Customer Reviews

Strangers: A Novel

5 star:		(11)
4 star:		(6)
3 star:		(3)
2 star:		(1)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

Anita Brookner's protagonists invariably take long walks to exhaust themselves and suppress their unwanted emotions. They're more comfortable with books and paintings than with social interaction. And they engage in an endless flow of torturous introspection. In this book Brookner remains true to form.

Paul Sturgis is a 72-year-old retired investment banker. Despite his tall good looks, solid finances and courteous demeanor, he is very much alone in life.

Niceness has somehow condemned him to a lifetime of loneliness. Friendship is too much to hope for, but he attempts to contrive a meaningful connection of some sort with three women: a distant relative by marriage, a former lover who is mysteriously ill - and a rootless and probably predatory woman met in Venice.

He rationalizes why it might be beneficial to relate more definitely with one of these women, all of whom are alarming or disappointing in different ways. The dismayed reader stays on board with the unhappy and indecisive hero, held fast by Brookner's seductively beautiful prose.

Brookner's genius for capturing the poetry of loneliness is unsurpassed in the literary world. If you don't mind a somewhat depressing story line, her exquisite style gives pleasure always. STRANGERS, in any case, holds out a tiny hope that things may be looking up.

There is no getting around it, this is a novel about old age and loneliness. Like all Brookner's novels, the hero/ine is solitary, well off, and given to melancholy mental soliloquies. As always, the protagonist's choice of company is unsatisfactory, the few elderly people who have sparsely peopled his past and who are egotistical, selfish and argumentative, or a 50-ish woman who loudly presents claims and demands, amply self justified, of course. So the alternatives are unfulfilling company and the demands that company makes, or isolation and solitary cogitation, indeed fear of dying alone. Brookner skillfully juxtaposes pages of inner thoughts and anxieties, long spun-out indecision, with rapid fire confrontational dialogue as the protagonist tries ineffectively to placate acquaintances who reject his politeness and counter with forthright rudeness and renewed demands. This is a longtime Brookner theme: the quiet, peaceable and well-behaved are at the mercy of charming, gregarious users, out to exploit the quiet householder, turn him out of his or her house in the guise of a short term arrangement, and extract financial advantage from the protagonist's innocent friendship. Though every novel is a variation on this theme, there is no sense of repetition. Miss Brookner's novels are each distinct, each a quiet universe of feeling, with naifs and monsters vying unequally in an indifferent London. Always there is London, bleak, chill, raining, even springtime a disappointment. The protagonist's London is always contrasted with Paris or southern France where he seeks the warm deliverance of the sun. Somehow I never find these novels depressing. Miss Brookner is master of her constricted landscape, but her bleak worldview is not for everyone.

This rather short, fortunately so, novel is a seemingly endless monologue/rumination, on the part of seventy-something Paul Sturgis, a Londoner, on a life of solitude and loneliness. Despite its unrelenting dreariness, the book is not without its insights on both personal psychological inadequacies and the sometimes trying nature of social interactions, especially for the aged.

Sturgis may have escaped his miserable childhood in a lifeless household populated by parents completely unsuited for each other, but at the cost of being tone-deaf concerning social behavior. His social overreactions usually manifested in obsessive kindness, attentiveness, and desire to understand other's "inner" selves invariably become an irritant to women friends and lovers. Moreover, he cannot adjust to what he perceives to be their sense of entitlement, neediness, and breeziness, though he is not without admiration of their seeming strength.

Paul cannot be dismissed as a complete social misfit. He is not wrong to perceive pervasive social indifference, which he, on a daily basis, runs afoul of when he seeks to ingratiate himself with too much detail in brief encounters. It is also the basis of his fears of dying in a public venue among "strangers." He does march on without engaging in spells of self-pity. And he is hardly alone. The wife of his deceased cousin Helena regales Paul with her expansive social life when he visits on Sunday afternoons. Upon her death, he discovers that it was all a façade: she too was friendless.

He does fantasize about escaping his unhappy life. Dreams of a romanticized past or taking long walks had more or less worked for years. He becomes convinced that shedding all responsibilities and moving to southern Europe to a life of sun and living in hotels may be the answer.

The book is rather sobering. But it does tend to become tedious and repetitious. One tends to feel bombarded with Paul's unhappy situation. But that is offset by the author's known ability to turn a nice phrase. Paul may be a bit of an extreme case, but if his life is any example, it is rather difficult to simply turn around one's life regardless of self-perception and desire to do so.

I have read a number of Anita Brookner's novels and find this one of the best. Its focus on the thoughts and situation of the protagonist make the work read almost like a solitary meditation. The dialogues between Paul Sturgis and the three women he somehow searches for meaningful encounter with do not bring him what he desires. His great sin in life according to the old flame who had rejected him and who he meets again in her crippled old age is that he was too nice. He was considerate , a gentleman and therefore boring. In his encounter with another woman he takes interest in, a divorcee he is charmed by her forthright selfishness- but ultimately disturbed by her total lack of interest with him.
This book has a hero who longs to have many things most of us take for granted. His ambitions in once sense at this stage of his life seem so small. As a person who has always been responsible, done his duty as he does his duty to the cousin, Helena, who he for years had once - weekly not very intimate meetings with. He hopes for the kindness of strangers, and takes satisfaction in small encounters of life. Just being out in the street can give him great pleasure. A walk gives him so much.
His minimum of expectations, his reduced expectations with age make him a kind of sympathetic figure. He asks so little of life and others and yet does not get it. He is willing to do more for others than they can do for him.
In his situation and through his story Brookner reveals hard and perhaps universal truths about our human situation.
If the main character is not one we can have tremendously strong feeling about , his situation and thoughts nonetheless hold up a mirror to our own human limitations. They too show how even in the smallest perceptions and experiences that can be a kind of aesthetic pleasure and meaning.

Anita Brookner has been my "therapist" for well over the last decade, and I tend to keep this a secret. When a visiting friend has discovered one of her books in my apartment, I am tempted to wrestle it away from them . I believe she does not write for the majority. She is unique. Her work does not remind me of Henry James nor Proust in the slightest. Her novel "Strangers" addresses topics which other acquaintances and I are discussing at this time. Retirement from the work force, solitude and possible withdrawal from the world while continuing to exist. The majority of us do not have time to spend for much introspection because we are being swept along on a furious tide of activity. While I feel the increasing nervous tension around me, I attempt at this stage in my life to pace myself and feel grateful that I am at leisure to do so. Unless one has an unkind and devious nature, this is not the book to give to an individual, who has just shared with you that they are concerned about their pending retirement from the structure of their work life. It might confirm their deepest fears. What I would emphasize is the importance of one's environment and safety net which Anita Brookner addresses exquisitely in her highly realistic way. I hope that she is presently writing her autobiography for her admirers and loyal readership.

Any professional reviewer who could write a line like this one in the PW review cannot be trusted because that reviewer is anti-intellectual: "While the novel happens in the current day, the occasional mobile phone feels as out of place as it would in, say, one of the Henry James novels that could be the inspiration for this tedious exercise in drawing-room politesse." That's dated, vapid contempt: James = boring. I expect more from a reviewer than cliches. Brookner isn't always at her best, but she is the poet of silence and isolation, with a genius for illuminating lives of quiet desperation. Richard Russo writes big deep books about larger, enmeshed lives; Brookner writes books about singletons struggling to find a place in the world. The House of Fiction, to quote James, has room for both.

Every once in awhile, I'll go to my library and pick up a random book. Anything at all. This was my pick. The story is about a 72-year old, retired bachelor named Paul Sturgis living in a London flat. He's lonely and regretful. The entire book is the thoughts running through his mind (his childhood, work, lost loves) and how two women change him. For the worse, for the better? Go ask Paul.

I've never read Anita Brookner before, as the title of this review states, but she left a very positive, strong impression. There is no arguing over Brookner's talent in weaving language and observing human interaction and behavior. One particular sentence that really struck me was when Paul was discussing if he returned to his childhood home, the magic in his memories would be lost and it would just be any other house. "Only the power of dreams would deliver more to him than had already existed so long ago that he might still have been the age he was then, with a child's perception of size, miraculously recaptured under the influence of the night. It was daylight that restored life to its true proportions and the life he rediscovered on waking that proved deceptive" (Brookner 229). It's brilliant how she manages to capture the magic of daydreams and write them for us to read.

Her characters, mainly four, are very three-dimensional and very believable. I believe that everyone can identify somewhat with Paul and his feelings of isolation. It's quite impressive how the author managed to build an entire past for her character and also has him change his mind about certain memories as his life progresses, much like real life. Her characters are more "Catcher in the Rye" than "Beowulf", if you catch my drift.

Although some words of hers become favorites (you'll know the definitions of "assuage" and "assiduity" and all its forms quite well by the end of the novlel), Brookner's vocabulary is astounding and I found myself looking up words I've never even seen before. Even with the high vocabulary, in never once rings pretentious or forced.

However, unlike Brookner's vocabulary, I occasionally had to force myself to complete the book. Her narrator tends to be repetitive about certain aspects of his life and tends to lament about certain topics for pages, only to repeat the same soliloquy a chapter later.

It's because of this that I do not recommend this book for readers wishing to read something simple or for any light reading. The book is short, only about 230 pages with large font, and it took me only a couple of days to read, but I still think, based on the complex language and philosophical mindset, that this book isn't for everyone.

With "Strangers," Anita Brookner does what she is best at doing: writing about the inner life of a lonely, isolated character. But rather than less passive characters such as Dorothea in "Visitors" and Blanche in "A Misalliance," Paul Sturgis seems to wallow in his passivity, like someone who hovers at a threshold, undecided whether to enter a room. Although the reader (this reader) likes Paul, his inability to act is irksome. I found that I wanted to shout at him, "Join a book club! Take a course! Go to church!" or take up some other activity that would involve other people -- strangers -- in a non-threatening venue. But Paul's final act does seem to indicate that he is capable of moving forward, even if it's a small step consistent with Anita Brookner's frequent theme of Paris representing freedom and London representing suffocation. Part of what makes this book a winner is the age of the protagonist. Frankly, it suits the author (as did "Visitors"). The strain of writing in a young voice is what has ruined some of Ms. Brookner's other fiction for me, most notably "Bay of Angels." She makes me believe in the character of Paul and what drives (or doesn't drive) him. She has the gift of taking what might be peripheral characters in life or in a different type of fiction and giving them their say.

Paul Sturgis recently entered his retirement as a Londoner, and quite gracefully. He didn't really want to dispose of his long career, but, as always, convention prevailed and he stepped down when it was expected. Paul had resigned himself to a relatively solitary life, but one that he also saw as stable and sensible --- dependable. He relied upon a daily routine, making the rounds and saying hello to the same acquaintances he knew around London (who were all strangers, if truth be told).

It had not been for lack of effort that Paul found himself in the position he was in, or so he told himself. He had past lovers, and all of them chose to break it off in lieu of a more adventurous mate. Paul was a thoughtful gentleman with depth of character and integrity, not focused on the superficial nature of conversation but really wanting to know the minds of others, to see what motivated them. This seemed to have little worth to the women he met, even less to strangers.

In regularly visiting Helena (his cousin's widow), Paul saw in her a woman who would boast of important social arrangements, yet who --- like him --- obviously led a completely solitary existence. For a while, she was his only real contact, but he was ultimately dissatisfied with the superficial atmosphere between them and sought something more substantial.

While on holiday in Venice, Paul met Mrs. Vicky Gardner, a newly divorced lady a decade or two younger than him. Curious about her and thinking she was attractive enough, he asked her to check in on him in London sometime. Not long after meeting Vicky, he also ran into a past love, Sarah, who had rejected him years before on the grounds that "he was too nice." Sarah was now a widow of his own age and in poor health. Paul admittedly lacked sure feelings for either woman, but saw new connections as such a rarity that he was compelled to explore the possibilities.

Dates were spent in long walks through London and coffee breaks, good grounds for pleasant and meaningful conversation. Yet, whether with Vicky or with Sarah, each date Paul found decidedly unfulfilling, still lacking in the substance he longed for. Vicky was exciting in her spontaneity and obvious lack of constraints, but seemed equally inconstant and inclined toward taking advantage of her numerous hosts. And while Sarah was someone who Paul had once really loved, even in her tendency to find fault with everyone, she seemed to have changed greatly in the years he had known her, her former confidence and determination now replaced by physical frailty and a defeated outlook. Paul found himself deliberating on whether either one would make an acceptable spouse for him in his final years, maybe not a lover but a companion. And while tempting, he had to ask himself in truth if the idea was really fulfilling.

STRANGERS, Anita Brookner's 24th novel, is a story about empowerment in making life choices, a lesson in breaking away from old habits to find the spirit that drives you and makes life worthwhile. There is no one who needs this more than Paul Sturgis, one of the most unexciting, morose bachelors on the planet, but who is also a dependable, admirable gentleman with a great deal more character than any of the women who have walked out on him over the years. To see the alteration in his outlook is thoroughly satisfying.

My only grievance about STRANGERS is that a substantial portion of the story focuses on Paul's ruminations on his solitary life and troubles, a gloomy subject that makes for a depressing novel until his transcendence, which isn't until the end. While focusing on Paul's woes is wholly necessary to the storyline, I wished his deliverance had come sooner so I could savor it. That said, the book is extraordinary in how thoughtful it is and how true it feels. And I could never fault the quality and beauty of the writing. STRANGERS flows with an easy formality that is a joy to experience in and of itself.

--- Reviewed by Melanie Smith

This elegant and contemplative novel blends the inner lives of three people all earning for some kind of connection. Paul Sturgis lives alone in a flat in central London which had once represented the pinnacle of attainment but now depresses him beyond measure. A retired bank clerk who spends his days fighting the urge to get out on the street among those strangers who were not his familiars but never his intimates, Paul also reminiscences on his childhood, his lackluster suburban home in Camberwell and his parents tight-lipped antagonism, his own background rather humble. But now the world of the known has fragmented and Paul has been displaced into a neighborhood of strangers. A man who feels as though he as slipped uneventfully through his life to an age where nothing more was possible, Paul's only real connection is when, on wintry Sunday afternoons, he visits Helena, an widow of a cousin with whom he had been on affectionate terms. Both have a respect for ancient contractual arrangements, but both are increasingly aware that love is lacking or even friendship. Helena is becoming old and uneasy, and lately the visits are of dubious value.

With a somewhat damaged heart and a vague history of the years passed, a trip to Venice perhaps offers the panacea that he so richly desires. It is here on the plane that he strikes up a conversation with a middle aged woman, Vicky Gardner. As Venice beings to enfold him, the city gentle, ruminating and peaceful, he again bumps into Vicky, her delightful smile transforming his day. Vicky is looking for solace and seeking to reinvent herself after the failure of her marriage. But deep down Vicky is transient and desperate. Even as her private conflicts and her hints of a life in South America and her propensity to drift unfurl, Paul's final impression is one of irritation her story of divorce and homelessness, combined with a reluctant sympathy for her plight. Back in London and longing for an exchange, Paul invites Vicky over for a tea, a glass of wine, and the odd cigarette, both filling their prospective roles, his paternal or rather avuncular and hers, prettily independent, but with an edge of melancholy.

Vicky's self sufficiency seems to have protected her throughout a lifetime of ad hoc arrangements, this however, doesn't stop her leaving some of her belongings with Paul, installing the cases in his bedroom while she disappears for lengthy periods, neglecting to leave for cell phone number or tell him where she's going. Meanwhile, Paul lunches with another woman, Sarah, an older lady who was once his girlfriend but who now suffers from poor health. As Paul and Sarah ruminate in the passage of time, her husband "now relegated to pre-history," a house in the France to which she resorted to from time to time, Sarah is convinced she's life lived without enthusiasm. Both Paul and Sarah's realization is that the world that is fundamentally indifferent to one's needs: "time accelerates and the light of the present the past seemed overlaid by a sense of failure."

The clarity and simplicity of this novel is quite profound. The tone is almost Proustian even as Brookner penetrates the innermost thoughts of Paul, in all his fragility and tenacity. Paul is driven by the desire for a better life, or at least a different life, and the conviction that his desires have not been met - he continually laments the fact he never had children or married. When he suddenly inherits Helen's flat and some of her money after her death, he realizes he's set for life, then a trip to France on the bequest of Sarah, jumpstarts his change. While the sections where Paul internalizes his life are a little labored, they are important for exposing all of Paul's hopes and needs and longings. Full of penetrating observations about aging and loneliness, surprisingly, it is Vicky who remains the most compelling character. She's something of a menace with her "eternal rootlessness" and with Paul's ultimate frustration at assuming a kind of quasi responsibility for her life. Mike Leonard July 09.