Once again the curse of GR website swallowed a review. So screamingly annoying that the laptop almost was thrown across the room. However I am determined that Alice Hoffman will receive the praise she is due for this lovely book so I shall do the whole bloody thing again. Goodreads, I truly hate you sometimes!!
This collection, to use a somewhat contrived metaphor, is like a number of small coloured stones or polished glass strung together to create a simple but very effective thing of beauty. By themselves none of the stories blew me away but linked by their common theme they were astounding. The common theme is love but in its myriad of forms and across some 200 years of local history not following a single bloodline family but rather by exploring the lives, loves and, it has to be said, frequent deaths of the inhabitants of a narrow spit of land.
Hoffman uses the healthy, energising, transforming love found in all areas of life but she also explores the way love can become misshapen and grindingly destructive. She reflects on the ability of lovers to overcome and survive and she recognizes the way love can embitter and stunt. Love, she says, is necessary for life but of itself it is not magic, it still needs moulding and controlling. Love is freeing and can be transformative of the life of the one who is loved but that transformation has to be the by-product not the intention.
These stories are linked overtly by their geography and by the over-riding theme of love but they are also less obviously linked by the run of characters. The stories are self-contained reflections but they are often left open-ended where the resolution first can grow in the imagination of the reader but then is revisited in the next story, sometimes through obvious associations but sometimes by a chance detail left camouflaged by the side of the path of the next story as it takes the reader deeper on into the history of the land. You could also miss it but after a few pages of Hoffman's style you swiftly become accustomed, to quote the flyleaf, "her heartbreaking clarity". With a few of the stories the denoument pierces the reader as it spears down like a damoclean sword which you knew was hanging precariously .
You knew of this threat because it needs to be faced that Hoffman rejoices, if that is the right word, in the bleak sorrow of the death not so much of love as the lover. All her stories bring us into the atmosphere of the vulnerability and fragility of life. Indeed every time I opened one of the stories i began looking for the likely corpse at the end. It reminded me rather of the game my brothers and I used to enter into in the 1970's whilst watching Star Trek. 'Spot-the-bit-actor-who-had-no-chance-of-returning-to-the-Starship-Enterprise-with-a-pulse". Admittedly that was never very difficult, it was the bloke you had never seen
before whereas in Hoffman's creations you wait rather nervously for the inevitable if unknown victim.
So, her stories are sad, they are poignant reminders of the need to work at love, to never take it for granted but also to make sure you rejoice in it when it comes. And it is that power to enlarge and enhance life which I take from this collection. None of the stories are histrionic, none of them are miserable for the sake of misery, she is not so much a Prophet or Oracle of doom as she is a pointer to live the opportunities offered. This is the first of her work I have read, I cannot imagine and I most certainly hope it will not be the last. I closed the book with the last simple image in my head and it made me smile. The final impression with which you leave this small world of hers is one of hope and possibility. Lovely.