I confess with not a little pride that I was a Lorrie Moore 'early adopter', having bought her first collection of stories way back when. I liked them so much I went on to buy her second collection too.
Now we have a novel and I'm perplexed. This is heavy-going. Instead of a brisk, energising shower it's like the author has now decided to stretch out in a long hot bath and one, moreover, that stays hot indefinitely so there's no incentive to ever get out.
Of course (and as always) Lorrie Moore can craft exquisite sentences and turn an elegant phrase. But here these are devices in the service of a boring story that seems to go nowhere. It perks up, suddenly and dramatically (thrillingly even) around two hundred pages in before once again dissipating into luxurious language and aimless description. But that's just too little too late. What would I have given for some propulsion, fewer clever metaphors (there're simply far too many of them) and the omission of the Wednesday-night meet-ups: again too many of them for a story device that is as irritating as its intention is laudable.
Lorrie Moore is a splendid writer. So is Alice Munro. But whereas the latter has (to my knowledge) never written a novel, only stories, Lorrie Moore, conversely, has fatally decided to stray from the territory of which she is one of the supreme masters.
I removed the bath from my apartment when I had it refurbished. I'd advise Lorrie Moore to do the same; for when it comes down to it nothing, as we know, beats an invigorating shower.