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 ‘Serious’ is seriously unremarkable A Review By Hannah Pittard I should start by qualifying this entire review with an admission: I’ve read quite a few books lately whose acclaim, in my opinion, far outweighs their actual worth. Take, for example, the first novel by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Jhumpa Lahiri, “The Namesake.” Critics raved about this book. I found it dull. I did, however, like the book’s predecessor, “Interpreter of Maladies,” the short-story collection for which she was awarded the Pulitzer. In my opinion, Lahiri’s prose went from subtle in “Maladies” to simple and even boring in “Namesake.” That said, fans of all of Lahiri’s work will know to disregard this review. Others, who agree with me about Lahiri, might also agree with me about my estimation of “Serious Girls,” the debut novel by Maxine Swann, whose short story, “Flower Children,” won the Cohen Award, the O. Henry Award and the Pushcart Prize, and was included in “The Best American Short Stories (1998).” “Serious Girls” is interesting in that way that an afternoon special or a daytime drama can be interesting: Afterward, there is nothing substantial to walk away with except a slight hangover of embarrassment for having wasted your time on something so mildly enjoyable. To be fair, though, I should admit that “Serious Girls” was called “a small masterpiece” by author Mary Gordon; “mesmerizing, utterly timeless” by author Eliza Minot; and “exquisite and compelling…like watching a chrysalis unfold” by author Elizabeth Stroud. It has also been summarized, by author Margot Livesey, as “a book that so beautifully conveys the intense yearnings of that period between childhood and adulthood.” Obviously, it is up to each reader to determine whether these glowing remarks by established writers are deserved or whether my amateur criticism is. Qualifiers now out of the way, “Serious Girls” is, at best, a tawdry high school romance in the guise of a coming-of-age story. In Swann’s prose, readers will be pressed to find nuance, subtlety or unique turns of phrase. And while some might argue that the hackneyed first-person in which Swann writes is simply her way of articulating the voice of the book’s 16-year-old heroine, I would argue that there must be some better way of establishing a narrator’s innocence and naiveté than by repeatedly employing sentences about eyes that flash, faces that light and questions that burn. Perhaps most offensive are the quasi-philosophical questions laced throughout the text. These questions, though certainly included by Swann in utter sincerity, ring absolutely hollow: “I just feel like we’re waiting,” one of the books characters says. “Me, too. But for what?” Her friend asks. “For the future? For ourselves?” In another passage, Maya, the 16-year-old narrator, says, “I just feel like my face is blank.” Her friend, Roe, says, “Don’t worry. I recognize you.” “You do?” “Yes.” “Even when I’m not with you? If you just see me walking?” “Well, yes, you have your walk.” And on and on like this the book continues, like it or not. |
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