a gate at the stairs
I read Lorrie’s Moore’s newest fiction, A Gate at the Stairs, and for the first half I was enthralled. Completely, uncritically enthralled. I wish I could be her in some ways, because she must have the coolest brain to be able to write the way that she does. She has so many earthly details — this contemporary world with a stream of conscious of coca-cola cans and flowers and funny facts all mixed up in one fast-thinking but slow-talking narrator. I can’t be as funny as Lorrie Moore, nor as articulate, nor as quirky or free to write whatever pops into my head. There is certain genius that can see the world that way.
But she’s a short-story writer, and I think the novel is clumsy in its plot and character development. Like a short story, the metaphors are more conspicuous throughout, but they felt heavy-handed to me. The plot overall, after getting halfway through, really stopped moving. There was a point where I really thought the book must be over — it felt like big stuff all happened at once, then we extracted ourselves from the narrator and floated away as if we were leaving the book — we saw the world with her eyes, but it didn’t feel like we were in her anymore for some reason. But then we were plunged back into more plot frenzy that didn’t feel earned. I felt detached from what the narrator was going through, and she was going through a lot surrounding 9/11. I found myself unable to feel for her or care for her well being.
Then the book was over and I felt used. I felt like I had fallen in love and then learned halfway through that it was an unwise investment. It left me in a bad mood, even, for over a day. But if I were to open the book and turn to one page or another, any page at all, I could find some idiosyncratic detail that makes me want to keep the book on my shelf. She captures a life experience in the details, just not in the authentic movement through time.
