Talk about not judging a book by its cover or a novel by its blurbs. Only partway through a novel, Us by David Nicholls, I have discovered three trains of thought inspired by the characters and the goings-on.
Us chronicles a family that may or may not be about to fall apart. After decades of marriage, the artistic wife of biochemist Douglas Peterson tells him one morning that she isn't sure she wants to be married any longer. He adores Connie and, in flashbacks from the evening they meet at his sister's flat and beyond, it's easy to see why. She loves life, she is interested in things, in experiences. Connie isn't so much a free spirit, except in contrast to the earnest, clueless soul that Dougie presents himself as, as she is vibrant.
When Connie has announced her decision, they have already planned an old-fashioned Grand Tour of the continent, taking their son as the last family hurrah before he goes to university.
It is, of course, no fun at all. The three are tetchy around each other, the madcap escapades get more out of hand.
Doug, the novel's narrator, goes on and on about things but as Connie tells him, "Douglas, you have an incredible capacity for missing the point."
He loves her perspective even while knowing it's not how he sees the world: "I didn't hate art, not by any means, but I did hate knowing nothing about it." This extends beyond paintings, of course, as in this exchange between the couple:
"I've got nothing against dreams as long as they're attainable."
"But if they're attainable then they're not dreams!"
"And that's why it's a waste of time!"
The first train of thought occurred when I realized that unlike the above exchange, Connie doesn't always take the opposite stance from Doug. Sometimes she's one of the grown-ups in the room now too. There are moments when Connie has become more like Doug than he has become like her.
Their son Albie is early on picked up by an older woman who is busking her way through Europe, playing the accordion to earn money when not scarfing down huge amounts of food at hotel buffets. Connie is as offended as Doug is when this woman, Cat, puts food in her pockets after coming down to breakfast with them. She backs up Doug when he tells Cat the Moocher to put back some of the little jars she's swiping.
So, does this mean married couples grow more alike? Or people become more conservative and not as much fun as they grow older? Or does this mean nothing of the kind and rude is rude, after all?
The second train of thought occurred when Doug was comparing the routine of married life to other familiar things. Even art that once thrilled becomes familiar and so a person is less likely to appreciate it more. The art has not become part of the background to one's life; it's white noise.
No! Say it isn't so! I see different things all the time as I change, as I grow older, in familiar things. Or things that I noticed have resonated more deeply. I've been noticing this lately while watching films I know well, from The Searchers to Kill Bill and Fargo. For Doug, music he once deeply loved has changed: "I used to hear them differently. It used to sound better." I compare that to the thrill I get while watching something familiar and seeing new things and wondering, how have I changed to see new things in something old and familiar?
One of the ways to best ways to continue to appreciate the large and small things in life is to stay open to the possibility that we can learn something new about a thing we think we know well. And sometimes that new "Aha!" moments occurs when least expected. Which makes the new realization even more delightful.
The third train of thought took longer to set up but once it hit, it hit hard and fierce and boy, was I ready to rip Douglas a new one. In one flashback, he relates how his parents were even worse than Doug is about being no fun at all. And when he took Connie home to meet them, there was a political disagreement. Doug stood with Connie.
When this hapless, apologetic family man is in the middle of a restaurant row involving his smart remark-making son, the busker accordionist who has picked him up, his wife and some wealthy arms dealers with glossy brochures spread across the breakfast table, Doug does the worst thing possible. He apologizes for his son.
As Connie tells him: "...in a fight you side with the people you love".
Immediately afterward, Doug reminisces:
I'm aware that it sounds perverse, but what I hoped for at that time was some accident, some near disaster, so that I could be as heroic as the occasion demanded, and show the strength of my devotion.
Yes that is perverse because real life demands as much heroism and devotion and steadfastness as we can give, and then some. We don't need near disasters. We need to pay attention to the here and now. Douglas, was Connie ever right. You have incredibly missed the point.
The turning point in the novel shows that Doug may have realized he has his opportunity to pull off some heroic deed. Or at least, what passes as one for someone like him who plans holidays based on museum itineraries and is always at the airport a good two hours early. There is a chance that Douglas may redeem himself whether or not he and his son, and he and his wife, reconcile. He realizes:
... perhaps grief is as much regret for what we have never had as sorrow for what we have lost.
Indeed, Douglas, indeed. This character has just demonstrated that you never know when you are going to have a new realization about something you think you know very well indeed -- yourself.
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