Book 1,053: Hotel du Lac – Anita Brookner

What an interesting novel. I had no idea what to expect going into this. I knew it was famous, I knew it was Brookner’s most famous novel and I knew it won the year I was born. That’s about it.

I picked it up almost a decade ago because I knew it was a Booker Prize winner and at the time I had intentions of reading the full list. And, while I still may read the full list, there are no pressures or time constraints. That being said I’m starting to pare down my physical book collection and I’m sure I’ll be reading more and more as I have plenty physical books.

The journey I went on was something else! Brookner took her bread and butter and turned it into a meta novel that left me some how satisfied but also infuriated. I also had to appreciate that there was a Geoffrey in the novel 😀

When Edith is shuttled off to the Swiss Alps at the beginning of the novel because of an affair with a married man, I thought here we go, this is going to be some sexist patriarchal BS novel—and it definitely was a product of it’s time, but it didn’t feel frozen in time. Edith didn’t feel helpless or without resources and the decisions she makes throughout the novel at least made it feel like she was empowered.

However, the strength of the novel were Edith’s observations of those around her. Take this passage for example:

The cafe with the clouded windows, now transparent and bathed in afternoon light, was almost empty. Seated at a silent table, Edith closed her eyes momentarily in a shaft of sunlight and tasted pure pleasure. Time dissolved; sensations expanded. She drank coffee, still to highly charged with vicarious emotions to eat, and then sat back in her chair, her eyes closed once more, savouring the reward of rest after her obscure and unnoticeable exertions. When she opened her eyes it was to see the extraordinary sight of the woman with the dog, remote, on the shore of the lake, bending and uncoiling her long narrow body, her slender arm flung out from time to time, her hair shining and tousled, her strange cry, ‘Kiki! Kiki!’, just audible through the window as the little dog, his neurotic temperament forgotten, chased after sticks. The lonely energy o the woman, the wild strangeness and concentration of her gesture, changed Edith’s mood back into one of caution, and she retraced her steps back to the hotel, returned to the melancholy of exile. (52)

Every single character from her friends in London and the games they play subverting societal expectations to the characters of the hotel were distinct. And even though some of the personalities were SO BIG, looking at you Jennifer and Mrs. Pusey, it was the minutiae of observation and commentary via Edith where Brookner excelled. The descriptions were so good and even though they somehow remained vague, you knew exactly the person she was describing.

It occurs to me – and possibly that silly incident this morning may have brought it home to me – that some women close ranks because they hate men and fear them. Oh, I know that this is obvious. What I’m really trying to say is that I dread such women’s attempts to recruit me, to make me their accomplice. I’m not talking about the feminists. I can understand their position, although I’m not all that sympathetic to it. I’m talking about the ultra-feminine. I’m talking about the complacent consumers of men with their complicated but unwritten rules of what is due to them. Treats. Indulgences. privileges. The right to make illogical fusses. The cult of themselves. Such women strike me as dishonourable. And terrifying. I think perhaps that men are an easier target. I think perhaps the feminists should take a fresh look at the situation. (146)

Recommendation: It was a good read and relatively quick. There were definite moments that dragged on a little too long, but for the most part the book was well paced. I found the introspective scenes when Edith was alone with her thoughts to be just as intriguing as those when she was interacting with the menagerie of guests at the Hotel du Lac. For such a short work, there were a lot of personalities crammed in and each one stands out distinctly showing that Brookner really had mastered her craft when she finally wrote this one.

Opening Line: “From the window all that could be seen was a receding area of grey.”

Closing Line: “But, after a moment, she thought that this was not entirely accurate and, crossing out the words ‘Coming home,’ wrote simply, ‘Returning.'” (Whited out to avoid spoilers, highlight to read.)

Additional Quotes from Hotel du Lac
“‘Of course,’ said Edith, ladling chips of sugar coloured like bath salts into her coffee, ‘ you could argue that the hare might be affected by the tortoise lobby’s propaganda, might become more prudent, circumspect, slower, in fact. but the hare is always convinced of his own superiority; he simply does not recognize the tortoise as a worthy adversary. That is why the hare wins,’ she concluded. ‘In life, I mean. Never in fiction. At least, not in mine. the facts of life are too terrible to go into my kind of fiction. And my readers certainly do not want them there. You see, Harold, my readers are essentially virtuous. And as far as they are concerned – as far as I am concerned – those multi-orgasmic girls with the executive briefcases can go elsewhere. They will be adequately catered for. There are hucksters in every market place.'” (28)

“He was a man of few words, but those few words were judiciously selected, weighed for quality, and delivered with expertise. Edith, used to the ruminative monologues that most people consider to  be adequate for the purpose of rational discourse, used, moreover, to concocting the cunning and even learned periods which the characters in her books so spontaneously uttered, leaned back in her chair and smiled. The sensation of being entertained by words was one which she encountered all too rarely. People expect writers to entertain them, she reflected. They consider that writers should be gratified simply by performing their task to the audience’s satisfaction. Like sycophants at court in the Middle Ages, dwarves, jongleurs. And what about us? Nobody thinks about entertaining us.” (91-2)