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The first warning, of course, is the pre-printed "O" proudly gazing from the upper right hand corner of Bret Lott's novel Jewel: the significant stamp of Oprah, a woman whose taste in contemporary literature has roughly the same batting average as a pitcher in the National League.
Jewel, which suffers from the same florid prose employed by Janet Fitch (author of White Oleander, another Oprah Pick Of Death), is the "epic" story of a woman from rural Mississippi who gives birth to a girl with Down's Syndrome. We follow Jewel through every quiet and inconsequential moment of her life, each of which is laden with Important Symbolism that inspires to make the reader feel moved to tears, but instead inspires boredom with its mawkish, sentimental tone.
The book ostensibly follows the titular character as she struggles with the highs and lows that accompany raising her developmentally disabled daughter, Brenda Kay, a character who never quite transcends the nascent, cloying vignettes given to her. Her interactions with siblings are saccharine sweet and not even remotely believable: everyone has the patience of a saint around Brenda Kay and, in a sweeping, Lifetime Made For TV Movie manner, all learn the true meaning of family and compassion through their little sister. Gag.
Lott's writing is so predictably bland, so sentimental, that it often comes very close to being a parody of good writing. Every detail of Jewel's life is rendered in painful detail, her every thought captured in a hazy but overly-analyzed snapshot. At the "climax" (a term I will use very, very loosely here) of the book, she is among the sheets of wash hanging in her backyard, a location she chooses to have a pithy recollection of her deceased father and to scrutinize the actions of her stalwart husband. As she ruminates, she touches the sheets and gazes into a middle distance, both of which are supposed to be Significant but come off as Irrelevant and Obvious.
These pretentious strokes would be made more tolerable if Lott's favorite artistic flourish wasn't stringing multiple verbs together after a single subject and/or creating a list of actions that devolves the story into minutia:
"Her eyes were still closed, her lips still quivering, and I snuggled her close, my nipple hard and ready, a drop of clear wet poised at the tip, and then my baby took me in, started life, taking from me what I was glad to give." (p. 55-56)
WHAT?! That sentence is worthless.
Even worse is the snail's pace at which the book meanders. Nearly 100 pages pass before Brenda Kay's disability is revealed, purely because Lott feels the need to complicate the story with background information about Jewel, none of which provides much more insight into her character. It is simply a device used to pad out a story so basic it could have been a charming and potentially powerful novella.
So why am I giving Jewel two stars instead of one? The sequence of vignettes that makes up the family's time in California is actually incredibly interesting. Here the essence of the story is captured and some of the characters become slightly more sympathetic.
Then it tumbles back into hogwash.
Jewel, which suffers from the same florid prose employed by Janet Fitch (author of White Oleander, another Oprah Pick Of Death), is the "epic" story of a woman from rural Mississippi who gives birth to a girl with Down's Syndrome. We follow Jewel through every quiet and inconsequential moment of her life, each of which is laden with Important Symbolism that inspires to make the reader feel moved to tears, but instead inspires boredom with its mawkish, sentimental tone.
The book ostensibly follows the titular character as she struggles with the highs and lows that accompany raising her developmentally disabled daughter, Brenda Kay, a character who never quite transcends the nascent, cloying vignettes given to her. Her interactions with siblings are saccharine sweet and not even remotely believable: everyone has the patience of a saint around Brenda Kay and, in a sweeping, Lifetime Made For TV Movie manner, all learn the true meaning of family and compassion through their little sister. Gag.
Lott's writing is so predictably bland, so sentimental, that it often comes very close to being a parody of good writing. Every detail of Jewel's life is rendered in painful detail, her every thought captured in a hazy but overly-analyzed snapshot. At the "climax" (a term I will use very, very loosely here) of the book, she is among the sheets of wash hanging in her backyard, a location she chooses to have a pithy recollection of her deceased father and to scrutinize the actions of her stalwart husband. As she ruminates, she touches the sheets and gazes into a middle distance, both of which are supposed to be Significant but come off as Irrelevant and Obvious.
These pretentious strokes would be made more tolerable if Lott's favorite artistic flourish wasn't stringing multiple verbs together after a single subject and/or creating a list of actions that devolves the story into minutia:
"Her eyes were still closed, her lips still quivering, and I snuggled her close, my nipple hard and ready, a drop of clear wet poised at the tip, and then my baby took me in, started life, taking from me what I was glad to give." (p. 55-56)
WHAT?! That sentence is worthless.
Even worse is the snail's pace at which the book meanders. Nearly 100 pages pass before Brenda Kay's disability is revealed, purely because Lott feels the need to complicate the story with background information about Jewel, none of which provides much more insight into her character. It is simply a device used to pad out a story so basic it could have been a charming and potentially powerful novella.
So why am I giving Jewel two stars instead of one? The sequence of vignettes that makes up the family's time in California is actually incredibly interesting. Here the essence of the story is captured and some of the characters become slightly more sympathetic.
Then it tumbles back into hogwash.