Paul Murray’s novel The Bee Sting made many best-of-2023 lists, and I wholeheartedly agree. Reviews call it “tragicomic" which is apt but I feel like that term diminishes both how how funny and how devastating this story actually is.
An aside: I was nearly 100 pages in to the novel before I found out (from a friend) that it was about 650 pages long. Doink! How did I not know this book was so long? Because I read it on a Kindle. Let’s put a pin in that for a future post entitled “My Notes to the Team at Kindle.” Back to The Bee Sting.
If I were a cheesier writer, I might call this a virtuoso performance. But the word “virtuoso” is even more annoying than “tragicomic” so let’s just say it was impressive. The point of view buzzes from one family member to the next and with each shift, the writing adapts to suit the character. I loved every one of them–the heartbreaking kids, the confused hapless dad, Dickie, and best of all the mom, Imelda.
Even the minor characters feel like they could carry a novel of their own. I would sit through another 100 pages if Imelda’s witchy Aunt Rose were at the helm. I even fell for the daughter’s unimportant boyfriend and his theories about dogs. “If a dog’s sense of smell was fifty thousand times more powerful than a human’s, that meant that instead of humans’ binary perception of There/Gone, dogs must have a spectrum of thereness.” He envisions a whole different concept, dog time, where presences gradually fade “Like a sky full of jet contrails.”
Like those jet contrails of a dog’s perception, Imelda’s and Dickie’s past loves linger in their consciousness to wreak havoc on their present lives. Or as Murray more beautifully puts it: “Tonight would go too, fade away, like white plumes of chemicals into the blue. Her heart let out a sad mewl of grief, as if she were dissolving into the shadows, or the shadows were in her, eating her from the inside out.”
The shadows are feasting. The 2008 financial crash interrupts Imelda's shopaholic methods of emotional denial. The economic slowdown hits the car dealership Dickie inherited, allowing him the mental bandwidth to reconsider his long-suppressed essential self. That does not go well. Dickie’s life unfolds like a soggy box of pudding falling down a steep flight of stairs. I love a slow-motion car wreck of a story, and this one had me cringing until the very end.
Like so many of the novels I read these days, this family tragedy doubles as an eco-tragedy. (I suppose it’s to be expected, since environmental catastrophe is the subtext everywhere.) But I didn’t find this book depressing. Many of the storylines broke my heart of course, but Murray’s gift for language and wit is matched by his love for everyone in the story, even the monstrous abusive jerks. And he makes it plain that love is what can steer us away from tragedy, environmental or otherwise.
For instance, in this speech given by a minor character toward the end of the novel, I sort of feel like the author popped his head up to take the mic:
“We are the same in being different, in feeling bad about being different. Or to put it another way, we are all different expressions of the same vulnerability and need. That’s what binds us together. And once we recognize it, once we see ourselves as a community of difference, the differences themselves no longer define us. That’s when we can start to work together and things can change.”
This earnest little speech makes it sound so simple, doesn't he? The storylines surrounding this moment, however, remind you how terribly hard seeing ourselves this way really is. And how worthwhile it is to keep trying.
That’s all for this week–more to come, including that open letter to the product designers at Kindle. Thanks for reading! Subscribe! Share with friends and make them subscribe too!
Love
Alix