I read this book years ago, and I also saw the movie. Sadly, I'm seeing the actors faces now as I listen to this book. I'm re-reading (listening) because my fiance just finished it and he loved it so much. I realized I'd forgotten everything, or added Irving elements to the story that don't exist. So in I go again. Will send details from the field.....


So I finally finished this book, and Irving truly is amazing. I love watching him work. There are threads in this novel I thought he'd dropped entirely, but now--I'm just not good at spotting them. There they all were, tied up at the end. The story seems to be two pieces, but it isn't. He's funny and smart, the best type of writer to read. I wish all his books were like this one.

All his life he would hold this moment as exemplary of what love was. It was not wanting anything more, nor was it expecting people to exceed what they had just accomplished; it was simply feeling so complete.
*
There are moments when time does stop. We must be alert enough to notice such moments . . .

John Irving has yet again created a whole world between the covers of a novel. Characters grow old with the reader, experience lust and loss, love and life. The thoughtfulness of his every detail and the concise placement of every word create a landscape more vivid than reality
One of the interesting topics of conversation in A Widow for One Year involves the main character’s attitude towards autobiographical fiction. Irving’s protagonist, world-famous author Ruth Cole, gives one hope that the powers of the imagination can compensate for lacking experience. Or, as would seem the case with my imagination, compensate for inobservance. When Ruth doubts her imagination and seeks real-life research for inspiration, she finds that reality is rarely as scripted and contained as her fiction. Appropriately enough, even her harsh reality is just a construct of Irving (although I am not familiar enough with him to know if it comes from his imagination or not). Ruth vehemently criticizes a journalistic tendency to mirror one’s stories on autobiography; yet one wonders how many of Irving’s repeat themes stick with him due to his personal history.

One aspect of A Widow for One Year that struck a chord (other than the glorious title) was the fact that, except for on a few rare occasions, the characters did not change. A love-struck boy, aged into his fifties, carries his idealized boyhood obsession throughout his adulthood. A philandering husband merely morphs into a philandering divorcé, and a woman bearing the sadness of the world carries it with her throughout self-inflicted exile. A whorish best friend does not let life jade her into changing, although she may at times feel a twinge of regret for the innocent pleasures she forfeits. In the end, who has changed? The characters have perhaps learned to understand each other, but doesn’t the understanding they receive allow them to sink ever deeper into the comfort of their own well-established personalities?
I also had the pleasure of watching the movie based on the beginning third of this book, entitled A Door in the Floor (starring Kim Basinger and Jeff Bridges). I thought it wise to focus solely on the exposition (if it could even be given such a flippant categorization), which in itself contained more that is real than your typical reader’s life. Although I would eventually become quite fond of our 30-something female protagonist who does not appear until the latter two-thirds, the episodes surrounding her during that fateful childhood summer are certainly what establish the story’s weight and depth of feeling. Ruth’s ability to create such powerful memories of family members that have only ever existed in photographs is a testament to the power of the imagination – both Ruth’s and John Irving’s.

4.5/5

Knyga knygoje. Ir tada dar viena. Ir dar. Ir dienoraštis, ir laiškas, ir gimimo, ir mirties liudijimas. Knyga apie knygas. Apie gyvenimą, bet ar ne visos jos šiaip tokios? Apie tėvus ir dukras, mamas ir sūnus, prostitutes ir policininkus, seksą ir mirtį, smūgius – gyvenimo ar tų, su kuriais jame susiduri. Kartais net neaišku, kurie daužo stipriau. Apie nuotraukas ir randus, Raudonųjų žibintų kvartalą ir skvošą, vaikus ir vairavimo pamokas, alkoholį ir žmogžudystes, iškrypėlius ir nepavojingai išprotėjusius, rašančius širdimi ir rašančius protu.

Irvingo tekstuose lengva paskęsti. Tuose Dikensiškuose smulkmeniškuose aprašymuose, niuansų narstymuose ir žmonių bei vietų skrodimuose, pasikartojimuose ir pasikartojimų pergalvojimuose. Bet Našlė mane užliūliavo nuo pat pirmųjų puslapių – talentingai papasakota istorija, vietomis tokia amerikietiškai pagreitį pagavusiai bestseleriška, vietomis tokia giliai vieniša ir skausminga, beveik skandinaviškai šalta ir lėta, britiškai juokinga, daniškai pamatuotai laisva. Rusiškai matrioškiška: tik ir spėk gaudyti kiekvieną istoriją istorijoje, veikėją akimis Irvingo, akimis skaitytojo, akimis paties veikiančiojo. Irvingo talentas parodyti tuos pačius poelgius ir tuos pačius žmones iš tokių skirtingų pusių, kaip parodo gal nebent pats gyvenimas. Ir per 640 puslapių nelieka nei vieno neišnarstyto kaulelio, nei vieno pradėto ir į tobulą piešinį nesusidėliojančio potepio: net tie, kurie atrodo beprasmiai, galiausiai vis tiek randa savo vietą dėlionėje, tokioje nerūpestingai smulkmeniškoje, kad tik toks pat nerūpestingai smulkmeniškas skaitytojas gali jame atrasti neišsemiamą malonumą.

Ir tai vienas tų atvejų, kur kaip ir gyvenime, išsisprendžia tik kai kas, o ir viskas ne taip, kaip norėtumei. Ir net atrodo, kad Irvingas gale pagaili skaitytojo, net šiek tiek Holivudiškai. Nebūtina, bet gestas gražus. Saldi užuomina, vis tiek negalinti paneigti viso skausmo, kuriuo kiek nerūpestingai, bet vis tiek reikšmingai persunktas kiekvienas Našlės puslapis. Bet negalėčiau nei visiems, nei daugeliui rekomenduoti. Daug humoro, kuris dažnam gali pasirodyti per piktas. Daug purvo, kuris niekada nenusiplauna. Daug tokio gyvenimo, apie kurį nenorime galvoti ir kuriame baisu atpažinti save ir savus. Daug veikėjų, kurių iki galo niekas neleidžia pamilti, daug klausimų, į kuriuos vis tiek reikės atsakyti pačiam, net jei kartu praleidote 640 puslapių. Bet mėgavausi kiekvienu jų ir jaučiuosi tobulai užbaigusi 2020-uosius.

Couldn't finish it -- I got about halfway through it (and a tedious slog it was) when I realized I could just stop. It is rare that I leave a book unfinished, but I just couldn't make myself care about the plot or the characters. Reading it became a chore. There were a few funny lines, but overall, the story was dull.

And I love John Irving! But maybe I only love his earlier works. Cider House Rules is in my to-read pile, and I have greater hopes for that novel.

We were spending three weeks in Amsterdam, so I decided to reread one of my favorite Irving novels, partly set in that fantastic city. And A Widow for One Year remains a great read. The two separate stories are beautifully plotted, and I'm once again grateful that the first section was adapted to screen by itself as The Door in the Floor rather than an attempt to squeeze in the entire sprawling plot.

Irving tells sweeping, Dickensian stories with clear arcs and callbacks and resolutions; the journey on which he takes the reader is a guided one, with sights pointed out and narrated. Which is all good and bad—the experience is tremendously satisfying, with nary a loose end untied, but implausibilities are brushed off if they add symmetry. To cite only one example, nearly every major character here is not only a writer—indeed, they're almost all novelists—but a successful writer, making a decent or better living at it despite entire careers of mostly chewing over the same autobiographical material. There's no way that in the real world, Eddie and Marion could be professional novelists—something that Irving practically acknowledges in his startlingly candid reading-guide notes for the novel—but it works for the story, so ¯_(ツ)_/¯.

Beyond that, I was struck this reading by the attention Irving lavishes on his female characters' breasts, not only when he introduces each woman but every time, as though every male character's gaze, and ours, is permanently fixed at chest level. Up here, John.

This was a bit too contrived, and part three seemed a bit short-changed compared to the other two parts. But it was still a good read and a good story. A John Irving story, no less. In that regard, the three stars are on the Irving scale. (I was spoiled with Owen Meany.) For the next day or so, if I seem to be in a bit of a dazed funk, you'll have to excuse me. It's just my John Irving hangover.

This is my first encounter with John Irving and it had to be such a disappointing one! And I was so looking forward to reading A Prayer for Owen Meany - which I will, in the end, but not immediately, for I must recover from this reading, first :D.

The best of this book is its title (although Martin Amis beat him with his Pregnant Widow), the rest of it looks like an overgrown parody of the omniscient narrator of the 19th century, with his endless foreshadowings, forewarnings and forebodings (quite tiring after a while). Even the narrative is too dry and almost too clean, if I can say so.

The story itself is so symmetric and predictable that it loses on the way its tragicomical intent and becomes simply boring - for me at least.

It is only because I caught glimpses of a true writer behind this somehow wanting novel I will try another book by him.

I enjoyed the first maybe 120 pages. Then it really started getting on my nerves. The italics. My god, the italics! (and the parentheses.) It had been 25 or so years since I'd read an Irving book, and I'd loved Garp and Owen Meany. This brick I picked up at a library sale and for a while it had been elevating my laptop until one day I thought maybe I should actually read the book. I opened it and found one of the main characters has the same first name as mine, so I continued.
I did enjoy some of this book but kept wondering what happened to the editor that this was what went to press. I could go on with examples of my issues and disappointment, but suffice it to say it was better as a prop for my laptop.

I saw a trailer for the film based on this book, and decided I should read it again before seeing it. I love LOVE John Irving. I love what his mind comes up with. There are very few books that I am willing to re-read, but John Irving’s books are some of the few.

I was looking at the reviews on Amazon and a lot of people were getting down on the book. Because it “wasn’t realistic” - “just didn’t ring true” Fiction, people. Do we understand the concept? It’s NOT true. It’s a story, that someone wrote. Fiction. For entertainment purposes.

Funny (not funny Ha-ha, but funny queer) that quite a bit of this book in particular is about that. About an author who is being criticized for not being REAL enough, her fight to say that her books aren’t autobiographical. BUT JUST STORIES.

Maybe the character’s didn’t react realistically, but - to me, at least - that is OK!

Yet another great book by Mr. Irving. If you haven’t read him, go. GO now! THE HOTEL NEW HAMPSHIRE is one of my very favorite books. Ever. And THE CIDER HOUSE RULES, THE 158 POUND MARRIAGE, A PRAYER FOR OWEN MEANY, THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP. You cannot go wrong with John.

After giving it a second chance, I can safely say I am considerably underwhelmed. To some extent, I liked the writing, but I really, really abhorred the story and, most importantly, the characters. There was not even half a person I sympathized with. Basically, there were only two types of people. The mind-numbingly stupid female and the sex-seeking shallow male. Seriously?

This book was recommended to me after I'd asked some fictional work about a writer. This seemed more like a soft pornographic story about a girl who at some point in her life became a writer. Puh-lease. If I was an editor, I would have easily shaved off 300 pages prior to publication.

It's no wonder the film adaptation only covers the first part of the three. Having people leave in the middle of a movie would be bad advertising. Good call.

A few years ago my dad gave me this book, and I gave up on it because the first third of the novel is just awful, self-absorbed people who commit a lot of statutory rape. Then my mom handed me this book, and I thought if both my parents are recommending it there must be some redeeming quality to this story. So I stuck with it. Turns out, there is just more rape.

Ruth is the main character who has really big breasts, if you were wondering. You weren't? Don't worry, the amount of times they are mentioned could fill a sequel. Ruth seems to inherit her father's misogyny. She has one female friend, Hannah, who Ruth doesn't even like. Hannah has no noticeable characteristics besides the fact that she likes sex, which makes her the most boring character in the novel. Ruth, who takes after both of her parents, also has a thing for teenagers, but she doesn't technically have sex with a teenager so that makes everything okay? I'm not going to bother tearing apart the other characters because literally, everything about this book is sexual shame.

I once had a teacher take an entire period to tell a joke. The joke lasted 40 minutes and was not funny. That experience is basically a less painful version of this book. The ending is a punch line. I seriously put myself through an entire novel of miserable people being miserable for no discernible reason other than a f***ing punchline.