. And let's not forget that these ideas could never have come from the mind of Ruthie, whether she was a teenager or older. One who spends her days trying desperately to be ignored and can barely speak does not later become a meditator on memory and the Garden of Eden.

I probably would have been more forgiving of the novel in these aspects if I thought there was a strong story. But there isn't. Instead, Robinson decided that a gauzy, limp tale of loss would preclude the need for any kind of sustained dramatic tension. We are treated to uninspiring characters with no real redeeming qualities. The only dynamo in the story is Lucille, but because of her conforming attitude, we are distanced from identifying with her. Instead, we get to hang out with Ruthie, the world's most inactive protagonist.

Now, I will qualify everything. I will say that I did enjoy chapters 4-8. I actually enjoyed them a lot. The conflict between the two sisters was wonderful. But a good middle does not make a good book. The first two chapters were all but unnecessary--drawn out exposition that could easily have been woven into the rest of the book--and the ending just fell flat. What was Robinson trying to say? That grief makes you drift? That the power of memory can drag you towards oblivion? I think my frustration stems partly from dashed hopes that the ending would unite and triumph. Instead, I was left with a handful of images, nothing more.

GAWDAWFUL. ANNOYING. BORING.

“She looked as if the nimbus of humanity were fading away and she were turning monkey.”—page 24.

This is quite probably the worst novel I’ve ever read. The writing is so dull and uninteresting that it makes me want to tear my hair out.

If I thought for a moment that Marilynne Robinson’s novel, ‘Housekeeping’, was anywhere near the best that reading had to offer, I’d very quickly become an avid fan of television. But alas, it is not.

Recommendation: Get that root canal you’ve been putting off. That’d be a more entertaining use of your time than reading this novel. Seriously, you’d be better off doing just about anything else.

[nook eRead #37] from Barnes and Noble, 153 pages too many. It feels like a never-ending slog through a swamp of mediocrity. I would not recommend this novel to anyone, unless they have a masochistic streak and enjoy being tortured by bad literature.

The article "Le cure domestiche" by Marilynne Robinson offers a profound exploration of family, abandonment, and the search for identity. The story follows Ruth and Lucille, two sisters who have endured a series of losses and upheavals. Raised first by their grandmother and then by various female relatives, they have learned to be constantly vigilant and attuned to their surroundings. When their aunt Sylvie arrives, she brings with her a new set of challenges and opportunities. Sylvie, a former hobo and vagabond, has a very different approach to life than the rest of the family. Her lack of concern for domestic chores and her openness to the natural world gradually transform the sisters' understanding of what it means to be part of a family and a community. As the story unfolds, we see the sisters struggle to come to terms with their past and their present, and to find a way forward that is true to themselves.

” Avevamo passato la nostra vita a osservare e ascoltare con l’attenzione costante e acuta di bambine perse nel buio.”

The opening line of the article sets the tone for the rest of the story. It emphasizes the sisters' sense of isolation and their need to be constantly on guard. This theme of abandonment and the search for security is explored throughout the article, as we see the sisters move from one caretaker to another. Each new situation brings with it a new set of challenges and uncertainties, and the sisters must learn to adapt and survive.

The description of Fingerbone, the small town where the story takes place, is also very evocative. The town is depicted as a place that is both beautiful and harsh, with its wild landscapes and extreme climate. The fact that it is located on the banks of a lake and crossed by a railway line gives it a sense of being both isolated and connected to the outside world. This duality is reflected in the characters themselves, who are both part of the town and yet somehow apart from it.

Overall, "Le cure domestiche" is a powerful and moving story that explores some of the most fundamental aspects of human existence. It is a story about family, love, loss, and the search for meaning in a chaotic and unpredictable world. Marilynne Robinson's writing is both lyrical and profound, and she has a remarkable ability to bring her characters to life and make us care about them deeply. This article is a must-read for anyone who is interested in exploring the human condition and the power of literature to touch our hearts and minds.

Fingerbone. It's a town where there's nothing. Or rather, there's one thing: the lake. It stretches long and silent beneath the coal-black railway bridge. And if you're tired of the stillness, you can get up and visit Fingerbone. You can pour out the basements, and even on the ground floor, you can fry the salty eggs only in rubber boots at this time. He is the lord here, who demands sacrifices for himself. Sometimes he takes away a house, sometimes a train carriage, sometimes a car. Here live Ruth and Lucille, the two orphans. Their grandfather and mother were also called by the lake. Their aunt Sylvie arrives as their substitute, but not everything is in tune with her either. She looks too much into nothingness, as if she would most willingly go somewhere already. She sleeps with her shoes under the bed, in her clothes, like a tramp. Maybe because she is a tramp.

The characters in Robinson's novel are women, and we can only logically infer the existence of the fathers from the fact that they somehow had to give birth to the daughters. (Besides, the sheriff also makes statistics, but there really isn't a single male in sight.) The conflict, so to speak, is meager and actually exhausted in the fact that the girls react differently to Sylvie's peculiar attitude, to that wordless longing that determines her behavior in the house. Their aunt lacks even the shadow of stability. She acts and reacts as if she is actually not there or shouldn't be there. Ruth accepts this and submits to the shabby domestic homelessness, but Lucille longs for something conventional. For a real family, for real relationships, for something to which she can attach herself. If Sylvie is not suitable for this, then she is capable of leaving even to the point of separation. And we have no idea whose side we should be on. Lucille's, so that she can succeed in breaking into normality? Or Sylvie's, so that she can keep the family together? There is no answer.

It's a fine, yet strong book that is able to uncover complex emotional relationships even with half sentences. The backdrops (the portrayal of Fingerbone), the story, and the language support each other so beautifully that one can't believe this is the work of a beginner writer. For me, the Gilead trilogy is still my favorite, but I was also impressed by this one.

My niece Esther presented me with this book as a gift earlier this year. She and I have a penchant for the same kinds of books, often sharing recommendations and discoveries. However, I must admit that she took a leap into the unknown with this one.

It could have been a disastrous choice. The book is odd, unsettling, and meandering, filled with half-formed concepts and views. The first-person narration, though, is a stroke of genius, not always the case. As the reader, you see the world through the eyes of the older sister, Ruth, as she meets, is confused by, and gradually drawn in by her auntie Sylvie. Meanwhile, the younger sister and the rest of the townsfolk look on askance and outraged.

You struggle to follow the story's flow, grappling with the details given, those seen in the half-light, those misunderstood, and those that only make sense in hindsight. It's a story of love and loss, far from the cliché it might seem. It's a beautiful exploration of what true love and family are, and who is best placed to make decisions about another's future. It's a sad story, not one of disaster or deep tragedy, but one that vibrates with an underlying sadness that never quite leaves.

The story is powerful and thought-provoking, its poetic flow striking. The grey color that hovers and cloaks the narrative is apt. The cover photograph is one of the cleverest I've seen in a long time, imaging the story and fulfilling the cliché of a book you'll reflect on long after closing it. The cover makes you do just that.

There is poetry in these pages. "If every house in Fingerbone were to fall before our eyes, snuffling every light, the event would touch our senses as softly as shifting among embers and then the bitter darkness would step nearer." At the heart of the book lies a trembling fear of annihilation just beyond the next shadow. "Each particular tree, and its season and its shadow, were utterly known to me, likewise the small desolations of forgotten lilies and irises, likewise the silence of the railroad tracks in the sunlight." The isolation of loneliness and the potential future if the circle is broken. "And then the sun flung a long shaft over the mountain, and another, like a long-legged insect bracing itself out of its chrysalis, and then it showed above the black crest, bristly and red and improbable." This is one of the most amazing descriptions of sunrise I've ever read. "The horns of the ferries made huge, delicate sounds like cows lowing. They should have left a milky breath in the air." A ridiculous image that works. "It was as if she righted herself continually against some current that never ceased to pull. She swayed continuously, like a thing in the water, and it was graceful, a slow dance, a sad and heavy dance." The ebb and flow of society's norms and the pull of a different future.

At its core, the novel challenges us to ask: what is normal? Who decides and who enforces? Ultimately, what destruction in relationships can that straitjacket sometimes cause, even as it aims for the good?

I initially came across Housekeeping in an airport bookstore. The moment I laid eyes on it, I was intrigued. However, when I saw the price they were asking, which was more than the full retail price, I just couldn't bring myself to pay that much.

It took me a good few months to finally remember to order the book. And now, looking back, I regret not getting it sooner on several levels.

The story within the pages of Housekeeping is dark and oddly twisted. Marilynne Robinson has an uncanny ability to suck the reader into this strange and captivating world.

Even now, every time I see Housekeeping sitting on my bookshelf or think of it, it manages to haunt me. It has left such a profound impression that it continues to linger in my mind, making me want to pick it up and read it again and again.

It's truly a remarkable piece of literature that I'm glad I finally added to my collection.

I read the last pages of this novel with the urgency of going online to search. Then, by googling various combinations such as "Virginia Woolf" + "Housekeeping" (in this case, I suggest avoiding the original title "Housekeeping" because the search engine brings up a long list of citations from Woolf's "Good Housekeeping Essays").

I was seeking confirmation, rather than validation, of a proximity that I seemed to perceive more and more strongly since the appearance of Aunt Sylvie in the lives of the two sisters, Ruth and Lucille, who is then the truly memorable character of the work.

And indeed, how much of Virginia Woolf I found traced in her and in the underground movement of the story. I will limit myself to two constitutive aspects.

The pervasive idea of time that takes possession of houses and transforms them, making them precarious and suspended in a disorder and an accumulation of objects that speak of missing presences (Woolf, among other things, lost her mother when she was a child, approximately like the two girls in this novel), but which is also an affectionate confusion, a dialogue with the past. And in this sense, if the action of time has something vaguely mortifying, it can also be closely linked to life itself and its value in terms of experience (that "point of intersection of the timeless with time" that Thomas Eliot wrote about in the "Four Quartets").

And then there is water. So much, everywhere. In Robinson's novel, it is one of the main presences. There is the lake from which everything begins, there is the rain inside and outside the house, the snow, and again the lake that returns as a real and symbolic presence together: "And beneath (the water, ed.) is all the past that has been accumulating, that disappears but does not disappear, that perishes and remains."

As for Woolf, I think it is impossible not to immediately go to the evocation exerted by water both as a substance of inspiration (didactically: "To the Lighthouse", "The Waves") and as an attraction for a threshold to be crossed with life itself, up to those final steps filling the pockets with stones.

In short, so much water, so much time, and so much endured life, wandering, in an emotionally engaging and/but really beautiful novel. (And here I would be inclined to say: from housekeeping to the domestication of one's own "secret cures").

For completeness: the only interesting result yielded by the online search is an essay (at the bottom, the link) that analyzes the convergence of three great elements such as landscape, the feeling of lack, and memory, in three - and equally great - XX-century female writers. Virginia Woolf, Marilynne Robinson, and Toni Morrison.

http://acumen.lib.ua.edu/content/u001...

This is a remarkable piece of writing that has received high acclaim, as evidenced by the numerous lists and prizes it has won. It has also been a target of criticism, with some accusing it of being "women's prose" or of romanticizing poverty. However, I find much to appreciate in this work.

When she remembered that we were there and that we were children she sometimes tried to make her stories useful.

The author's writing style is reminiscent of Cormac McCarthy, with a rhythm that draws the reader in and a use of language that is both beautiful and powerful. The story is set in Idaho, a place that is both beautiful and harsh, and the characters are complex and well-developed.

So the transients wandered through Fingerbone like ghosts, terrifying as ghosts are because they were not very different from us.

One of the themes of the book is the idea of habitus, or the way in which our social environment shapes our behavior and beliefs. The author explores this theme through the experiences of the characters, who are all struggling to find their place in the world.

...just when I had got used to the limits and dimensions of one moment, I was expelled into the next and made to wonder again if any shapes hid in its shadows. That most moments were substantially the same did not detract at all from the possibility that the next moment might be utterly different. And so the ordinary demanded unblinking attention. Any tedious hour might be the last of its kind.

The prose in this book is both engaging and thought-provoking, and it has inspired me to think more deeply about the nature of time, memory, and identity. While I do not agree with all of the author's views, I respect her ability to present them in a way that is both compelling and accessible.

“What are you doing?” Lucille asked.
“This dictionary is full of pressed flowers,” I said.
“Grandpa.”
“He put lady’s slippers under O. Probably orchids.”
“Let me see that,” Lucille said. She took the book by each end of its spine and shook it. Scores of flowers and petals fell and drifted from between the pages. Lucille kept shaking until nothing more came, and then she handed the dictionary back to me. “Pinking shears,” she said.
“What will we do with these flowers?”
“Put them in the stove.”
“Why do that?”
“What are they good for?”

This passage, in particular, stands out for its vivid description and the way in which it captures the relationship between the two sisters. The actions and dialogue are simple yet effective, and they add depth and complexity to the story.

…just as the wind in the orchard picks up the leaves from the ground as if there were no other pleasure in the world but brown leaves, as if it would deck, clothe, flesh itself in flourishes of dusty brown apple leaves, and then drops them all in a heap at the side of the house and goes on.

Overall, I would highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys thoughtful, well-written fiction. It is a modern classic that will continue to be relevant and engaging for years to come.

Different from most of the books that I've read recently, this novel stands out. Why? It is narrated in the present tense, making it feel as if you are witnessing the events unfold right before your eyes. This intrigued me, so I delved into the Wiki entry for this book. The style is called "transparent eyeball," pioneered by Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was a major influence on Marilynne Robinson (born 1943). Transparent eyeball is like communing with nature, not just looking at it with admiration but letting it take over your senses. According to Wiki, this style is typically used by transcendentalist authors like Emerson.

I am amazed at the multitude of writing styles possible. The more I read, the more I appreciate the diverse genres and styles that one can explore if serious about writing. Someday, I hope to write too and perhaps employ some of these styles I've encountered during my voracious reading years.

This is my second Robinson book. My first was her 1001 book, "Home" (4 stars). I recall that at several scenes in that book, I almost had tears in my eyes. I'm not sure if I'm past that stage now, as many good novels are sad. If I cried every time a book was sad, I might have gone crazy or become a wimp, considering how much I read. This book, "Housekeeping," though, failed to elicit the same sadness from me. It is more beautiful in its prose than in the tragic fate of its women characters. It is almost plot-less, focusing just on two sisters, Ruthie and Lucille, who are raised by two generations of women. The first generation is their widowed grandmother, Sylvia Foster, whose husband, Edmund Foster, dies at the start of the novel when the train he works on falls into the lake in Fingerbone. The second generation is their aunt, Slyvie, who takes over their custody when their grandmother dies. Their mother, Helen, committed suicide, which is only mentioned as a flashback in the story.

I like stories about women or novels centered on strong female characters. I grew up with strong women, from my astute businesswoman maternal grandmother to my mother, who would get the bolo in the kitchen and sharpen it when angry with my drunkard father. Maybe that's why I was attracted to my wife, as she is the type who wouldn't hesitate to ask for the manager if the service in a restaurant or bank is lousy. I love all these strong women in my life, so I sometimes can't understand why some people admire feminists when I've been surrounded by such women since childhood.

I'm not sure why this book is a Time 100 and not "Gilead," or why "Gilead" won the Pulitzer and not this, and why "Home" (which my friends in TFG say seems to be an extension of "Gilead") is a 1001 and not this. Robinson's writing style here is very different from that of "Home." This is more lyrical, poetic, and character-driven compared to the tearjerker and plot-driven "Home" and probably "Gilead" (to be read).

Nevertheless, I liked this book.