Anthropology of an American Girl by Hilary Thayer Hamann
Allen & Unwin, $38.99
Hilary Thayer Hamann's novel, Anthropology of an American Girl, has been heralded as both the hottest book on the block and as the worst novel ever. The review quotes on the back of the book make extravagant claims and compare it to Henry James, Jane Austen, George Eliot and Catcher
in The Rye.
When her first attempt to publish the novel failed, Hamann published it herself in 2003. Spiegel & Grau picked it up in America in 2010, presenting it as "a completely revised edition".
I cannot imagine what the first edition was like, as this is one of the few books I have read to the end that I find difficulty in saying good things about.
It got off to a bad start for me when I stalled on the first sentence: "Kate turned to check the darkening clouds and the white arc of her throat looked like the long neck of a preening swan."
At 600 pages, I wasn't sure I had the stomach or the stamina for such burdensome sentences. When I read a novel, I either want the sentence to be in the humble service of the story (or characters) or seducing me with its dazzling artistry.
By the time I got to the last page nothing had redeemed the book in terms of the writing. I felt swamped by corny adjectives, cloying metaphors and flabby paragraphs. There were simply too many words.
The novel gets inside the head of Eveline Auerbach (Evie for short) and her loves. First Jack, the drug-addicted musician. Then Harrison, the rough-diamond soulmate. Finally Mark, the wealthy last chance. Evie graduates from college and then goes to university but, although we are constantly reminded of how well she does in these places, you get no real sense of the interior life of a high-achieving student. Yet her self-absorption drives the novel to a nauseating degree. We get told about her sex life and her love life ad infinitum, but we are not shown how the other versions of Evie occupy the world.
When I think of some of the great, sprawling novels, such as Proust's In Search Of Lost Time, I see how Thaman's novel fails to make "muchness" (and the little things) matter. It is not a matter of what she does, but how she does it. A charismatic writer could transform the self-absorption of a young woman into literary magic.
There were occasional moments of subtle emotional value such as the exchange of gifts at Evie's birthday. There were terrific references to music that cued in a sense of a particular time: Blind Faith's I Can't Find My Way Home, the Beatles' White Album, Ella Fitzgerald singing Cow Cow Boogie.
Perhaps everything I dislike about this book is the key to what gives other readers so much pleasure.
It may be seen as an exploration of a young woman - disconnected with life and people - flailing about in her longing for her soulmate. For some, her feelings might be insightful. For me, I want writing that refreshes the world, is muscular or graceful, and that makes a central character utterly vital in my mind. This failed on all counts.
Paula Green is an Auckland poet and children's author.
