Hey, remember me? I used to blog here. In fact, I even used to read books from time to time!
And then I got pregnant and developed a tragic reading aversion. And then I had a baby. And the books — much less the blogging — were few and far between.
Well, the books are still WAY fewer and farther between than they used to be. You can just take the crown this year, George W. I recently began another blogging endeavor with a friend, and I thought I was finished with this blog. But I do miss really thinking about the books I do read. And I appreciate those of you who have actually stuck around and might just read this post! So I’m back to tell you about The Paris Wife, a book with an enormous library wait list!
I don’t know if you know, but I happen to be a tremendous Hemingway fan. In fact, silhouettes of Hemingway and Jane Austen hang side by side over my daughter’s crib. Two years ago, I travelled to Paris and dragged by husband all over the city just to see run-down buildings he used to write in. I love him. I love him the way girls always love bad boys — I know he’s not good for me, but that fact just draws me in all the more.
As soon as I saw the advance reviews of this book, I knew that whether or not I really liked it, I would read it. Thus, I bought it for my grandmother for her birthday, knowing full well that the novel would eventually trickle down to me.
The premise is pretty much what you would expect — the novel follows Hadley Richardson as she meets, falls in love with, marries, travels, loves, and self-destructs with Ernest Hemingway. The novel spends most of its time in Europe with the couple where they famously lived and caroused with the likes of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, and Gertrude Stein.
For lovers of Hemingway, there aren’t really any surprises in this book. The events seem pretty true-to-bio. All of the hallmarks of Hemingway are present — drinking and philandering and bull-fighting in Spain. And even though McLain doesn’t bring anything tremendously new to the table, her rendering of Hadley’s voice is impressive. It doesn’t feel over-wrought or cheesy as I expected. The novel is thoroughly believable, indebted to McLain’s obvious research and careful reading of Hadley’s letters. What did manage to surprise me was just how sad this book — its ending known from the get-go — felt. I found myself truly grieving for Hadley and for Hemingway and what was lost.
Whether or not you have a literary (and personal) crush on Hemingway, I think lots of people would enjoy this sad, sad story the same way we enjoy sad romantic movies. It’s the Titanic of the literary world. And it for what it is, it works.
