A couple of books arrived in the mail at the same time. So, judging by the covers, I picked the hardbound one with the purple and gold felt on the sleeve. I read a bit, wondering if women write for women, and men write for men; then switched to the other. And the first few pages were as amazing as anything I've ever read - profound, emotional, poignant. Literally moved me to tears. I had to set the book aside, and take time to think on it.
Luckily I had three other very profound books to read, so I could treat them like meals - breakfast, lunch, supper, and dessert - varying which was which. If you know me, you already know the answer, but no one does. What struck me right off is Matalone's fine writing - very appealing - somber, objective, detached, for the most part. Like the quiet of an empty church, or some other sanctuary where one goes to be alone with their deepest thoughts.
It is the soft professional voice of a healer, a doctor who does what she can to help, and with all good intention, but for professional reasons can't be personally involved with each and every patient. It is like the soothing voice of a mother without the intimate connection of "suckling child at your breast." Or of one human carrying another within, and thus a deep-rooted physiological connect beyond just flesh and blood.
The other resounding chord that shapes the narrative is the format. Building a house as a metaphoric telling of the story of building a home. That is - of shaping the lives - for those who are to occupy that home, and the unique interconnect of the two. Which is very real for me, as that's a key part of my own life - the daily labor of love to keep alive my hundred year old home that's been in the family almost as long. That means a lot to me, it's what I do.
But as in my big old house, for the unfamiliar, is easy to get lost. Which may be deliberate but is a bit unsettling, which can also be deliberate. I lose track of who's speaking - mother, child, orphan, detached fathers, detached husbands. Perhaps they're all one and distinct at the same time. Which again, is unsettling, like a shifting dream. Or as the Vietnam vets used to say back in the day - I could tell you what it was like, but I won't, won't go there anymore.
So that's up to the reader - to decipher that if it needs be, or not, if it doesn't. Taken as a whole, I figure - from the tone and the structure - the house is sort of a tomb that people build around themselves, like a mausoleum, or an Egyptian pyramid, housing your life's work, and thus in a way, your life. But if my reading is correct, the author doesn't accept that as a conclusion. Like - maybe that's what we do, but we don't have to be trapped by that, if we catch ourselves soon enough.
Same metaphor applies - birth, marriages, relationships - all. Though the author certainly doesn't dwell on the conventional as a contrast to one's own disparate reality. But rather describes a coping and shaping of the disparate into a workable personal reality. Thus the key part of the house (note the pun) isn't all the work you put into it, it's the doorway. Interesting, a very-well written book of profound ideas where function seems to follow form, to lead you to the inverse. I can use that.
Like the concept of Socrates' chair - it's not just to sit - but is also the deliberate human effort to construct a tool which mediates between standing or sitting on the floor. An improvement; or a useful and needed benefit that entails its own functioning - to sit and thus work, for example. Or to sit and thus relax, for another. Or whatever use you make of it. Like explaining the meaning of things. I can use that too.
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