Customer Reviews

Lark and Termite (Vintage Contemporaries)

5 star:		(30)
4 star:		(22)
3 star:		(11)
2 star:		(8)
1 star:		(3)

 

 

In a time when fiction seems to be lost amid memoirs and non-fiction, and chick-lit, this is a refreshing read. Crisp, magical, satisfyingly psychological - this novel spans great distances and time periods to effectively reveal a deeper message. The prose is rich and beautiful, but doesn't outshine the wonderful characters. Set in West Virginia and Korea, Lark and Termite is full of rich symbolism, character, and most of all - story. Surely, Lark and Termite is for the savvy reader - although this isn't to say this novel shouldn't be taken to the beach, or on a plane, and read leisurely (as I did). This is a well paced read with big pay-off, and will be sure to please those seeking a great literary escape. Phillips captures another time and place, and does so with conviction. I'd imagine this will be one of the best offerings of the year and will be up for some major awards. Five stars, easily.

Three-quarters of the way through Jayne Anne Phillips' poetic novel, I acknowledged the beauty of her prose but wondered if there'd be a payoff. An hour or so later, *Lark and Termite* had become a page-turner that reduced me to tears.
Like *Machine Dreams,* the novel of a quarter-century ago that made Phillips a literary sensation, *Lark and Termite* tells about a family from the inside, from multiple perspectives.
There's the husband, a soldier implicated in the massacre at No Gun Ri, the Korean War's precursor to Vietnam's My Lai; his wife, an older woman who was attracted to how well Bobby Leavitt blew his trumpet in smoky jazz clubs; her sister, slaving as a waitress in a small-town diner and caring for the two title characters.
Lark -- 17, self-reliant, sexually awakening -- is typing her way through secretarial school with a determined look on her face. She's completely devoted to her 9-year-old brother. Termite is "a boy in a deep wagon, eyes hard to the side and head tilted, fingers up and moving ... [who] hums in a quiet tonal code that stops and starts." He's "in himself," Lark says, "like a termite's in a wall."
For Termite was born with hydrocephalus, and small-town Appalachia in 1959 wasn't especially well equipped to serve a special-needs child (though Phillips, typically, turns even bureaucracy into magic, transforming a social services worker into an otherworldly symbol).
By crafting parallels between events at two railroad tunnels separated by nine years and geography (one in Korea, one in West Virginia), Phillips' novel suggests unexplained glimmers of a spiritual world hovering above our own. But she roots her mysticism in reality, as in this description of what it's like to drift toward death: "Abruptly, a shutter falls. Sounds diminish and recede. What and why does it matter. Like an invited guest, he pulls deep inside, poured through himself like water." Just as Termite's limitations aren't complete -- he hears preternaturally well -- Phillips clearly regards death as a transition, not an ending.
Her novels appear only once every several years. *Lark and Termite,* a tragedy and a masterpiece, has been worth the wait. Read it, savor it.

Thirty years along in a literary career with a modest-sized body of work to her credit, it's fair to ask whether Jayne Anne Phillips has fully realized the potential displayed in her dazzling 1979 debut short story collection, BLACK TICKETS. With the publication of her latest novel, her first in nine years, there is a good chance she will silence any doubters and will leave all of us hungering for more of her distinctive voice.

LARK AND TERMITE is a family drama set in the 1950s in an unlikely pairing of locations --- a dying West Virginia town and a battlefield in the early days of the Korean War. The novel is built upon four interconnected points of view: 17-year-old Lark, attending secretarial school in the town of Winfield and sensing the pull of the wider world; her disabled "minimally hydrocephalic" nine-year-old brother Termite, whose stream of consciousness pours onto the page in a voiceless swirl of images and sounds; their Aunt Nonie, who has been left to care for both children after they're deposited with her by her younger sister, Lola, a sometimes lounge singer who is irresistibly attractive to men and disastrously incapable of dealing with the consequences of that fact; and Corporal Robert Leavitt, Termite's father, a jazz musician and young soldier from Philadelphia whose platoon accompanies South Korean villagers fleeing the North Korean onslaught.

Basing the grimly realistic Korean segments of the novel on accounts of the massacre of South Korean civilians by American troops at No Gun Ri, Phillips movingly describes the last days of Leavitt, mortally wounded by friendly fire and pinned down in an abandoned railroad tunnel, where he has sought refuge to escape strafing from North Korean aircraft. He is sustained by memories of the few months he spent with Lola before shipping off to war and is tenderly cared for by a Korean girl with a blind brother in her charge. "If death is this brilliant slide," he thinks in language that is characteristic of Phillips's lustrous prose, "this high, fine music felt as pure vibration, this plunging float in wind and silence, it's not so bad."

As Robert lies dying, Lola is about to give birth to Termite in a Kentucky hospital. And it's that juxtaposition, only one of several such almost mystical connections (the parallel between Lark and Termite and the unnamed Korean siblings another), that gives the novel its identity. Phillips compresses the story into four days --- July 26th, 27th, 28th and 31st --- recounting events that occurred on those dates in 1950 Korea and 1959 West Virginia. That structural choice reveals a central metaphor, as Phillips repeatedly but effectively invokes the idea of mirror images. Describing Lola, she writes, "She realized little by little, and learned early to mirror back what people wanted to see." Or this, in Lark's description of how she believes the inexpressible way Termite sees the world differs from that of normal people: "That's the point: he's got a rhyme and reason. We only see the surface, like when you look at a river and all you see is a reflection of the sky."

Phillips enfolds Lark and her brother in an intricate web of relationships. Aunt Nonie works at a local restaurant and occasionally shares the bed of her boss, Charlie. The Tucci family lives next door, stoking a persistent and frank sexual tension between Lark and one of the Tucci boys, Solly, who plays a pivotal role when Lark and Termite are driven to the attic of their house by the waters of a flood whose drama consumes much of the novel's final act. There's a solicitous, if mysterious, social services worker named Robert Stamble and Ervin Tompkins, one of Leavitt's comrades, whose cameo roles bringing gifts to Termite and Lark lend emotional shading to the story. But at the core of the novel is a tale of filial love of the fiercest kind, and while Phillips would never be so naïve as to suggest her protagonists have overcome the challenges life has placed before them, it seems Aunt Nonie speaks for her when she observes, "The wash of the old stories is gone. We're all going somewhere else now, somewhere different from where we've been."

In a recent interview, Phillips said, "Fiction is the slow apprehension of meaning through the elements of story and language." It's that perspective that gives her the patience to weave this meticulously constructed tale notable both for the lyrical precision of its prose and the resonance of its storytelling.

--- Reviewed by Harvey Freedenberg

once in a decade a work comes along that reminds us why, no matter what crap economy or worldwide chaos may be in full force, we need art to keep us going. this is a novel that inspires ones day like a gust of crisp winter air or the murmur of beautiful music--i really cannot explain how reading this book has filled me with a sense of wonder and thrill. you have to experience it for yourself. the GLOWING ny times review doesn't even do it justice. bless you Jayne Anne Phillips! Get this book.

Lark and Termite is a beautiful, graceful, lyrical read. Jayne Anne Phillips has given us a delicious gift in this novel of Lark and Termite, two half siblings living in West Virginia in the late 1950s. The novel takes place over a few days in their lives, as a devastating rain storm is about to hit their small town. Lark is a teenager who takes care of her younger brother Termite was born with hydrocephalus and cannot walk or talk. Their story is interspersed with the story of Termite's father, Robert Leavitt, an American soldier caught up in the early days of the Korean conflict. All of the characters in this novel are trapped somehow, Leavitt is trapped in Korea, Lark is trapped in the small West Virginia town, trapped by her life and by the storm and Termite is trapped in his own mind. Phillips takes us into all of their minds, convincingly. Lark and Termite is such a compelling read, but be warned the story starts slowly, just like the storm, and builds to a satisfying conclusion. This novel is not a quick or a light read at all. Leave yourself time to savor the language. Phillips is at her best here, and the prose is at times reminiscent of Faulkner and Joyce and those who dare to read this novel will be rewarded with a beautiful and lyrical story.

The most authentic love story I've read in a long time is Lark and Termite by Jayne Anne Phillips. It tells the love story of Lark, half-sister of Termite, who has hydrocephalus (a condition of fluid in the brain which enlarges the head). In the backdrop are three more unusual love stories:

1. Lark and Termite's mother Lola, who loves a soldier 9 years younger than her who is in the Korean War

2. Lola's love for her sister Nonie, which is not returned. It is Nonie who ends up takeing care of Lark and Termite

3. Nonie's love of Charlie, who betrayed her with Lola. Though Charlie betrayed her he always loves Nonie, he just can't crawl out from under manipulation by Lola because he learned it from his mother. This relationship has a lot to teach those who are so angry and unforgiving of affairs that happen. The story of an affair is often complicated.

The characters are impeccably drawn and so are so three-dimensional, you close the book with all of them etched in your heart.

It is the love of Lark and Termite that takes your breath away. Termite's exquisite sense of listening means he knows her deeply and Lark know through oh-so-careful attention how vibration and sounds make Termite happy. Lark is so clear in her knowing love, "someone might think he's talking but he's saying his version of the plates stacked against one another, the plastic chairs scraping, our footsteps, the wheels of his own chair turning as I push it inside." There are lots of lovely descriptions of how they know and love each other through carefully paying attention. It is deeply moving to become a part of their love story through reading . Even the ending couldn't be a more perfect, heroic action because of their love and the beginning of a new, fourth love story also starts at the same time. The ending was glorious and resonated deeply with me. I suspect it will stay with me for the rest of my life.

This is what love is about, knowing and attending to each other deeply. There is so much surface valued in our culture, I find it frightening. Lust and attraction are an important part of loving which this book is also about. There is a depth to love that so many young people miss out on because they're like cows grazing in a field. Depth of love and attention requires time, authenticity and risking profound connection instead of running away from the possibility.

The epigraph in this novel comes from "The Sound and the Fury," and like Faulkner's novel, "Lark and Termite" is narrated in several voices, including the unusual voice of Termite, a child who is blind, mentally disabled, physically handicapped, and unable to care for his most basic needs. His disability isn't specified, but seems to resemble cerebral palsy, and he speaks in a kind of stream of consciousness through which Phillips imagines what his mental processes might be like. Lark, his half-sister, who has her own voice in the novel, is devoted to him, but her love for him never seems cloying or saintly; it makes sense, given the circumstances of her life in the novel's pitch-perfect nineteen-fifties West Virginia small town. The way Phillips draws these characters and this setting is reason enough to read this interesting novel.

Another reason to read it is for the voice of Leavitt, Termite's soldier father, who is pinned down under enemy fire in Korea as Lola, his wife, is giving birth to Termite. His voice vividly recreates the brutality and confusion of the American retreat down the Korean peninsula in the so-called "forgotten war." The scenes set in the tunnel where Leavitt takes shelter with terrified civilians fleeing from the advancing North Koreans (and from so-called friendly fire) are as harrowing as they are exquisitely detailed.

Finally, Phillips is such a skillful writer that the magical elements of the novel, including the mysterious social worker, the flood scenes, and the rather fantastical ending, are compelling, the way good magic is. In fact, if you let it, the entire novel, including a whole range of wonderful characters I haven't mentioned, will draw you in. Given the aggrieved tone of some of the unhappy readers of this novel, perhaps I should say that "Lark and Termite" is literary fiction. It's not a quick read and requires attention (which will be rewarded). If "The Sound and the Fury" gave you a headache in high school, this may not be a book you'll enjoy. However, if you have never contemplated what the consciousness of a handicapped child, mute and blind, might be like, I think you'll appreciate the serious depiction of Termite. His voice is complex and lyrical, but his existence, which complicates the lives of everyone who must care for him, is never depicted in the treacly fashion in which some people approach handicapped children. Taking care of Termite is HARD. His sister Lark, understands this; Jayne Anne Phillips understands this, too.

"Her name is Lola, she was a showgirl, But that was 30 years ago, when they used to have a show. . . " Barry Manilow, Copacabana. Lola is also a cat, but other reviewers have already explored that gold mine of ham-handed literary symbolism.

This is the story of Lark and Termite, half-siblings, and their survival story in 1959 West Virginia. Intertwined is the story of Termite's father's death in Korea in 1950. I wanted to love this book and the characters. This Velveteen Rabbit just never managed to feel real.

Slog through the first chapter and its overly long paragraph structure, and certainly you will find some quite lovely language. That does not make up for the dime-store novel plot line and choppy interplay between the Korean War and West Virginia. The author does not seem to trust her readers with the deeper meanings or symbolism ensconced in her pages so she uses her pen as if it were a hammer. (See "Lola" above). Much of the writing and plot-development ended up feeling self-conscious -- pressured and high-strung -- where it should have seemingly flowed with ease.

I understand that many believe this to be the next-best and great literary triumph. It is a deeply flawed book, and I cannot recommend it for any more than an overly generous two stars.

Lark & Termite are sister and younger, seemingly autistic brother who live in a small West Virginia town in the lat 1950's, Lark taking care of Termite while their aunt Nonie, whom they live with, works at the local diner, run and owned by her lover Charlie (himself somewhat run and owned by his mother Gladdy). What happened to Lark's mother Lola, the history of her parentage, is a mystery at the beginning but is gradually revealed throughout. The book's second strand is set in 1950 in Korea at the start of the war and follows Termite's father, Corporal Robert Leavitt, who while guiding a civilian retreat finds himself trapped in a railway tunnel with many Koreans, but especially a family of three--an older woman, a younger woman, and a small blind boy--who stand in for surrogates for the main characters.
The book moves between these two time periods in highly structured, lengthy divisions. Korea is focused through Leavitt's eyes, while 1959 is seen through several narrative sections: Lark, Nonie, and most poetically--Termite, who has a preternatural sense of the world around him (and even of the world not around him).
Leavitt's problem is pretty straightforward--he's wounded and dying, is taken care of by the young Korean, wants to protect the Koreans, and thinks of his time with Lola, whom he knows is 7 months pregnant with Termite-to-be. The problems of 1959 are much more varied: Lola's coming of age in terms of her sexuality, her movement into the adult world, her desire to know the full story of her parents, how she'll continue to care for Termite; the rancor between Nonie and Gladdy; social services and their pressure to have Termite put someplace "good for him"; and a major flood.
The style ranges from Nonie's somewhat no-nonsense voice to Lark's mix of that and a more reflective interior monologue and Termite's dense poetic stream-of-consciousness reminiscent of Faulkner's Benjy in Sound and the Fury. The voices are distinctive and sharp and really nail the characters. And Termite's sections are simply beautiful in their language and vividness and sensuality, whether it's about an orange cat, the impending rain and flood, the rapture of a colored ribbon. The use of symbol is deft at times, a bit overheated at others; I thought she could have trusted the reader a bit more to get some of the connections.
I had a hard time with the seemingly utter goodness of Lark--it just didn't ring wholly true to me her lack of any truly bitter or resentful thought--and at times Termite was just a bit too much. My biggest problem though was that I just didn't find myself caring much about the characters. There was little tension in Leavitt's story; you pretty much can see where it's headed and the Korean analogues get a bit repetitive. And Lark's story just felt a bit too distanced--partly a matter of that utter goodness, partly a matter of style, partly a matter of interrupted sections, and partly a matter of it being pretty telegraphed (I thought) where her story was going (save for one part of her story at the end).
It was, finally for me, a book that had lots to admire technically but that I couldn't say I wholly enjoyed. It was a beautiful structure but didn't hold much for me. To be honest, I had to force myself toward the end to finish it, not because it was so bad but because it just didn't compel me forward; the whole was not greater than the parts.
It does begin well, and is compelling for a little while, so rather than warn people off, I'd say it's worth giving it a try and if you find yourself engaged then just keep on going. If you lose sense of engagement, though, you probably won't get it back so feel free to put it down, but try to get through at least one of Termite's sections first for the beauty of the prose and then

There's a riveting moment in Jayne Anne Phillips's startling episodic novel "Lark and Termite" when the two title characters (Lark is the half sister of special-needs child Termite) find themselves trapped in their home by a flood. Fleeing to the attic, Lark makes comfortable her half brother--who cannot walk, talks only by parotting the ends of sentences, and who perhaps cannot see--and then returns downstairs to the main portion of the house, which is rapidly being overwhelmed by the rising waters. She wants to save the wagon (it appears on the book cover) that she uses to cart the child around. Her struggles to save it take up two or three pages, but they seem to go on forever. It's a scene beyond gripping.

There are many other touching poetic moments in Ms. Phillips's quadripartite tale, which follows not only Lark (in first person) and Termite (in third person) but also Lark's aunt Nonie, and Termite's father, Robert Leavitt, who has been wounded by friendly fire in Korea exactly nine years before most of the action takes place.

The novel starts slowly (maybe too slowly for some) but like the flood itself, it becomes a torrent of emotion and words. Ms. Phillips, perhaps the only American author to have a starship named after her (M. John Harrison does so in his novel "Nova Swing") really can take you all over the universe. If you allow her to do so. Do so.