Eternal Snows, Ever Since Wednesday

We have been hit hard with a snowstorm that has basically sat itself down in the week between Christmas and New Year and decided to stay awhile. We’ve had severe rains. We’ve had tons of snows. We’ve had freezing rain. We’ve had ice. It has been one wild, wintry ride. I miss the usual quiet that we normally get to enjoy, but battling the weather a has its own rewards — like bringing the entire neighbourhood closer as we dig each other out of our respective driveways. It’s a different kind of pause, but it still is one. I’m looking at the next few days with a bit of dread — because time will start to have meaning and I’ll probably be overwhelmed pretty quickly.

It’s a Novel and a Trainwreck

Lenoard Michaels’ novel/memoir Sylvia is basically a book about a terrible relationship. Michaels meets and then rapidly marries Sylvia in front of the backdrop of 1960s Manhattan. Things fall apart with the speed and grotesquery of a car accident that is both predictable and an utter punch to the gut.

There’s a lot of triggers here to be aware of, including domestic violence and a heavy dose of sexism and some outmoded ideas about gender and sexuality that were popular in the 1960s. This book definitely is not about painting this marriage in any kind of positive light, but rather it’s about holding on to something that isn’t working and the way a toxic relationship can bleed into every aspect of your life.

The Perils of Memoir

It’s important to remember that this is a memoir and is a victim of all of the foibles of the genre. The perspective is limited and there are times when Michaels is clearly trying to depict himself in the most flattering light possible. The way he fails at doing this despite how much effort he’s putting into the attempt is unintentionally amusing, as a sidenote.

However, despite the bias, this novel is a snapshot of how artists got by in 1960s New York with a smattering of tenement life thrown in. It captures an atmosphere, a place, and a time that has long disappeared.

Sylvia’s Voice

Related to the above point about limited perspective, what’s most absent in Sylvia is Sylvia’s own voice. Michaels accuses Sylvia of being unbalanced, “crazy”, etc. And, while clearly she did struggle with mental illness, I have a hard time believing that her behaviour was the only problem within the marriage. Michaels was not blameless, and, while he doesn’t depict himself as being so, he definitely places the onus on Sylvia and Sylvia’s flaws, letting most of the responsibility obliquely slide off of him or at least remain mostly obscured. It’s unfair. Obviously unfair. And, unfortunately, this kind of unfairness was part and parcel of memoirs like these at the time this was published in. It’s still a problem now.

Where is the Sun?

One of our neighbours was walking his dog during one of the breaks in the snowfall and wondered aloud when was the last time we saw the sun. I think it might have been for a brief moment on Christmas Day? Was that really the only reprieve we’re going to get in two weeks? Was it?

Well…I guess I’ll have a chance to get some reading done in between bouts of shovelling.