Amazon.com's editorial review is so far off base it's stunning. It says "By boldly tackling such major themes as love, betrayal, grief, and forgiveness, The Mermaid Chair forces readers to question whether moral issues can always be interpreted in black or white." I say, what book doesn't "tackle" this issues? They're so universal, few books don't "tackle" them? To say nothing of boldness.
The only thing this book does boldly is advance a quasi-Ayn Rand like "philosophy" that essentially consists of the mantra "Selfishness is good." Well, let me rephrase that. This book toutes subordination to one's every whim and desire and unrepentant selfishness with no thought to external consequences and wraps it up shabbily as the politics of reawakening and philosophy.
If I could communicate one statement to the author, whose "Secret Life Of Bees" was an infinitely more charming book that did not groan under the weight of its preternaturally overburdened excesses and trite ambitions, it would be this: There are probably few protagonists less involving, sympathetic, and interesting than whiny, self-aggrandizing, navel-gazing narcissists.
Reading this review, you might think I don't like books like these. That's not true. Introspection and questioning the fundamentals of one's life as a means to genuine, meaningful, and edifying self-realization and self-actualization can often be a fascinating read. But not this. This is a book about an utterly vapid woman whose obsession with herself and her own thoughts and feelings leads her to some rather shallow and unconvincing experimentations done far better in much older books. You've met people like this. Nothing fascinates them more than themselves, and they're endlessly questioning the meaning of their thoughts, feelings, etc. like they are the center of the universe. That's not interesting.
Of course the author throws in the by-now-stereotypical "grave misfortune involving parents from childhood that was never dealt with that must be dealt with now" for good measure. Ugh. There's no growth, there's no learning going on here. If nothing else I've said about this book stays with you, then let this pronouncement - this book is an exercise in what happens people when they become too inwardly fixated to the point of narcissistic obsession. There's no growth, there's no learning.
To contrast, a number of years ago I read Graham Joyce's "Dark Sister" about a bored housewife who, after years of dutiful service to his husband, came, through magic of sorts, around to a legitimate exploration of what her life could be, especially in regards to her independence from her odious husband. It did so in a charming style that wasn't condescending or overly cloying, unlike this novel, and while it made the housewife's concerns paramount and somewhat inwardly focused, it did so without all of the annoying, whiny "Me! Me! Me!" prattling that passes as self-discovery in this book.
In short, I wouldn't recommend this book at all, unless you think self-discovery through unremittant self-indulgence and melodramatic emotional posturing sounds like a good time.
