Customer Reviews

Anthropology of an American Girl: A Novel

5 star:		(49)
4 star:		(16)
3 star:		(15)
2 star:		(31)
1 star:		(14)

 

 

Hamann has set the bar very high for herself in her first book: to blend "Catcher in the Rye" with "Portrait of a Lady" for the generation of women who fall between the cracks of Boomers and Gen Xer's. Since I also happen to be in that category, and since the book came highly recommended by Very Short List, I was intrigued and bought it. And I admit that I was sucked into the romantic tangle she devises for her heroine, Evie Auerbach, reading to the end ("crack"-like, I suppose) to find out how the relationships would resolve.
There is good writing here, and some very good plotting. But there is also much mediocre writing -- way too much -- that bogs the book down and lead, at least for this reader, to a lot of page-skimming. Hamann has written a book about a solipsistic, depressed, angsty, and tragically hip teenager -- a girl who sees herself as an alluring enigma -- and has put every solipsistic, angsty, depressed thought this fictional character every conjured onto the page. And she has done it without any humor or perspective, taking her self-dramatizing teenage heroine at face value; otherwise, how to justify sentences like "We were both our essential parts; and yet, for all that we were, we were nothing that we were not" (what does that even mean?), or "In the mirror we were enigmatic, my eyes so tragic, my dress so low..." or even "it's exhausting to give up the past as I do, as I have done" (uttered by a teenager, no less)? Nearly every page is littered with this kind of sophomoric, faux-philosophical writing. No metaphor or simile goes unexpressed and, worse, no real flaws accrue to Evie Auerbach who, by her own reckoning, is beautiful and tragic and innocently seductive to all men and disdainful of almost all women... even her best friend Kate, who, by the end of the book, has been treated with such short shrift it raises the question of why these two girls were friends to begin with. The male characters exist mostly to swoon and pine and lust after Evie, to protect and defend her, to rhapsodize about her natural wonders. This is not Holden Caulfield or Isabel Archer territory; Evie, far from being an outsider to her own experience, is the dull dead-center of it.
My hat is off to Hamann for writing her first novel and getting it out there, to acclaim no less. She can spin a bodice-ripping romance and is a sensitive observer with an eye for details and an ear for dialogue. But I felt this book needed much more fully realized characters and a truly merciless editor to live up to the hype.

If J.D. Salinger and Jane Austin had a love child, it would likely have been Hilary Thayer Hamann. This is a coming-of-age book, a book about the transformative power of love in an era of deceit, and in many ways, it's a "retro" book.

First, it's instructive to mention what the book is NOT: it's not about grand themes or convoluted messages. It's not about the plots that normally sell -- mysteries, thriller, tabloids themes and the like. What it IS at its core is a book about one girl, Eveline Auberbach, as she navigates her early adulthood. Eveline is set in bold relief against three men who will factor largely in her life: the tortured and self-destructive Jack, her first boyfriend...the moneyed and morally corrupt Mark, who will woo her...and the love of her life, Harrison Rourke who will bring her to the edge of the foreign land of loneliness. The loneliness is defined as "the panic, the sweeping hysteria that comes not when you are without others, but when you are without yourself, adrift."

The anthropological artifacts of America are scattered throughout the book--the khakis, loafers and Lacoste shirts, the songs that defined the times, the cars, the furnishings. But the book is more about emotions than it is about the outer world. Evaline -- who must pick her way through the debris of divorce, death, love, passion, unbridled sexuality, and greed -- says about herself: "I was an American girl; I possessed what our culture valued most -- independence and blind courage...My days were simple, numb and narrow. My impressions collected in layers like generations of rock beneath earth, impacted to form a single idea -- that I was happy."

But IS Evaline happy? At the beginning, her voice is vivid and pure and hopeful. And later? She begins to shut down. Her voice becomes more staccato and she turns her back on conscious living. She starts to settle with her life and fade into emotional detachment. She REPORTS about the world rather than take pleasure from it; the tone is meant to discomfort the reader and it succeeds. As a result, I found myself skimming for several pages. At one point, Evaline reflects, "I can think only of fog, of being consumed by fog, so much so that it appears as though nothing is out there, but everything is out there, brushing by, inches off. You're powerless to correct your restricted perception, so you surrender to blindness. You survive by touch. You reach to know, reach to feel. You learn to live by sensation...there's no poetry there..."

How Evaline gets her groove back -- how she becomes restored through the healing power of love -- is a journey that I do not wish to spoil for the reader. Suffice to say that she does. One of the weaknesses of the book -- from my perspective -- is that Evaline must play off others to truly be transformed, rather than discovering it alone and for herself. Still, when Evaline muses, "How resourceful to turn a story of achievement into a more familiar one of loss...Had I been working all alone to secure my own failure, to collapse the machine that was made of me?", it becomes evident that her perceptions will lead to resilience and she can and will survive.

One important factor to note: this author originally self-published this book to avoid its commercialization and of losing her own artistic voice. She later totally rewrote the book; I've read the first 20 pages of the original, and the new book is almost completely reworked. This review pertains to the latest version.

Wow. After a lot of skimming, groaning, and perseverance I finished this book. I was really looking forward to this one, given all of the rave reviews, and am scratching my head now trying to figure out what the h*ll just happened. First, the good stuff: the book is compulsively readable for the first several hundred pages. After that, it becomes compulsively skimmable.

At 600 pages, it's hard to believe that the entire plot involves the details of our miserable heroine's passive and angst-ridden journey through three relationships (one in high-school, one in college, and one post-college). Towards the beginning of the book, Evie is painted as an independent, thoughtful, tortured outcast (by choice), which I think may be the impetus for comparisons to Holden Caulfield? The problem is that this character does not develop - at all. As the story progresses, Evie seems more and more like a caricature, and an unlikeable one, at that. She is described as irresistible to all men, with her tragic eyes and waif-like appearance. It is mentioned throughout the book that she does not eat and people are constantly expressing concern over her "skin-and-bones" appearance and her pale, translucent skin. Of course, this only makes the men in the book (ALL of them, seemingly!) want to rescue her from herself all the more! And the beauty of it is, she lets them! As far as I could tell, she never actually does anything in the entire book besides bounce from man to man, talking about how tortured she is along the way (if I'm over-using the word in this review, it's only because the sentiment is so over-used in the book). She wallows in her angst over the break-up of a relationship with a (surprise!) tortured, artistic man, Rourke. Although we never get shown any reason for their transcendent connection, we are told repeatedly that theirs is a deep, tortured, predestined love. Take this description of Rourke's eyes as Evie sits next to him briefly before a school play: "His eyes were black; it was true. Eyes can be called black, but I didn't think eyes could actually be black. Rourke's were a reverberant black, a blackness of conviction, as if they had forfeited subordinate hues by decision, as if they were that way by will. They were the eyes of someone who reads the world in terms of opposition. And yet there was light. I could see where they were susceptible. I could see blind pools where the light hit and bounced back. Then, quick as it came, the light was gone, replaced by a cataract of grave insights" (p. 187). This isn't a quote taken out of context; every page - nay, paragraph - is swollen with overwrought metaphors and pseudo-philosophical musings. It's like writing bad poetry in high school or painting your room black and agonizing over how misunderstood you are - don't we all go through that, to some degree?

Okay then, if that's the case, it could be argued that this book brilliantly captures the melodramatic essence of the transition from adolescence to young-adulthood. I could buy this if the author seemed to have any perspective on this at all. Instead, the book shares the same flaws as the heroine: melodrama, self-indulgent angst, and overwrought metaphors are mistaken for substance and depth. I know people will disagree with my review of this book, and that's okay; I actually didn't hate it or dislike it as much as this review might suggest. I was ultimately so frustrated with both the heroine and the author and the solipsistic nature of it all that "compulsive readability" just couldn't begin to redeem the book.

One of my pleasures in life is discovering a great book by a new talent. I was highly rewarded when I picked up Hilary Hamann's "Anthropology of an American Girl" when browsing through my local bookstore and started reading. Her introductory section really grabbed me and she never let go. "American Girl" is a highly intelligent and articulate story of a young woman's life in NY during the late 70's and early 80's. Almost every paragraph has some reflection, observation, or question buried within that deserves greater thought and reflection. It demands a lot from you, but rewards you for your effort. Highly recommended.

Imagine leaving your home every single day with a magnifying glass and a notepad. You have to examine every detail of the front door (for example, the shine of the knob, the grain of the wood) before you open it, and then you must describe it in florid prose. That is exactly how this book goes.

Set in the late 70's and early 80's, the story follows the life of a high school student, Eveline, who is on the cusp of womanhood. For the good points: in places the writing was gorgeous and there were some insights that deserve some consideration. Sadly, the bad points of the book overwhelm these.

I could not agree more with the other reviewers who recommend draconian editing to this book. I hung in there and read every word for the first 40% of the book, at which time I got fed up and skimmed the rest of the way through. There is a kernel of a story here, but it is hidden in a fog of endless detail. We are treated to Eveline's every thought on every subject imaginable, in excruciating detail. Often these "deep" thoughts are translated into eye-rollingly overwrought and stilted dialogue between purported adolescents, who, let's face it, don't often entertain these types of musings, even when on drugs. Further, Eveline herself is not exactly a protagonist that one wants to root for. She is a young woman who makes poor decisions with alarming regularity but luckily has a man to bail her out every time, because she is so hauntingly beautiful.

In summary, this is not a book I would recommend to anyone. With some major editing (of, no joke, at least half of the text), there might be something there. Only fleeting glimpses of some really talented writing and scattered seeds of insights saved this book from getting a one-star review from me.

This book sorely disappointed me. The skillful, beautiful use of language lured me at first into thinking I was reading a novel of substance. As the plot and characters developed, I slowly came to realize I was reading a flimsy, soap-opera romance hiding under a glossy veneer of sophistication. I'm not above a good beach read, but I came to loathe the waifish, self-absorbed protagonist who seems to be the object of every man's desire and every woman's scorn. Hardly a modern day heroine, she bounces from one man to the next, each one overpowering her with either superior intellect, virility, or cunning and wealth. Comparisons to Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte are completely specious. For two hundred years women have rallied to those books to immerse themselves in ennobling female characters and coherent social criticisms. Hilary Thayer Hamann, I suspect, despises her gender, and in spite of a doorstopping 600 pages failed to connect her random musings into anything of lasting importance.

Anthropology of an American Girl is poignantly true to the time, the place and the culture of the East End of Long Island. This coming-of-age novel, refreshingly free of shame, blame and guilt, describes the indescribable world-rocking nuance of sexual thrall. Readers cannot help but re-live their own urgent youth and will envy Eveline's power to consciously surrender herself to love. The characters are drawn brilliantly, and we believe every word and deed in this remarkable book.
Ms. Hamann is also objectively honest in her description of the darkest pockets of a young community, such as casual rape, incidental violence, and drugs. In the end the reader is satisfied and believes in humanity. This is a wonderful book.

I am not the type of person who bashes books on a regular basis, there aren't many books that I don't like, even when someone else says they are horrible. With that being said, I just didn't care for this book, I felt it was trying waaay to hard to be philisophical. I just wanted to smack Evie and tell her to snap out of it, she just didn't seem able to think for herself, always hanging on the outskirts waiting for everyone to take care of her. I realize that we are all stupid and naive at some point, especially around the high school age, but if you have that many deep thoughts in high school and are a straight A student then surely you have a little bit of self confidence and self awareness? Apparently not. About 2/3rds of the way through the book, I started skimming pages because I was tired of being depressed by the book and no longer cared about the weird thoughts going through Evie's head anymore. I just wanted to take her to a karaoke bar, give her shots and make her sing "I Will Survive" with about 6 other drunk girls! There is no humor in the book to break up the depression, either, it just goes on and on with the gloom and doom. I know it is a huge undertaking to write a book and my hat goes off to everyone who does and also gets published, but this book was just not for me. By all means read this book if you are too happy and need to take it down a notch!

I've read the reviews both good and bad and all I can say is this is a story that polarizes depending on what you're looking for in a book. This is not a book for someone looking for a quick read, another bestseller to notch on their kindle and be able to discuss (and dismiss) at the dinner table. This is for that reader that can and wants to meditate on the insights - there's at least one tuning fork of a sentence on every page - that reaffirm our common humanity. It lets you know that you're not alone, that the depth with which you feel is something shared by others. I agree that the story meanders somewhat, that the revelations can feel young at times, but no other book has reminded me so profoundly of what it felt like to be young, and to be in love, as this one has. And done so in a way that didn't feel cloying or juvenile but authentic and moving. If you don't feel that visceral quality to the book within the first few pages then I would say put it down; it's probably not for you. But if you do feel it, and smile, and remember what it was like (even what it still is like at times), this will not only be a book that stays with you long after the last page, but an experience that you'll treasure always.

And as for all the comparisons, take them with a grain of salt. In its ability to draw one into the mind of its heroine - yes, it does remind of Catcher in the Rye. However, it's hardly fair to come into the story - any story really - expecting it to live up to a timeless classic. I encourage readers to just approach the book without the burden of this kind of anticipation. Such expectations serve only to create not only unrealistic but inaccurate notions of what the book should be as opposed to appreciating it for what it is.

Ever since I first heard the term "Mary Sue," I've developed my own list of criteria which I apply to the books I read. In this case, Eveline of "Anthology of an American Girl," qualified easily.

Some criteria:
Does the heroine have an extra special name? Yes.
Do other characters bring up how cool and unique the name is? Yes.
Does the heroine have a unique beauty? Yes.
Is she also brilliant and/or artistic? Yes.
Do all the male characters exist to worship the main character, and if they're straight, to lust after her? Yes.
Does every time the heroine expresses doubts about her beauty, sexiness, etc., a secondary character leaps in to reassure her that she's all that? Yes.
Is the heroine gorgeous, sexy, etc. but feels lonely, alienated, marginalized in some way, but the reader has to take it on faith because of how popular and blessed the character is? Yes.

You get the picture.

Fortunately, none of the characters are vampires, werewolves or the undead. And much of the book is extremely well-written - though like a lot of coming-of-age novels, some of the young character's insights about the world around her seem awfully mature. The book follows Eveline from her high school years until after college. She's got a lot of talents: she's an artist and good at school, but apparently has no ambition, dreams or plans that don't revolve around the opposite sex. Her "problems," were never explored in depth, such as her parents refusing to pay for college. The reader never gets their side of the story, we just hear Eveline complaining about it periodically. She's the only halfway developed character in the book, so we have to take her word for just about everything. This gets tedious.

Although Eveline attracts men like bees to clover, her heart belongs to one guy: an ubermensch named Rourke. Rourke never gets to have a personality or any character development, he just appears and disappears at random. Same with Eveline's "friend" Kate and other characters that are supposed to be important to her. I was hoping that the author would focus on their lifelong friendship, as they both mature, but all the focus was on Eveline. It's not fun to read a six hundred page book about a single character, while the others are all ciphers. As I was reading, lyrics to a song by Toby Keith came to mind.

"We talk about your guys/Of every shape and size/The ones you despise/And the ones you idolize."

If you like books with narcissistic narrators, you might enjoy this one.