I found the writing to be quite good at certain moments. There were times when it flowed beautifully and had a certain charm. However, at other times, it seemed rather meandering and lost its way.

I did appreciate the point of view though. To see the events through the eyes of the boys in the neighborhood was a unique take on the story. It added an interesting perspective and made it a bit different from the usual narratives.

That being said, I didn't find the overall story to be very engaging. I just couldn't seem to get fully invested in what was happening. Nor did I find the Lisbon girls to be all that intriguing. They just didn't seem to have much depth or personality to me.

That was my main problem with the book. The only daughter who remotely came off as 'interesting' to me was Lux. But even then, I didn't feel that her character warranted this much obsession over the family. It could be seen as their very own, before-their-time, type of a'reality show', with all the morbid side and everything. But still, I think the 'central intrigue' totally fell flat for me. I just didn't feel the pull or the excitement that I was hoping for.

I really enjoyed this. It wasn't in a way that supported the male gaze, which is often a negative aspect in our society. Instead, it was in a lesbian tote bag owning, post-post modernist way.

This unique perspective allowed me to see things from a different angle. The idea of a lesbian tote bag might seem like a small detail, but it represents a sense of identity and belonging.

In the post-post modernist era, we are moving beyond the traditional definitions and categories. We are embracing our individuality and celebrating the diversity of our experiences.

This way of enjoying something shows that we can find meaning and pleasure in the most unexpected places. It also challenges the dominant norms and encourages us to think outside the box.

Overall, this experience has taught me the importance of looking at things from different perspectives and being open to new ideas.

“Obviously, Doctor, you’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl.”

Ouch. This simple statement really hits home. Does anyone else remember the sheer insanity that being a teenager was? Jeffrey Eugenides clearly does. He remembers the physical discomfort of simply existing at times and how becoming utterly obsessed with just about anything can be a good distraction from that feeling that your skin doesn't quite fit right. That's exactly what a group of boys from suburban Michigan do. They become obsessed with a quintet of ethereally beautiful girls, the Lisbon sisters, who leave behind a story that is as enigmatic as it is morbid.

Cecilia, Lux, Bonnie, Mary, and Therese. These are the Lisbon sisters, daughters of the high school's math teacher and the objects of every boy's desire. But it's not just sexual desire. These boys crave an intimacy with the girls that only romantic adolescents can understand. They want to know them, understand them, and their insatiable curiosity is spurred on by the suicide of the youngest sister, Cecilia. It's only much later in their lives that they manage to piece together the Lisbon sisters' story by collecting souvenirs, notebooks, and testimonials from those who knew them. But even this is only a superficial knowledge, and the much-wanted intimacy remains elusive.

I love the image on the cover of my edition: five dead roses for five dead girls. It's simple, perhaps a touch affected, but that's what this novel is. It's a short read that sometimes comes across as melodramatic and pretentious, but it definitely touches a lot of nerves. The prose is dense and sensual, a little drowsy, and I could see the story in snapshots, like flipping through an album of old faded pictures.

We never really know what's going on with Mrs. Lisbon, but I hated her with a passion. For locking her girls up to "protect" them, for crushing their spirits by denying their humanity, for destroying Lux's records, and mostly for refusing to admit that she may have had a part in the children's tragic deaths. I have my own biases, but the fear parents have of being the reason their children aren't perfect and blaming everyone else is a very common and damaging problem.

I grew up in a suburb similar to the one the Lisbon sisters lived in, and it was just as described in the book: a sanitized living Hell. Everyone pretended everything was okay, but I later learned that the West Island had one of the highest teen suicide rates in the world in the 90s. It's a good thing I didn't read this book when it first came out. When the boys mention the gossipy neighbor who said the girls didn't want to die, they just wanted to get out of that house, I knew exactly what she meant. Few teenagers really want to die; they just want to be someone else and somewhere else. It takes patience and resilience to grow up and escape.

I thought a lot about how these boys, now men, perceive the girls, how artificial their ideas and ideals of them are, and how strange it is for them to realize this. I also appreciated that this novel doesn't try to romanticize suicide or make it sexy. The impossibility of ever fully understanding it is painted very realistically, as is the effect it can have on not only the people close to the victim but the entire community.

A strangely luminous, evocative, and haunting novel. 4 and a half stars.

The Virgin Suicides, Jeffrey Eugenides' first novel, was published in 1993. It's a literary work that can either thrill or leave readers disinterested. Set in the 1970s Detroit suburb, it's told from the perspective of an unnamed narrator, a former teenage boy. The story revolves around the mysterious Lisbon girls. Cecilia, the youngest, attempts suicide by opening her wrist in the bathtub. Her actions set off a chain of events that lead to the narrator and his friends becoming obsessed with the Lisbon girls. The girls, Cecilia (13), Lux (14), Bonnie (15), Mary (16), and Therese (17), are seen from afar or through the accounts of those close to them. Their mother is antisocial, and their father is an enthusiastic math teacher. The narrator and his friends receive party invitations from the Lisbon girls after Cecilia's return from the hospital. The party in the basement takes a tragic turn when Cecilia throws herself from her window. Her death intensifies the obsession of the narrator and his friends. Mr. Lisbon exhibits strange behavior, and the girls' actions become increasingly erratic. Trip Fontaine, a popular boy, becomes smitten with Lux and arranges a quadruple date. However, things go awry when Lux disappears with Trip and stays out past curfew. The girls are pulled from school, and Lux is observed having sex on the roof. The theory of contagious suicide circulates, but it simplifies things. The Virgin Suicides is a delirious novel, taking place in a seemingly real American suburb. The narrator spies on the Lisbons, and Eugenides records it all in detailed and sometimes baffling prose. While the book has its strengths, such as the character of Trip Fontaine, it needed more editing to make it a more coherent and realistic story.

4.0 Stars

This is a truly remarkable slow burning character focused coming of age novel. The narrative structure within it is simply beautiful. What I find particularly captivating is the unique framing of the narrative from the perspective of a chorus of outsiders. This approach adds an interesting layer of depth and detachment, allowing the reader to view the protagonist's journey from a different vantage point. It gives a sense of objectivity while still maintaining an emotional connection to the story. The novel explores the complex and often tumultuous process of growing up, delving into the protagonist's inner thoughts, desires, and fears. Through the eyes of the chorus, we witness the protagonist's transformation and evolution, making it a truly engaging and thought-provoking read.

Wow! Bizarre and Haunting are the words that immediately spring to mind upon finishing The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides.

The story is set in 1970s Suburbia and revolves around the Lisbon family. Told through the eyes of the neighbourhood boys who are utterly obsessed with the five teenage sisters, it relates to the reader the tragic events that culminate in the suicides of the 5 Lisbon Girls.

I have been grappling with how to write this review for the past 24 hours as I had a plethora of feelings both while and after reading this novel. When I first began reading, I was intrigued by the Lisbon family and found it nearly impossible to put the book down. However, my feelings then morphed into frustration as I yearned to get to know the characters as individuals and found myself constantly searching for information that simply wasn't there. I desired so much more from this novel and realized early on that the author was not going to hand it to me on a silver platter. I found the writing and prose to be excellent, truly making this novel a pleasure to read.

Halfway through the novel, I came to understand that this book was about far more than just finding answers. I found myself easily adapting to the weirdness of the tale. I relished the pace of the story and adored how it was narrated in the first person plural by the neighbourhood boys, which is precisely what made the novel so captivating for me.

I would have loved to have read this book as part of a book club as it is the kind of book that would spark excellent discussions. I believe that only in a group setting would I finally uncover the answers I am seeking!

Would I recommend this novel to all of my friends? No! As this is one of those books that I think you should decide for yourself whether or not you want to read. I will say that it is not a depressing book, but rather it is Bizarre and haunting.

That was truly sad. I couldn't help but feel a deep sense of sorrow for the girls and their horrible prison-like home life.

Mel

Such an interesting manipulation of the unreliability of the male gaze. This book presented a rather dark side, which was quite different from the types of books I usually read. However, to my surprise, I found myself really enjoying it.

The exploration of the male gaze in this book was both thought-provoking and engaging. It made me question the assumptions and biases that often come with the way men view the world and those around them.

Despite its darkness, the story had a certain allure that kept me turning the pages. The characters were well-developed, and their complex relationships added depth to the narrative.

I would highly recommend this book to anyone looking for a unique and challenging read that will make them think differently about the male gaze and its impact on our perception of reality.

Armándose de una prosa de cualidades líricas y evocadoras, Eugenides nos sumerge en la asfixiante atmósfera de un verano.

This summer will be the setting for the first act of a tragedy that is as disturbing as it is captivating, in the form of a youth imprisoned, torn apart, and suicidal.

Everything begins when Cecilia, the youngest of five sisters, cuts her wrists in the bathtub. The suicide attempt acts as a trigger for a torrent of repressions, misunderstandings, and a longing for life that will end a year later in the bitter resignation or the promise of liberation through a suicidal act that finally unites the young Lisbon sisters in death.

Five sisters. Five suicides. Eugenides immerses us in a time where the hunger for freedom contrasts with paternal conservatism, where life withers behind closed doors, grief corrodes, control limits the bodies but not the souls, and fatality is engendered in full view of the curious eyes of a pair of neighbors who, charmed by the sisters, try, unsuccessfully, to know them, understand them, and connect with them.

Narrated by the collective voice of these neighbors, then adolescents, now mature men still captivated by the mysterious magnetism of the Lisbon girls, the novel constitutes a compilation of memories about the awakening of rebellion and desire, but also of the understanding of fatality with a topic as delicate as suicide.

The author makes a taboo his central thread and weaves with it a harmonious, disturbing, and heartbreakingly beautiful human chronicle that I know, with absolute certainty, I will not forget.

So much better the second time around (and I loved it the first, so...)

Gorgeous, creepy. A suburban mythology. At first, I was truly captivated by the images from the film that just wouldn't leave my mind. I thought this might somehow detract from my ability to really appreciate it as a novel. However, as I delved deeper, I realized that wasn't the case at all. In fact, it was because I came to understand that Sofia Coppola had done an absolutely remarkable job in adapting the text. I mean, holy shit, it's almost perfect. This is such a moody novel with sparse dialogue, but every word that is there is so spot-on (and often even funny). It just makes me gush with enthusiasm.

One thing that I really adored about the book (and that was lacking in the film) was the moments when the boys realized that the Lisbon girls were not only unique individuals but also not perfect. One of the girls is even described as "horsey". I just love that. I love it when people fall in love with real people, those with big foreheads or big noses, or those with crowded smiles. It makes the story so much more relatable and real.

I also love the narrator. Although he may be worryingly obsessed (especially considering the passage of time), it really feels as if someone is sharing something truly genuine with you. It's the kind of story that you would tell for decades if you had witnessed it. I like to imagine that it actually happened in a town not too far from where I grew up, many years before I was born. It's the kind of story that I might hear from the locals, never quite sure how much of it was true and how much had become part of the local legend. It has that air of mystery and authenticity that makes it truly captivating.

For me, what truly sets this novel apart from those I've read thus far is the narrator's unique voice: first person plural, masterfully employed by Jeffrey Eugenides (born 1960). The story revolves around 5 teenage sisters, and initially, readers assume the narrators are schoolboys with raging hormones, constantly thinking of sex. However, in a brilliant twist, Eugenides reveals in the last sentence that the narrators are actually middle-aged men with thinning hair and soft bellies. This revelation completely changes my perception as a reader. As a middle-aged man myself, with a teenage daughter, the impact of the last page is profound.
The collective voice of the narrators, who are voyeurs of the Lisbon family, is filled with both innocence (of youth and sexual curiosity) and guilt (of being voyeurs and not intervening to save the sisters). Superficially, the story may seem to be about 5 young sisters (Cecilia, Lux, Bonnie, Mary, and Therese) who commit suicide due to their strict mother and submissive father. But Eugenides, with his M.A. in Creative Writing from Stanford University, knows better. The boys in the story claim the suicides were acts of "selfishness," yet their own actions of watching through binoculars, communicating via songs on the telephone, and keeping "exhibits" show their own guilt. In fact, it is the boys who are the selfish ones, and the guilt that haunts them in middle age is, in my opinion, what Eugenides wants to convey through this novel.
Cecilia's suicide serves as a warning, but in the end, it is not enough to prevent the group suicides. The Lisbon sisters leave a trail of blood on the hands of the boys and the entire town. The use of "we" and "us" by Eugenides, and the realization that the narrators are middle-aged men, gives me an eerie feeling of complicity. This novel,看似简单, is actually rich in interpretation, making me reflect on my role as a father to my teenage daughter. Fatherhood is a journey of trial and error, and I hope to be more sensitive and not let work and books consume me. Now, I have a newfound motivation to read Eugenides' Pulitzer-winning novel Middlesex. He is truly one hell of a writer.

E le stelle stanno a guardare

Breve diaristica dell’autore in pantofole

One fine day, as Eugenides is having his breakfast of fig jam and toasted slices, he has a moment of great inspiration. He says to his wife, “Today, dear, I want to do a good deed. I’ll make life easier for reviewers all over the world. Those brave souls who read the book before others and then suffer the torments of hell because they always have to be careful about what they say, how they say it, and when they’re dying to dissect the story like a kneecap to explain, to share out of a frenzy, they have no choice (poor things) but to censor themselves to not ruin the party for those who will come later, or damn their souls to make the “spoiler” written in cubital letters visible to the blind before their declarations. Well then, reviewers, come back to life! This time I’ll be the one to spoil the book. Starting from the title: The Virgin Suicides. Ta daaaan, just like that! Two words and there you have it, the end of the story is served. In fact, in case it wasn’t clear enough…no because I know today’s readers, always on the lookout to catch you in a mistake, to spout off about the exegesis of commas, ellipses, God it’s annoying when they do that, here, in case it wasn’t clear enough, I repeat to them every three pages that the Lisbon sisters pass on to a better life without going through the Via.”

At which his wife, apprehensive like all wives who see their husbands throw themselves headlong into the arms of failure, quickly protests: “But Jeffrey, my dear, are you really sure that’s the right decision? (wives always start from a long way off). There’s surely no need for me to remind you that if you start a novel by revealing the end, it’s risky and maybe a presumptuous little thing (wives are very expert at delicately embroidering epithets that in another context, and with another tone, would immediately awaken the wounded pride of their spouses), so I was saying, don’t you think it’s a bit of a gamble to think you can keep the public’s attention, since they already know how it ends? Don’t you agree too, dear?”

But Eugenides is already a free bird, and when the wife turns to gauge the reaction of her newly adventurous husband, all she sees is a corner of Jeffrey’s bathrobe as it goes out the door. In the air only the scent of a decision already made.

Le conseguenze di quella fausta mattina

Today we all know how it ended, both the plot of the novel and the fortune of the book. Karen was dead wrong. She had clearly underestimated Jeffrey’s talent, and from that moment on, she decided to no longer interfere in her husband’s brilliant inspirations.

Eugenides, moreover, as often happens in the minds of artists, knew that in reality spoiling the book wouldn’t reveal the true truth of the story, but at the moment when he made that famous decision while munching on his breakfast, he wouldn’t have been able to explain to his wife why he was so sure he had an ace up his sleeve.

That ugly business of the girls’ suicides, slapped in your face right from the title, taken up again in the incipit, and recalled cyclically throughout the story, is inserted into a tipping mechanism whose functioning I understood only at the end.

You have to pretend to look at the sea from above. From this perspective it’s clear that it’s not the individual fish that are the protagonists, but perhaps entire shoals. Everything is choral in this book, even us readers. So this is what looms on the horizon when looking at this expanse of dark water.

The young neighbors of the Lisbon girls. Boys like many in a critical age, who unable to seize the opportune moment to break the invisible cage in which the sisters live, follow the events of the Lisbons with a fetishistic mania. They are the narrating voice that explains what happened and how they failed to catch the symptoms of a pre-announced tragedy. The shroud of failed saviors with which Eugenides affectionately wraps them has the effect of making us side with their mission.

The adults. Who can’t be missing because in the end they are the real fundamental pieces of the story. The bourgeois neighbors, perpetually intent on weaving the perfect plot of their middle-class domestic happiness, still find the time to observe, through the rusty mesh of their impeccable conduct, what’s happening on the neighbor’s lawn; withered by age, bearded to the point of paroxysm, expert whisperers of burning truths, they prefer to emphasize the failings of the Lisbon household, to become complicit in the mystery rather than denounce its horror.

The Lisbon parents. A microscopic reflection of the neighborhood, they seem to be the real architects of the disaster. The murderous combination of an apathetic him and an oppressive her exponentially increases the speed of the catastrophic impact, but it’s only the exacerbation of a broader reality, shared (unconsciously?) by the well-meaning neighbors.

The school. An institutional propagator of the surrounding silliness, with a clear conscience promoting laudable social initiatives while sweeping the rot under the carpet with its little foot.

The Lisbon sisters. United in the effort to titanically hold up the polluted hypocritical world that surrounds them, but too young to throw the muddy ball elsewhere, far from their feet and their young lives, they will be overcome, and this is the only thing we know from the beginning.

That is, from the point where we too enter the game, passive spectators of the story but eager to know what led them to that point. In this state of affairs, we’re not very different from the shoals of fish mentioned. The voyeurism with which we follow the countdown that separates us from the disaster is the same as that of the Lisbon sisters’ neighbors. Not even the boys are without fault, innocent in their intentions but carrying the same inheritance as their parents, and indeed it’s probable that it wasn’t just age that prevented them from intervening.

This is why Eugenides knew that starting from the end wouldn’t be a mistake. That day he couldn’t tell his wife, but he was counting on us readers. Not out of an instinctive trust accorded to the author, but out of a physiological need to spy and to know. Like what makes us put our hands in front of our eyes in front of a horror movie but peek through our fingers in the ugliest scene. Because we’re all contemptible accomplices and judges with exemplary morality as long as it’s about looking at the lives of others.

Even the stars.

P.S. I wanted to add two things, just in case the review seemed too short to you (I can already see you: “What? Only these 4 lines?”). Here, without you nagging me from behind, two little things, I swear.

First: Coppola did a great job with this story. One of those rare cases where the film is exactly on a par with the book.

Second: It’s impossible to make comparisons with Middlesex. Different themes in terms of substance and handling. The only constant: Eugenides’ talent.