Domestic Discomfort

Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections is so painstakingly detailed, so meticulously crafted, and absurdly complex that it almost defies analysis. The task of writing such a novel seems so daunting that he must not have known what he had gotten himself into when he set out to write it, much as I didn't know what I was in for when I sat down to read it.

It seems trite to call the family which inhabits these pages "dysfunctional," even if it is the easiest label. It seems more fitting to call them normal. The book is about Enid and Alfred Lambert, an elderly midwestern couple, and their three grown children- Gary, Chip, and Denise. It is hopeless to try and explain these characters in a few sentences when it took Franzen 568 pages. Suffice to say that Alfred is succumbing to dementia and Enid is suffering with the burden of this reality, and drowning in her own denial. All three children have serious issues, and anything said beyond that is a description not worthy of the effort that was apparently exerted in crafting these characters. The book is as much about the characters themselves as it is about their various travails and afflictions.

Franzen must have done a great deal of research, unless he knows a lot more about a lot of strange and random things than anyone should. Or unless he made it up. Given the scope of the novel, it is hard to imagine the latter scenario, but I have neither the time nor the patience to verify his information about science, railroad engineering, and eastern Europe, just to name a few of the topics he covers in excruciating detail.

Franzen's narrative is extraordinarily vivid, his attention to detail almost infuriating. Certain passages are painfully verbose in their descriptions, others simply boring. I found myself alternately hating and thoroughly enjoying the novel. I am still having trouble determining my final verdict.

In the end, I didn't hate it, but I certainly didn't love it. It is undoubtedly a masterpiece in some sense of the word, and probably worthy of lengthy and careful examination. An endeavor I would never dare undertake. The experience of reading it, of keeping everything straight, of soaking in every description was draining enough. I devoted the better part of a Sunday to reading the last 150 pages, trying to rid myself of the burden of being in the middle of this book. I wanted to be done with it so I could finally decide whether I liked it or not. My only conclusion is that it is definitely at least 100 pages longer than necessary, and yet it was probably worth the effort it took to read it. Franzen has a manic way of telling a story that I don't think I can fully understand or appreciate. I am glad I read this book and equally relieved that I never have to read it again.