The Book of Goose by Yiyun Li ~ my review

I’m confused. The book jacket of Yiyun Li’s novel, The Book of Goose, describes the literal plot. Briefly, Fabienne and Agnès, childhood friends in rural postwar France, conspire to change their circumstances; this takes the story to Paris, England, and Pennsylvania, where Agnès can live without her past. The Book of Goose, however, is not a story I understand literally. Yet, wouldn’t the publisher’s notes reflect the author’s intent? Anyway, I’m confused.

 

Perhaps my opinion is just a wild goose chase (haha), but I understand The Book of Goose as an allegory. A brilliant one! As 13-year-old Fabienne and Agnès exercise their imaginations, lie to appear more mature, and write down their fantastical tales, it becomes clear that Fabienne has a mean streak, while Agnès is meek. Fabienne is feral; Agnes is domesticated. Fabienne is controlling; Agnès is obedient. With dialogue and actions, the author has the girls express their oneness as best friends. That, I believe, is the allegory: They represent different aspects of the same person.

 

I recoiled at Fabienne’s claim to need no one and her subsequent disregard for whom she hurt. I felt disturbed by her macabre imaginings. Even Agnès observes her killing creatures and apparently knows Fabienne so well that she knows what Fabienne would and wouldn’t kill, and why. As nonviolent as Agnès is, she admires Fabienne’s knife-handling. Both girls wonder what in life is real and if happiness can be grown. They talk of love and marriage and children, Fabienne not wanting those for herself but wanting that destiny for Agnès. When compliant Agnès is sent to school in England, she learns to channel some of Fabienne’s not caring what people think of her. I believe that generally, people know they’re capable of  nondominant parts of themselves. And often people have feelings about those different aspects of their personality. At least, Agnès did—if this novel is indeed an allegory.

 

I loved Yiyun Li’s descriptions of the girls’ farms, the village cemetery, trips to Paris and England, and the British school experience. I also loved wise observations of older Agnès, the narrator, for example, “A day in a cloister can be as dramatic as a day on a battlefield.” [page 81 in my edition] I felt angry when Fabienne called her friend an idiot. I felt uncomfortable with all the lying the girls did. I empathized with Agnès’ feeling trapped at the school that was teaching her to be fake (and smiled at the irony that her first instinct to escape that phoniness was to lie.) The Book of Goose elicited many emotions. I also loved Li’s beautiful symbolism and all the young teens’ honest questions of life.

 

In this novel, Agnès is clearly the heroine. Yet, on page 3, older Agnès tells the reader her name is not important; Fabienne is the important one. You decide whether to take this story literally or symbolically.

Blasts from the Past

 

Chilly, wild winds whip the Japanese Lilac tree around like Ozzy Osbourne’s long brown hair in a 1970 Paris gig. I feel dizzy watching the branches whirl like a headbanger’s hair, and the wind’s roar makes me want to wrap a pillow around the ears under my short gray bob.

 

The press called that 1970 concert monstrous, but I doubt it was as monstrous as the finale of the 1964 movie My Fair Lady. When I noticed the movie on TV last night, I thought a musical might be a pleasant way to end the evening. I had fun singing along, surprised I knew all the words. But then, why wouldn’t I? My girlfriend and I spent months dreamily twirling around the living room while singing all the lyrics to all the songs in all the musicals of the 1960s. I’m surprised our parents didn’t wrap pillows around their ears. Maybe they used more discreet ear plugs, who knows? Although I remembered lyrics, I didn’t remember plot details. Last night, even when it was becoming clear what a pompous jerk the professor was, I kept singing. But when the plot got to Rex Harrison’s charmingly delivered song, “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?” words stumbled off my tongue until I just sat, mouth agape. How horrible that in the 1960s we girls thought Audrey Hepburn’s coming back to be treated in a condescending manner was romantic. Yuck.

 

On a less horrific note, today’s paper carries the obituary of a London fashion designer who focused on youthful styles: Mary Quant. Remember Mary Quant? Her 1960s miniskirts and hot pants? In retrospect, embarrassing, but at the time, weren’t we chic? And Quant’s iconic haircut? It was so short, the large, signature curls on each cheek were hardly long enough to twirl around one’s little finger. She was a key figure in what was dubbed The Swinging Sixties. Swinging? I don’t know about that. In the 1960s I was not swinging anywhere. But I felt very stylish when I purchased a Mary Quant lipstick in London in 1975. Might be one of very few in-vogue things I’ve done in my life. Mary Quant was 93 when she died. She’d seen some fashion swings, for sure.