The Story Sisters and the Lunchroom at Neiman-Marcus

The lunchroom I'm envisioning isn't there any more; I'm back in the 1980s when the decor was pink and pale turquoise with shiny, abstract art on every wall. Back then I thought it was the height of sophistication to eat lunch at Neiman-Marcus, and I ate the same thing every time, a chicken salad sandwich and a glass of Neiman's special iced tea (their trick was mixing the tea with ground cloves and Tang).

Neiman's is hardly Paris but there is something about those memories -- the strength of tradition, which lasts when everything else is gone -- that comes back to me while I read The Story Sisters.

The sisters -- Elv, Meg, and Claire -- have one life in Paris with their grandmother Natalia and another life on Long Island with their mother Annie. Their father disappears early on -- we see him only briefly driving around town with his new girlfriend in a Miata -- and it's clear from the start that the girls are on their own when it comes to staying safe. One sister in particular -- Elv -- begins to fall and then spirals downward in a way that feels so true to me that it's painful to read. Although this book is about the worst things that can happen to a family, it's also a soaring flight, a walk along the Seine in the darkest hours of night, long afternoons in a bird-filled garret, the trick of finding solace in memories and the color of the light. Reading this is like being on a small boat in the fog; the mist moves and you see first one object emerge and then disappear again while another point comes into focus.

I'm envious and in awe and at a complete loss as to how Alice Hoffman can write a story with such clear beauty, such pure brushstrokes, such pain and such grace. I immediately ran to the library and checked out 9 Alice Hoffman books but none of them have the same power, clarity, beauty, or sheer transcendence. I think about a writer becoming stronger and clearer with each work until she produces a novel that is as painful and startling and beautiful and human as any painting by Van Gogh, or any piece by Mozart. How can words on a page make one love fictional characters, embrace human frailties, feel the pain in a part of our minds (not left brain but right brain) that puts the beauty before the pain?

copyright 2010 Ann Krueger Spivack