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By now, every person I associate with on a regular basis knows how big a John Irving fan I am. It’s no secret that I think he is, arguably, the greatest living writer (with respect to Thomas Pynchon, Joyce Carol Oates, Toni Morrison, etc), and he has penned a number of modern American classics. I had read all the works from his “classic” period, except for one.
The Cider House Rules.
It was time to get rid of this blindspot.
I spent almost a week within the pages of this long novel. I spent a lot of time trudging the halls of St. Cloud’s orphanage with Doctor Larch and the nurses; my hands feel almost calloused from the months and years (or so it felt, at times) picking apples at the Ocean View orchard, with Homer and Angel and the migrants. Irving’s 1985 release almost totally took me back to the time he writes about: the first half of the twentieth century, in rural Maine country. The sense of setting perfectly evoked, able to swallow almost any reader.
Like every Irving novel, this is not a quick read. It unspools slowly — and Cider House seems to unspool even slower than this author’s other works; maybe it’s the long chapters — and forces the reader to have patience. All is worth it in the end.
I want to reread this book, or at least read about a world similar to this one. Maybe I’ll pick up another Dickens. My heart is left aching, knowing I’ve just experienced another modern classic as penned by John Irving.
”It’s natural to want someone you love to do what you want, or what you think would be good for them, but you have to let everything happen to them. You can't interfere with people you love any more than you're supposed to interfere with people you don't even know. And that's hard, because you often feel like interfering—you want to be the one who makes the plans.”
The Cider House Rules.
It was time to get rid of this blindspot.
I spent almost a week within the pages of this long novel. I spent a lot of time trudging the halls of St. Cloud’s orphanage with Doctor Larch and the nurses; my hands feel almost calloused from the months and years (or so it felt, at times) picking apples at the Ocean View orchard, with Homer and Angel and the migrants. Irving’s 1985 release almost totally took me back to the time he writes about: the first half of the twentieth century, in rural Maine country. The sense of setting perfectly evoked, able to swallow almost any reader.
Like every Irving novel, this is not a quick read. It unspools slowly — and Cider House seems to unspool even slower than this author’s other works; maybe it’s the long chapters — and forces the reader to have patience. All is worth it in the end.
I want to reread this book, or at least read about a world similar to this one. Maybe I’ll pick up another Dickens. My heart is left aching, knowing I’ve just experienced another modern classic as penned by John Irving.
”It’s natural to want someone you love to do what you want, or what you think would be good for them, but you have to let everything happen to them. You can't interfere with people you love any more than you're supposed to interfere with people you don't even know. And that's hard, because you often feel like interfering—you want to be the one who makes the plans.”