Tuesday, April 1, 2008

The Fourteenth Tale

Diane Setterfield’s The Thirteenth Tale is a classic gothic suspense tale, the eerie love child of Jane Eyre and Fall of the House of Usher. Like so many good books, this one begins with a mysterious letter to the narrator, the bookish biographer Margaret Lea. The letter is from Vida Winter, the legendary writer famous for the fantastical stories she spins both in her novels and her interviews. After a lifetime of hundreds of invented biographies, she is haunted by a plea from a long ago interviewer: tell me the truth. At the end of Winter’s life, the truth begs to be free. And thus begins the memoir that unravels the mystery of the greatest living writer in the English language, as well as Margaret’s own dark secret.

Vida Winter’s life begins only as a subplot. The main heroes are the tragically eccentric lords of Angelfield manor and the demons that haunt its halls. The story starts with a neglected brother and sister and the affair that consumes their lives whole. Meanwhile, two feral twin girls roam the estate free to pursue every destructive whim, while the house and all its inhabitants slowly fall into a state of complete isolation and depravity. Only a complete tragedy can mold one of the wild twins into Vida Winter, the world-famous writer. The denouement concludes with a juicy plot twist that turns the story on its head.

Throughout the novel, Setterfield expertly weaves in the theme of twinness, that paradox of duality and completeness. Sister and sister, life and death, lies and truth. One cannot be without the other, but what happens when one half is taken away? Through the metaphor, Setterfield explores the psyches of people whose lives have been irrevocably broken in half, but who must muddle on just the same. The macabre tale tugs on familiar heart strings as the characters desperately long for completeness. The roller coaster plot pulls us in, but it is the characters’ poignant yearning that holds us in and does not let us go.

Procrastinate My Heart

So I decided to come out of hiding with my blogging alter-ego and volunteered to write a book review for my company newsletter. Yes, my software company newsletter. The newsletter being the company’s last desperate pretense that we’re not sinking fast under the weight of bills and stupidity. But I figured that a writing assignment is a writing assignment, and I’m not exactly Candace Bushnell, so I should take what I can get.

I’ve been avoiding writing this review for about a week now. I’ve ignored a couple of reminder emails, and then a couple of high priority (!) reminder emails, and then, unable to bear the guilt any longer, sent a quick email full of apologetic exclamation points begging until 5pm today to do it. And it’s now 10:30pm. And still no review. I’ve started this thing about ten times in ten different ways, and none of them seem quite appropriate for my grand debut as the newest book reviewer of the latest sinking software company in the greater DC area. There’s just too much expectation to live up to.

And the book? Well, the book was pretty sweet. I picked it up on Friday, and emerged from my haze on Sunday night, with visions of ghosts and incest dancing in my head. In short – I highly recommend it. In long – well, I’ll just have to keep working on that.