Compared to William Faulkner, Virginia Woolf, and Toni Morrison, Jayne Anne Phillips has produced an eloquent, heartrending, and surprisingly suspenseful novel in Lark and Termite, her first in nine years. Critics paid tribute to her poetic, evocative prose—"language [that] cut[s] so close to the human heart that the differences between us are excised, and only what's truest remains" (San Francisco Chronicle)—and her unforgettable, intimately drawn characters. Repeated pictures and leitmotifs connect the characters across time and space, while Phillips's remarkable descriptions of Termite's mute observations and insights allow readers to see the world through his eyes. The overlapping plotlines and narrative shifts demand readers' patience and concentration, but "assembling the novel is its own reward" (San Francisco Chronicle).
Copyright 2009 Bookmarks Publishing LLC
Phillips, who made a big splash with Black Tickets (1979) and Machine Dreams (1986), has fallen somewhat off the literary radar but comes back full force with a new novel that certainly reminds us of her strength as a fiction writer. Set in her native West Virginia, the author places her multivoiced narrative in the 1950s. Several characters, all related, tell their version, or let the narrator tell it, of family life, beginning with Robert Leavitt, an army corporal stationed in Korea during that dreadful conflict. Leavitt dies tragically overseas, leaving behind a young widow and infant son. In alternating sections, Leavitt’s Korean experiences are chronicled, as are his survivors’ attempts to put together a family that can decently function without husband and father. Phillips’ understanding of each of her characters is typically immaculate. A sense of sluggishness in the novel’s first pages gives way to an appreciation of how moving this in-depth definition of what makes a family is. Expect demand from her fans; on the other hand, readers unfamiliar with her should be encouraged to make her acquaintance. --Brad Hooper
Review
“Once you open its hypnotic pages you will find yourself pulled like metal to a magnet . . . [Termite’s] sequences are virtuoso segments in which Phillips plays English the way Casals played Bach.” –Alan Cheuse, Dallas Morning News
“A tour-de force of history, imagination and invention. It is resonant and profound, a masterpiece worth waiting for.” –Elissa Schappell, More
“Mysterious, affecting . . . reveals [a family’s] tangled secrets in such a profound and intimate way that these ordinary, wounded people become both tragic and magnificent.” –Ron Charles, front page, Washington Post Book World
“Jayne Anne Phillips writes with all five senses, paying attention–as few writers do–to sight, sound, taste, touch and smell in nearly every sentence of her tightly constructed, extraordinary new novel . . . a powerful reading experience, at once poetic and electrifying.”
–Heller McAlpin, Newsday
“Phillips taps into powerful magic with a tale that surprises to its last page . . . A Jewel of a book.” –Colette Bancroft, St. Petersburg Times
“Luminous and haunting and singular . . . [Lark and Termite]feels as if it has been taken straight from the griddle and is still too hot to touch. And because it deals with issues over which people have been arguing for centuries–families and war–the novel’s rare immediacy is really quite spectacular.”–Julia Keller, Chicago Tribune
“Reading this novel is like listening to music in which some of the notes are outside the normal realm of human hearing, but felt deep in the body.” –Margaret Quanne, The Columbus Dispatch
“A true work of art . . . that seems destined to last, on bookshelves and in readers’ hearts. [P]lumbs the depths of consciousness with potent and poetic language . . . You finish wanting to turn back to the first pages and start over, making sure not to miss a single note.”
–Malena Watrous, The San Francisco Chronicle
“An original examination of the strange durability of family ties.” –Brooke Allen, Wall Street Journal
“Jayne Anne Phillips renders what is realistically impossible with such authority that the reader never questions its truth. This is the alchemy of great fiction: the fantastic dream that’s created in Lark and Termite is one the reader enters without ever looking back.”
–Kathryn Harrison, The New York Times Book Review
“Haunting . . . A rigorous and demanding work of complex literary architecture . . . Make no mistake: Phillips’s January novel has set a high literary bar that will challenge subsequent novels in 2009.”
–John Marshall, Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“Lark and Termite offers substantial rewards for readers who value passages of gorgeous, intelligent writing with intricate literary architecture.” –Perrin Ireland, Boston Globe
“Wonderful . . . riveting and moving . . .In this novel about sibling love set in the 1950’s, Lark’s pragmatism, clear-eyed love and determination to hold on to her brother are strikingly fresh and heroic.” –Wingate Packard, The Seattle Times
“Rich symbols and parallels are carried along by the sounds, images and rhythms of Phillips’s wordcraft. This is Phillips writing at her best.” –Joseph Peschel, St Louis Post-Dispatch
“Jayne Anne Phillips’s intricate, deeply felt new novel reverberates with echoes of Faulkner, Woolf, Kerouac, McCullers, and Michael Herr’s war reporting, and yet it fuses all these wildly disparate influences into something incandescent and utterly original. [Her characters] are so indelible, so intimately drawn, that they threaten to move in and take up permanent residence in the reader’s mind.” –Michiko Kakutani, The New York Times
“Jayne Anne Phillips has the universal soul of an artist, and she is at the height of her powers in Lark and Termite, entering with absolute authenticity and compassion into the hearts and sensibilities of the members of a remarkable family, whose story from the middle of the 20th century reflects profoundly on our lives in the beginning of the 21st. This is a major novel from one of America’s finest writers.”
–Robert Olen Butler
“If I could name one novel by an American woman that compares in cult status to J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye or Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, it would Jayne Anne Phillips’ Black Tickets. A short masterpiece comprising connected tales about people living outside the American Dream that Raymond Carver praised for its ‘crooked beauty,’ Phillips 1979 debut heralded a writer of precocious power and daring instincts. Her work since —including Machine Dreams, Fast Lanes, Shelter, and Motherkind–has proven, and even surpassed, her early promise. . . .
“Lark & Termite . . . is set in West Virginia and Korea in the 1950’s. At its center are two siblings, 17-year-old Lark and her brother, Termite, who is mute and cannot walk; their fragile mother, Lola; their aunt Nonie, who is raising them; and Termite’s father, Corporal Robert Leavitt, who is serving in the Korean War.
“Moving between Leavitt’s perilous situation–his unit has taken refuge with some South Koreans in a railroad tunnel after being pinned down by friendly fire–and his hardscrabble family in Winfield, West Virginia, where a life-changing natural disaster strikes, Phillips lovingly and dramatically captures intimate and historic parallels between these disparate places.
“In one startling passage, Lark says about Termite, as they sit in the yard of Nonie’s house in the ‘still and flat’ day. ‘He never looks at his fingers but I always think he hears or knows something through them.’ It seems to me that Phillips has always written this way too–right through her amazing fingers into the astonished world.” –Lisa Shea, Elle Magazine
“Lark and Termite’s parallels with The Sound and the Fury are remarkable. Both novels employ four points of view and are sometimes told in stream of consciousness . . .In Phillips, there are Leavitt, Lark, Nonie, and Termite. . . Phillips reinvigorates and transforms the Faulknerian infrastructure. Female voices, not the chorus of brothers Jason and Quentin, dominate in Lark and Termite…. Lark’s tender care for Termite [her brother, who, like Benjy is unable to walk, talk, or care for himself] suffuses Phillips’ novel . . .The relationship between Nonie and her promiscuous, more beautiful sister is exquisitely explored . . . While Faulkner chronicled the decay of the South through its men, Phillips adumbrates the nobility of Appalachia, of Korean refugees, of the least of us, by taking us into the ‘shaky territory’ of women and the ‘picture inside the roar, a tunnel inside the tunnel.’” –Lorraine Adams, Bookforum
“This novel is cut like a diamond, with such sharp authenticity and bursts of light.” –Alice Munro
“Lark and Termite is extraordinary and it is luminous. This is not simply classic Jayne Anne Phillips. This is something far more extraordinary. It is an astounding feat of the imagination. It is the best novel I've read this year.” –Junot Díaz
“What a beautiful, beautiful novel this is–so rich and intricate in its drama, so elegantly written, so tender, so convincing, so penetrating, so incredibly moving. I can declare without hesitation or qualification that Lark and Termite is by far the best new novel I’ve read in the last five years or so.” –Tim O’Brien
About the Author
Jayne Anne Phillips is the author of three previous novels and two collections of widely anthologized stories. She is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, two National Endowment for the Arts Fellowships, a Bunting Fellowship, a Howard Foundation Fellowship. and an Academy Award in Literature (1997) from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Phillips is currently professor of English and director of the MFA Program at Rutgers-Newark, the State University of New Jersey.
From The Washington Post
From The Washington Post's Book World/washingtonpost.com Reviewed by Ron Charles There are books you recommend to everybody, and then there are books you share cautiously, even protectively. Jayne Anne Phillips's "Lark and Termite" is that second kind, a mysterious, affecting novel you'll want to talk about only with others who have fallen under its spell. On the surface, nothing about the West Virginia family in "Lark and Termite" seems especially noteworthy, except perhaps the consistency of their misfortune, but the author reveals their tangled secrets in such a profound and intimate way that these ordinary, wounded people become both tragic and magnificent. Phillips has garnered plenty of praise in the past, but she's a slow writer by today's book-a-year standard, and she has made us wait almost a decade since her most recent novel, "MotherKind". The product of that labor is this strangely discordant story of violence and passion, affection and longing. It takes place during two very different Julys � 1950 and 1959 � in two very different places. The first page drops us immediately into the early days of the Korean War. Devastating losses have pushed Cpl. Robert Leavitt quickly up the ranks, and now, as the North Koreans advance, he commands a thinly stretched platoon charged with evacuating refugees. In the ensuing chaos, American fighter pilots strafe the peasants under his charge and send them scurrying into a tunnel, where they're pinned down by panicked U.S. servicemen. Phillips's story is inspired by the alleged No Gun Ri massacre, which was the subject of the Associated Press's controversial Pulitzer Prize-winning exposé in 2000, but there's nothing polemic about her riveting portrayal of that event. She's interested only in the waste of war and the heroism of young Cpl. Leavitt, who continues caring for the doomed refugees despite his own injuries. "He sees that war never ends," she writes. "It's all one war despite players or location, war that sleeps dormant for years or months, then erupts and lifts its flaming head to find regimes changed, topography altered, weaponry recast." Knowing what transpired at No Gun Ri saps none of the suspense from this gripping scene because Phillips keeps a tight focus on Leavitt's interaction with a young Korean girl and her blind brother. As the three of them struggle to survive, Leavitt's thoughts drift back to the vibrant bar singer he married just before shipping out, and he senses, correctly, that she's giving birth to a son in the States on this very day. Through that mesmerizing war tale is woven the other story, set in West Virginia in 1959. Leavitt's now 9-year-old son, nicknamed Termite, is severely physically and mentally handicapped, unable to speak or walk. He's cared for by his tireless aunt and his devoted 17-year-old half-sister, Lark. Phillips narrates in each of these three characters' voices, carefully revealing the complicated, sad history of their makeshift family. Lark is determined to care for her half-brother no matter how that burden might constrain her own life. She never accepts the discouraging diagnoses about his mental perceptions, and she realizes that he's all she has left of her vanished mother. "From the time I was a kid," she says, "I thought his head was heavy because there was so much in it he couldn't tell or say. That everything had stayed in him, whether he recognized the pictures or not. That he'd kept all the words I couldn't call up, our mother's words and words about her. Words from before we were born, what I heard until I was three and forgot." Lark's aunt, a single woman with no kids of her own, is doing the best she can by her sister's children, but past betrayals have made her wary of accepting help from anyone, even her hardworking boyfriend, who seems willing to wait forever to regain her trust. But she's more concerned with the problem of giving Lark a normal life while keeping Termite from being institutionalized. A nosey social worker keeps poking around, offering helpful advice and a new wheelchair, but the aunt is deeply suspicious. In the novel's most surreal and lyrical sections, Termite describes the patchwork of sounds, images and meanings trapped in his inert body. All this takes place as a violent storm threatens to flood the town, a calamity that eventually brings long-buried secrets to the surface and washes away the family's tenuous structure. I know it sounds like too much is going on in Lark and Termite, but these disparate elements resonate with each other in a most captivating manner. It's confusing only in the way anything truly profound can be. On one level, Phillips is writing a kind of family mystery, and the slowly interconnecting revelations about how Lark and Termite ended up in their aunt's care are thoroughly engrossing, charged with pathos and a surprising degree of eroticism. At another level, though, Phillips is doing something strange and mystical. There's a subtle sympathy between the Korean War story and the events that take place exactly nine years later. Haunting echoes and repetitions overcome the differences in time and place: The Korean girl and her blind brother whom Leavitt tries to save display an uncanny resemblance to Lark and Termite; the threat bearing down on the refugees in the tunnel is a striking reflection of the storm about to destroy Winfield, W.Va.; and in both worlds, self-sacrificing compassion manages to overcome the barriers imposed by cruelty or language or even death. This isn't merely a matter of stylistic experimentation, a kind of Appalachian magical realism. With her striking mixture of hallucinatory poetry and gritty realism, Phillips is trying to articulate the transcendence of love, the sort of unity among deeply devoted people that reverberates beneath the rational world. As the novel moves toward a crescendo of harrowing revelations and brutal confrontations, Phillips surprises us again with another disorienting touch of mysticism and a finale that mingles despair and triumph, naiveté and spiritual insight, a startling demonstration of "how lightning fast things can go right or wrong."
Copyright 2009, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Winfield, West Virginia
July 26, 1959
Lark
I move his chair into the yard under the tree and then Nonie carries him out. The tree is getting all full of seeds and the pods hang down. Soon enough the seeds will fly through the air and Nonie will have hay fever and want all the windows shut to keep the white puffs out. Termite will want to be outside in the chair all the time then, and he’ll go on and on at me if I try to keep him indoors so I can do the ironing or clean up the dishes. Sun or rain, he wants to be out, early mornings especially. “OK, you’re out,” Nonie will say, and he starts his sounds, quiet and satisfied, before she even puts him down. She has on her white uniform to go to work at Charlie’s and she holds Termite out from her a ways, not to get her stockings run with his long toenails or her skirt stained with his fingers because he always has jam on them after breakfast.
“There’s Termite.” Nonie puts him in the chair with his legs under him like he always sits. Anybody else’s legs would go to sleep, all day like that. “You keep an eye on him, Lark,” Nonie tells me, “and give him some lemonade when it gets warmer. You can put the radio in the kitchen window. That way he can hear it from out here too.” Nonie straightens Termite. “Get him one of those cleaner-bag ribbons from inside. I got to go, Charlie will have my ass.”
A car horn blares in the alley. Termite blares too then, trying to sound like the horn. “Elise is here,” Nonie says. “Don’t forget to wash the dishes, and wipe off his hands.” She’s already walking off across the grass, but Termite is outside so he doesn’t mind her going. Elise waves at me from inside her Ford. She’s a little shape in the shine of glare on the window, then the gravel crunches and they’re moving off fast, like they’re going somewhere important. “Termite,” I say to him, and he says it back to me. He always gets the notes right, without saying the words. His sounds are like a one-toned song, and the day is still and flat. It’s seven in the morning and here and there a little bit of air moves, in pieces, like a tease, like things are getting full so slow no one notices. On the kitchen wall we have one of those glass vials with blue water in it, and the water rises if it’s going to storm. The water is all the way to the top and it’s like a test now to wait and see if the thing works, or if it’s so cheap it’s already broken. “Termite,” I tell him, “I’ll fix the radio. Don’t worry.” He’s got to have something to listen to.
He moves his fingers the way he does, with his hands up and all his fingers pointing, then curving, each in a separate motion, fast or careful. He never looks at his fingers but I always think he hears or knows something through them, like he does it for some reason.
Charlie says he’s just spastic, that’s a spastic motion; Nonie says he’s fidgety, with whatever he has that he can’t put to anything. His fingers never stop moving unless we give him something to hold, then he holds on so tight we have to pry whatever it is away from him. Nonie says that’s just cussedness. I think when he holds something his fingers rest. He doesn’t always want to keep hearing things.
My nightgown is so thin I shouldn’t be standing out here, though it’s not like it matters. Houses on both sides of the alley have seen about everything of one another from their secondfloor windows. No one drives back here but the people who live here, who park their cars in the gravel driveways that run off the alley. We don’t have a car, but the others do, and the Tuccis have three—two that run and one that doesn’t. It’s early summer and the alley has a berm of plush grass straight up the center. All us kids—Joey and Solly and Zeke and me—walked the grass barefoot in summer, back and forth to one another’s houses. I pulled Termite in the wagon and the wheels fit perfectly in the narrow tire tracks of the alley. Nick Tucci still calls his boys thugs, proud they’re quick and tough. He credits Nonie with being the only mother his kids really remember, back when we were small.
Today is Sunday. Nick Tucci will run his push mower along the berm of the alley, to keep the weeds down. He does it after dusk, when he gets home from weekend overtime at the factory and he’s had supper and beer, and the grass smells like one sharp green thread sliced open. I bring Termite out. He loves the sound of that mower and he listens for it, once all the way down, once back. He makes a low murmur like r’s strung together, and he has to listen hard over the sounds of other things, electric fans in windows, radio sounds, and he sits still and I give him my sandals to hold. He looks to the side like he does, his hands fit into my shoes. Hiseyes stay still, and he hears. If I stand behind his chair I can feel the blade of the mower too; I feel it roll and turn way down low in me, making a whirl and a cutting.
Sundays seem as long as a year. Sundays I don’t walk up Kanawha Hill to Main Street to Barker Secretarial. I’m nearly through second semester, Typing and Basic Skills, but I’m First of Class and Miss Barker lets me sit in on Steno with the second-year girls. Miss Barker is not young. She’s a never-married lady who lives in her dead father’s house and took over the school for him when he died of a heart attack about ten years ago. The school is up above the Five & Ten, on the second floor of the long building with the long red sign that says in gold letters murphy’s five and ten cent store. It’s a really old sign, Nonie says, it was there when she and my mother were growing up, but the store was both floors then. Now Barker Secretarial has filled the big upstairs room with lines of Formica-topped desks, each with a pullout shelf where we keep our typing books (Look to the right, not to the keyboard, look to the right—). We have to be on time because the drills are timed and we turn on our machines all at once; there’s a ratchety click and a rumble, like the whole room surges, then it hums. The typewriters hum one note: it’s a note Termite could do, but what would he do with the sound of us typing. We all work at one speed for practice drills. We’re like a chorus and the clacking of the keys sounds measured, all together. Then at personal best we go for speed and all the rates are different. The machines explode with noise, running over themselves. Up near the big windows, for half the room, there’s a lowered fake ceiling with long fluorescent lights. The tops of the windows disappear in that ceiling and I hate it and I sit in the back. Barker Secretarial stopped with the ceiling halfway when they realized they didn’t have the money for air-conditioning, and they brought in big fans that roll on wheels like the wheels on Termite’s chair. Miss Barker gets those fans going and we all have to wear scarves to keep our hair from flying around. With the noise and the motion I can think I’m high up, moving fast above the town and the trees and the river and the bridges, and as long as I’m typing I won’t crash.
I tell Termite, “It’s not going to rain yet. He’ll still mow the alley. There’s not going to be stars though. It’s going to be hot and white, and the white sky will go gray. Then really late we might have that big storm they talk about.”
Big storm they talk about, Termite says back to me, in sounds like my words.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “But you’ll have to watch from the window. Don’t think you’re going to sit out here in the rain with lightning flashing all around you.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. He might be thinking how great it would be, wind and rain, real hard rain, not like the summer rain we let him sit out in sometimes. He likes motion. He likes things on his skin. He’s alive all over that way. Nonie says I put thoughts in his head, he might not be thinking anything. Maybe he doesn’t have to think, I tell her. Just don’t you be thinking a lot of things about him that aren’t true, she’ll say.
But no one can tell what’s true about him.
Termite was pretty when he was a baby. People would coo over him when we walked him in the big carriage. His forehead was real broad and he had blond curls and those blue eyes that move more than normal, like he’s watching something we don’t see. He was so small for his age that Nonie called him a mite, then Termite, because even then he moved his fingers, feeling the air. I think he’s in himself like a termite’s in a wall.
I remember when Termite came. Nonie is his guardian and his aunt, but I’m his sister. In a way he’s more mine than anyone else’s. He’ll be mine for longer, is what Nonie says. Nonie isn’t old but she always says to me about when she’ll be gone. She looks so strong, like a block or a rectangle, strong in her shoulders and her back and her wide hips, even in her legs and their blue veins that she covers up with her stockings. Your mother didn’t bring him, is what Nonie told me, someone brought him for her. Not his father. Nonie says Termite’s father was only married to my mother for a year. He was a baby, Nonie says, twenty-one when my mother was nearly thirty, and those bastards left him over there in Korea. No one even got his body back and they had to have the service around a flag that was folded up. Nonie says it was wrong and it will never be right. But I don’t know how Termite got here because Nonie sent me away that week to church camp. I was nine and had my birthday at camp, and when ...
