The Optimist's Daughter

Even if you have chosen to remain silent out of respect for the dead, you cannot find true rest in that silence, as the dead do. I firmly believe that it is a matter of good etiquette not to attend a funeral, even when invited, if one is not deeply affected by the loss of the deceased or their close ones. After all, what is the point of having an indifferent crowd, engaged in idle gossip and tale-telling, when there are those who are truly mourning? Isn't it disrespectful to the dead? As it is, there is already enough friction among those who are genuinely grieving, which, for me, explains the argument in the last chapter. Mourning appears to be an intensely private affair that people are compelled to carry out in public.

The impersonal and distant narration, along with a great deal of conversation, has unfortunately made this book a two-star read. Although the description is realistic, it remains too much on the surface. It is only in the second-last chapter that the rating begins to improve as we are allowed to enter the mind of the protagonist, Laurel, and learn about her relationship with her father. Only then can I truly understand the motives behind her actions. It is one of those novels that are best appreciated in hindsight.

The same can be said about Fay. Marrying a rich man twice her age, hiding the existence of her family, and her overly melodramatic ways - she does not seem to elicit much sympathy. In this regard, she is similar to Edith from Stoner. Since the suffering that has made her this way remains hidden (with only some subtle hints provided), she comes across as a villain.

"You don’t know the way to fight.” She squinted up one eye. “I had a whole family to teach me.”

While I do have a tendency to take my sweet time meandering towards a review after finishing a book, often spending days stewing over my thoughts before taking the perfectionist's path of laboring over my words or slapping some observations together and hoping no one notices the flaws. Trying to sort out what I want to say about The Optimist's Daughter was an especially arduous task. It wasn't until Mark, who is often just what I need to pry a stubborn thought loose, left a comment on the in-progress version of this review that I saw where the difficulties lay.

The problem wasn't, as I initially thought, the hard truth that it's extremely difficult to talk about a much-loved book beyond simply exclaiming how amazing it is. It's that I've been trying to use my head to approach a book that I felt almost entirely in my heart. (And also because I'm paralyzed by the fear of sounding corny in a public forum, which made even considering typing the previous confession hard.)

Let me try to explain my emotional state during most of my reading of The Optimist's Daughter. I recently spent an evening with my little brother, his girlfriend, and some other great people celebrating my future sister-in-law's 21st birthday. My brother has more issues with our parents than I do, but we usually vent about our messed-up family whenever we're together. However, this was a happy occasion, so we kept the griping to a minimum. I tend to clam up about our family problems around my brother's girlfriend because her mother died when she was 14, and her father and stepfather didn't treat her well.

Later, since my husband and I live close to a bar, we went for a midnight drink on our way home. I'm usually comfortable talking about life as a self-appointed orphan, but my husband is still reluctant to bring up the topic. Even after listening to my brother and me complain about our parents, it wasn't until after a few drinks that my husband asked if the wound of cutting off ties with my family still hurts. But I don't miss what I never had, and there's no pain where there's no feeling left. I didn't grow up with the love I now feel with my husband's family, and it made me realize how much my brother and his girlfriend have only each other, me, and their friends. It makes me feel terrible for them because I've been lucky enough to have a second chance at experiencing a close-knit family.

It was with this mindset and self-inflicted guilt that I approached a significant part of Eudora Welty's Pulitzer Prize-winning novel. Laurel, a 40-something widow, has watched her mother die and now stands by helplessly as her father succumbs to old age. She is left with her young stepmother, hometown friends and neighbors, and a house full of memories as she tries to make sense of life without the safety net of unconditional love.

Please don't misunderstand: This is not a novel that relies solely on bland sentimentality. The writing is superb. I used to believe that anyone who didn't use as many words as possible was not trying hard enough, but Raymond Carver has changed my perspective. This book alone would have been enough to silence the stubborn biases of my youth. Welty rivals Carver in her ability to pack a powerful punch with just enough detail to guide the reader through the narrative while leaving so much unsaid, allowing the reader to contemplate the implications and attach their own personal meanings.

The sadness and loss in this book are palpable, and it's Laurel's histrionic, selfish, and unlikeable stepmother, Fay, who provides an outlet for all that pent-up emotion. Fay reminded me so much of my mother that I wanted to pound the book against something in frustration for Laurel. While Laurel is coming to terms with her parents' place in her life and their significance to each other, Fay runs off with her equally insufferable family as if the death of a spouse is something to be overcome with a shopping spree and a pedicure. The final confrontation between the two women is satisfying because grief and loss are not tidy processes.

Even with an ending that some may find flawed, The Optimist's Daughter is a beautiful and human book that shows what great writing can do. It's a book that I couldn't approach academically; it needs to be savored and marveled at. Its sharp edges should leave a few cuts and reopen old wounds. Above all, it's a book that should be felt to be fully appreciated.