Housekeeping: A Novel

I am somewhat amused by the clear split between the reviews posted here: either the readers loved it or absolutely despised it. There is very little middle ground. This book is clearly difficult - I'm an avid reader, hold a degree in Comparative Literature and am an English teacher and I found myself reaching for the dictionary often. This is not a book to take lightly. It is not a novel that should be read as a simple fiction. This novel requires a lot of mental involvement and you will be exposed to different ideas, ideas that many people seem to find off-putting. It is so well written that you could, if you wished, fly through it quickly but I don't recommend it. Slow down and savor the words and phrasing and analyze the characters. This book is about a family trying to survive and cope with death and permanence. It is a slice of the darker side of life that most people wish to ignore. Yes, it's painful at times but most lessons tend to be so. It's a book about survival and trying to find a place in society; or whether you want to be a part of that society or not. Housekeeping is not light entertainment. You will have to work and study it but it is so beautifully written that it is a joy. Settle down with your dictionary and enjoy it. I know I did.

"Housekeeping" was assigned reading for a literature class, and although the title seemed less than interesting to me, I have been raving about the novel to anyone who will listen since I read it over a year ago. Robinson has such a natural talent with descriptive writing that the story, with its sad commentary on society's treatment of women who walk over the edge of "propriety," flows like beautiful poetry even in the face of depression and loss. It was a joy to read, and although I don't read novels more than once, I will be reading this again just to experience the language and to make sure I captured every detail. This is not a book for those looking for a quick, light, non-thinking read or happy endings. This one is for those who seriously love good classic novels and reading for the joy of reading.

This book revolves around two sisters, Ruthie and Lucille, told from Ruthie's point of view. After their mother abandons them on their grandmother's doorstep, they are raised by the grandmother, then by her two sisters-in-law, and finally by their Aunt Sylvie, who always seems about to join up with her mind, which is always somewhere else. The plot of the book is hardly the point, however. The words are. Reading this book was like looking at an impressionist painting or living inside someone's dream or reading her mind. Words and sentences on their own don't seem to make much sense, but in the context of the larger work, they swirl to form feelings, images, dreams, fears, and thoughts, bouncing from one to another to form a narrative whole. The resulting picture is utterly stunning, dripping with metaphor and stacked in layers. This is one of the most skillfully written books I've ever read. Aside from a couple passages I found hard to get through, the book captivated me completely from beginning to end. Read it slowly to enjoy every word.

HOUSEKEEPING is a book that is a joy to read, simply by virtue of the carefully constructed yet flowing language employed by the author. It's a challenge for the reader to pace themselves so as not to pass by any of the innumerable shining passages that lie within. The novel speaks to the heart and soul about the transitory state that our lives exemplify, of our expectations and their consequences on our experiences of life.There is a history of tragedy -- both real and as perceived by those on the outside -- in the family depicted. The story is told by Ruthie -- she and her sister Lucille (who is younger, but more socially aware and mature) have been orphaned. Their mother has delivered them to the home of their grandmother in the small, remote town of Fingerbone (great name!), then disappeared -- they learn later that she has driven in a friend's car off a cliff into the nearby lake, where their grandfather perished many years before when the train on which he was riding left the bridge and plunged into the icy waters.Ruthie and Lucille are raised for a time by their grandmother. She is a reserved, slightly distant woman -- but she loves them in her own way, caring for them and seeing to their needs. At the beginning of chapter 2, on p. 29, the girls awaken to find her dead: '...after five years, my grandmother one winter morning eschewed awakening.' Enter their two great aunts, Lily and Nora, who move to Fingerbone from San Francisco (giving up their cherished lifestyle and home, as they remind the girls quite often) in order to care for Ruthie and Lucille. These two are some of the most gently comic characters I have run across in years -- perhaps because they remind me a bit of my own great aunts, with whom I spent a lot of time when I was a child. The conversations between them are priceless -- I actually had tears running down my cheeks from laughing. Lily and Nora don't last long -- they don't die, but they're simply not up to the task of caring for two young girls. The reality of it overwhelms them completely -- they begin to imagine every conceivable scenario of disaster and flee back to the city, having lured the girls' aunt Sylvie to take over for them.Sylvie is a piece of work -- and her character and influence on the girls is the mighty engine that drives the rest of the story. She has long been separated from the rest of her family, traveling all over the country as a transient, 'riding the rails' from one place to another. She is a brilliantly-drawn character, gentle and thoughtful (if a bit odd -- although I hope for my own sake that trait never becomes a crime...). Neither of the girls not the good people of Fingerbone know quite what to make of her. She definitely has her own ideas about things -- she goes into deep, long silences, almost as if, for her, time doesn't exist. Sylvie begins to fill the house with odd collections of things -- empty tin cans with their labels removed, newspapers and magazines. Leav