Flesh and Blood

I hate to think that Michael Cunningham is writing the same book over and over, because really, he isn't, but this one seemed like it had his "stock" characters. Strong, but quirky women, a gay man with some guilt over his sexuality, etc. Depressing at the end. Still a fairly decent book, but go pick up At Home At the End of the World for a much better read by him.

Napadlo mě, že Cunninghama by měl člověk číst 3x za život: ve dvaceti, ve čtyřiceti a v šedesáti. Pokaždé ale s rizikem, že za dar hlubokého příběhu a krásného jazyka zaplatí téměř zaručenou depresí. Nesnáším kecy o tom, jak zřejmé je, že tahle knížka vznikla před Hodinami, ale nepatrný posun tam přeci jen vidím - v Hodinách už téměř zmizela manýra, to rozšafné rozhazování génia, který chrlí tři originální slovní spojení (a myšlenky) na řádku; tady jsem se občas cítila zahlcená (napsat samoúčelné v souvislosti s MC mi přijde jako rouhání, ale lepší slovo mě nenapadá). Což nic nemění na faktu, že Michael je prostě hvězda.

Мощный семейный роман про то, как плоть и кровь ранят до последнего.

I haven't read anything by Cunningham I haven't liked yet; he's without a doubt one of my favourite authors. I was excited to dig into his take of a family saga, but I didn't expect it to be so good! It was one of those rare novels when you dread the ending, and you don't want to stop living in this world. So many POVs and I enjoyed all of them, I believed all of them. Yeah, Cunningham has his stock characters and archetypes that come up in all his stories, but while reading I don't mind. I still believe this family exists, and I feel even for the horrible people. A warning, though: this can be a rather bleak and depressing, even though it's also a celebration of life.

4.5 Crummey is fast becoming one of my favorite authors, and although this doesn't quite hit the heights of his 'Sweetland', it is still a terrific collection of his short stories, a format I don't usually much enjoy. These stories have a few interconnections (kind of like Strout's new 'Anything is Possible', which it reminded me of), and all but one take place in the tiny mining town of Black Rock, Newfoundland (the one exception concerns an ex-pat from there, living in China). Crummey started his literary output as a poet, and that certainly shows in the lyrical quality of his prose, which is often astonishing beautiful. There are a few clunkers, hence the 4.5 rating instead of a full five.

Be aware that there are TWO different editions: the one with the illustration of the house contains three additional stories, that are amongst the best in the collection (but has a more mundane cover than the gorgeous Lutz Dille photograph gracing the truncated one). I wound up buying copies of both in order to get the additional stories (both editions are OOP and carry a hefty price tag on the secondary market), but the first one is a signed edition - so I'm satisfied!

This seems like an apt way to complete my year of reading literary fiction. In 2021, I gave most books in this genre four stars. I liked them, really liked them even, but they weren’t transcendent for me.

Cunningham’s second published novel is a strong contender in the “liked it a lot but not transcendent” category. It’s a sprawling tome, covering 100 years (technically) in the lives of the Stassos family.

Constantine Stassos is a US immigrant from Greece, who marries first generation Italian American Mary Cuccio. He gets into the iffy subdevelopment business and is ultimately able to bring his family out of poverty and into a well-off life. He and Mary have three children—daughters Susan and Zoe and son Billy.

The book consists of several short chapters, told from various POVs from the family, and others, with the years as the headings. Yes, technically the book starts in 1935 and ends in 2035. But the bulk of the action takes place from the early 1960s to the mid-1990s. I would even argue that 2035 isn’t needed (Cunningham deliberately keeps the one futuristic chapter to a dialogue series. He certainly didn’t want to cart out the flying car predictions. :P) 1935 was ok, because it set Constantine up as a boy looking for purpose, and also the neglect and abuse he faced.

Constantine himself turns into an abusive father, particularly with regards to Billy. So, it was important to set him up as a human and offer some explanation, methinks, lest he just be written off as a monster. Cunningham does well with explaining, though not condoning, Con’s behavior with Billy, and with others. But the reality with Billy is especially fraught since Con is enmeshed in what contemporarily is called “toxic masculinity,” and Billy is a character who is slowly coming to terms with his homosexuality. Plus, there’s some generational differences with regards to class, materialism, and the state of the world.

The other characters, I think, are interesting, but not as well developed as Constantine and Billy (later Will in his adulthood.) I don’t necessarily think Cunningham did a piss poor job with any of them, though there is a spectrum. (Maybe second place for me on the plus side is the relationship between Mary and Cassandra, which I actually liked more than the relationship between Cassandra and Zoe. A fascinating take on womanhood, as a wannabe traditional society lady and a drag queen hash it out. Zoe and her son, Jamal, were a little too enigmatic for my tastes. I wish there was more meat on their bones.) I think it takes a lot to flesh out this amount of characters in dashed off chapters, even with the large amount of space here (my book was 465 pages.) It’s also interesting to compare this to his later work, I think. I most recently read BY NIGHTFALL, which is almost the opposite to this book, imho. It’s slight and it’s slice of life, certainly no sweeping epic. And yet Cunningham delved so completely into those characters.

Either way, as a younger writer in 1995 or as an older writer a couple decades later, he has style. This book in particular made me jealous for what Cunningham could do with exposition (I typed out a paragraph on Facebook) without bogging down the story in mediocrity.

I did have some problems with the climax. It was too operatic and “shocker” plot for me. Too convenient, in how threads came together. But I liked the “Six Feet Under”esque ending, where we rapidfire learn the fates of the Stassos family members. This, if anything, rendered the 2035 chapter unnecessary.

But yeah, good stuff overall! Made me think of who we are, what we want, and how our relationships and other concerns intercede with all of that. Nothing like some well done family drama. :D

Michael Cunningham’s best book to date offers a powerful examination of the American culture through the lives of a single family. The book spans several decades and has a rich, epic feel to it. Like all of Cunningham's novels "Flesh and Blood" constantly borders on the sentimental, but manages to feel true and realistic as it explores the deepest corners of its characters’ inner worlds.

“The world was made of mistakes, a thorny tangle, and no amount of cord, however fastidiously tied, could bind them all down.”

Michael Cunningham knows that the world is a big, messy place, full of chaos and danger. He knows that people are far from perfect, making huge blunders along the way. But he also loves people, despite all our faults. I just know he does. It comes across so beautifully in his writing; I often have to stop and close the book and catch my breath for a few moments after reading certain passages. I began my Cunningham journey at perhaps an unusual point compared to most readers when I picked up his non-fiction book titled Land’s End: A Walk in Provincetown. That piece left me so charmed I knew I’d have to trek beyond the tip of Cape Cod and into some of his other worlds. Grabbing next what was considered his masterpiece, The Hours, I had a niggling fear that I went in the wrong direction and would be disappointed in everything else thereafter. I was so wrong. Cunningham is more than just The Hours. So much more, friends!

He wanted to be happy in a solid, sustained way, hour to hour, not in turbulent little fits that gripped him at odd moments, usually when he was alone.

This is a saga of a family, the Stassos, beginning with the patriarch, Constantine, and then following the lives of his wife, Mary, and their three children, Susan, Billy (Will) and Zoe. We accompany them into adulthood, watch their growth (or lack thereof, in some cases), observe their dissatisfactions, groan at their errors, and weep at their misfortunes. There are several minor characters that Cunningham handles with equal depth, despite their more limited time in the spotlight. The family is full of imperfections. But Cunningham always makes us understand why his characters behave as they do. I was never left scratching my head trying to figure out why the hell they did this or that. Even while cursing certain actions, I nodded with an undoubting comprehension. It’s all here, the stuff of life: birth, death, marriage, infidelity, and sexual identity. Finding friendship and love in unexpected places. Our lives can be enriched by opening our hearts, embracing differences, setting aside preconceived expectations.

“… he wanted something that lay beyond simple vanity and the small, sour satisfactions it offered… Something was marrying him; something was lashing itself to his flesh.”

There’s one scene partway through this that caused me to set the book aside for a few minutes and take a deep breath. It was nothing remarkable on the surface. My mother, who was with me right then, said, “Uh oh. Someone must have died.” No, it wasn’t like that at all. For one moment, I was there in a room with the distraught mother, Mary, and a drag queen named Cassandra. In that instant, I WAS Mary and Cassandra both. I couldn’t put into words how I felt, other than to say the old cliché that reading truly can make you walk in someone else’s shoes. It is so hard to explain that moment of epiphany – one of the reasons why we in fact spend our precious time with our noses in books.

“It’s hard to live. It’s hard to keep walking around and change into new outfits all the time and not just collapse.”

I don’t know how Michael Cunningham does it. I really don’t. His writing has not yet failed to dazzle and leave me with a bundle of emotions that seep over into my everyday life. But someday, when I make that trip to Provincetown again, I’m going to roam the streets looking for his cottage. And I’m going to knock on his door and ask him. I have a feeling that he won’t turn me away. I don’t think he’s that kind of a guy.

“The light that fell from the limpid sky seemed almost visibly to be thawing the earth, and it was possible to imagine, on a day like this, that a huge rolling kindness, soft and unremarkable, more closely resembling human sentimentality than the more scourging benevolence of God, did in fact prevail in the world.”