The Member of the Wedding

The Member of the Wedding.
Carson McCullers.
Spoilers


This book sneaks up and then kicks you in the gut.  Or as Frankie might say, it is a no-good mean old nasty pig that kicks you in the gut.

I won't add to the oceans of ink on Carson McCullers, and this novel in particular, but just record my reaction to the book.  At first it charmed me, and later Frankie's longing, loneliness and occasional resulting orneriness were shockingly familiar.  But John Henry West, her 6-year old cousin, and Berenice, her motherly black housekeeper, seemed mere archetypes, and the story moved slowly.

Then the sheer boredom of Frankie's summer infected me and I had to push myself to finish the book.  Even the episode with the red-haired soldier, which made me shrink in dread for Frankie, lost its power amidst endless pages of Frankie walking the streets of her boring small town.  And the wedding scene, after the immense buildup, was dealt with briefly, obliquely, and Frankie's inevitable shame and desolation was not as powerful as what I expected.

But at the end, it kicks you in the gut.  My reading is that the story is not about the weddding, or even Frankie, but lies elsewhere.  It's not about Frankie's coming of age, but really encapsulated in Berenice and John Henry West.  The tragedies that befall them, and even the implied loss suffered by her father -- moving in with relatives implies a financial downturn perhaps, or some other misfortune -- are the real story.

John Henry in particular made me so sad I almost couldn't read any further, even though only a few pages remained to finish the book I had been pushing myself to finish.  And ultimately what was shocking was how easily Frankie moved on, to new friends and new hopes.

Frankie's dreams of escape seem so narrow, so selfish, so silly compared to what Berenice and John Henry undergo; and yet they are completely believable.  Worse, they are probably even essential to her survival -- otherwise wouldn't the tragedy have scarred her and defaced her, precocious and sensitive child that she is, or even swallowed her whole?

This is life, the story seemed to say; we remain foolishly, selfishly blind to those who love us and those we love, invested and immersed in only our own stories and fantasies, with others only as an essential backdrop.  And, but for flashes of grace, we can be no other way.

4*
June 2011