A Poorly Drawn Map

by Alexander Nazaryan

Oprah Winfrey's opinion carries no small weight with today's literary audience. Nothing demonstrates that point better than the success of Jane Hamilton's second novel, A Map of the World. First published in 1994 to no great fanfare, the book was recently enshrined in that select caste that is Oprah's Book Club. Then, as if by magic, the book reappeared on the New York Times Bestseller List, climbing as high as second place, dethroning even Harry Potter.

Unfortunately, not even Oprah's blessing can hide the fact that this book is little more than poorly-constructed sentimental drivel. Hamilton attempts, by showing the tragic unraveling of a family, to see into the life of things, so to speak. She wants, as the title suggests, to construct her own map of the world, which is a noble undertaking indeed. Unfortunately neither the narrative style nor the plot aid her in that most difficult quest. Hamilton is the antithesis of a writer such as Hemingway (or, more recently, Kent Haruf): while Papa left much to the reader's imagination, Hamilton seems to believe that her audience is not intelligent enough to derive anything meaningful from the novel unless she barrages the reader with endless musings, which are rarely effective. This makes for a drawn-out novel that is far longer than necessary.

A Map of The World concerns the events that befall a farming family of five (the Goodwins) in Prairie Junction, Wisconsin. Howard, the husband, oversees the family farm while his wife, Alice, is a nurse at the local elementary school. They have three daughters: Clare, Emma, and Lizzy. Both Howard and Alice receive sections of narration in the novel.

“I used to think if you fell from grace it was more likely than not the result of one stupendous error, or else an unfortunate accident. I hadn't learned that it can happen so gradually you don't lose your stomach or hurt yourself in the landing. You don't necessarily sense the motion. I've found it takes at least two and generally three things to alter the course of a life: You slip around the truth once, then again, and one more time, and there you are, feeling, for a moment, that it was suddenly your arrival at the bottom of the heap.”

Thus begins A Map of the World. One wonders whether Hamilton could not have said that in a more concise way. Hamilton's writing begs the reader to feel sorry not only for the characters of the novel, but for Hamilton herself (who is also a Wisconsin farmer), something that produces an altogether unpleasant feeling. A few pages later Hamilton writes, “I often had the fanciful thoughts that the pond would save us; it would be the one thing that would postpone our deaths by scorching as the climate of our part of our world changed.” By now, the chain of events that Hamilton is planning should seem fairly obvious. Surely enough, Lizzy, the youngest of the three children, almost drowns in the pond as a result of Alice's indiscretion. But there is no suspense or surprise in the event, as Hamilton all but foretells it in the preceding pages. Ironically, Hamilton begins the novel with her belief that a fall from grace happens gradually, yet it is the singular event of Lizzy's near-drowning which casts the family into secular hell.

Lizzy does not die, but goes into a coma. The family congregates at the hospital, where Lizzy lies at the mercy of a life support system. Here Hamilton unmercifully bombards the reader with lengthy passages of Alice grieving for her soon-to-be-dead daughter. Once again Hamilton begs the reader to feel sorry for Alice. (In fact, much of the novel is involved in that purpose.) “I could think of any old thing in that lounge because the doctor would fix Lizzy and then we could go home,” she says. “There will be a burst of smoke, dense, thick smoke-the machines will make it-and when it clears Lizzy will be whole, awake, unencumbered.” Her narration sounds trite, forced and unnatural. Even worse, it goes on for pages. Eventually, the family, in their emotional nadir, decide to pull the plug on Lizzy.

After Lizzy's death, Howard's mother Nellie takes Emma and Claire into temporary custody, and Howard and Alice are left to their private mourning for three days: “In bed we closed our eyes over a veil of tears and lay awake.” Then the preparation for the funeral begins, which for some reason includes a lengthy description of Howard purchasing a new suit. The funeral itself is a relatively routine affair as far as Hamilton's writing goes: “There was nothing more to say to Lizzy's relatives...I couldn't do effective CPR, hadn't been organized enough to know where I put my swimming suit, could take care, was a heathen who barely knew how to pray.”

On the heels of Lizzy's death follows another tragedy. But instead of the gradual manner that Hamilton attempts to achieve, there seems to be a punctuated equilibrium about the tragic occurrences surrounding the family. Furthermore, there seems to be little purpose to the sound and fury of Hamilton's pages. The reader feels sorry for the characters because of the tragedies that are heaped on them, but otherwise the novel lacks substance-all it seems to be saying is that bad things happened to good people and that they deserve our pity.

Indeed, after a few days of relative peace, the police arrive at Alice's doorstep. The purpose of their visit is to question Alice about Robbie MacKessey, a troubled child from a broken household who frequents the nurse's office at Blackwell Elementary. Alice has had particular difficulty with the child, who, as Alice tells the police, “destroyed my idea that I could help, or make a difference.” Alice soon realizes that the police are questioning her because she had once slapped the insolent boy in anger. Soon after the accusation is made public, the school board holds a meeting at which Alice, nearing a nervous breakdown, confesses that she has “hurt everybody.” Alice's first narrative section comes to an end with some of her signature musings: “I wanted to feel the sheerness of space, to somehow reach what was empty and quiet, to hold what was right beyond my grasp.”

If Alice's sections are full of dull ramblings, Howard's is simply unconvincing. Hamilton is clearly unable to write from a male point of view, because Howard's voice is essentially that of Alice. The result is a fairly effeminate male character. His section begins with the police coming to take Alice to jail: “The cop sounded like a kid who's saying grace, mumbling the paragraph as if it was one long meaningless word.” It sounds exactly like something Alice would say.

Much of Howard's section concerns his efforts at keeping the family from being rent apart by the events that have befallen Alice: he consults lawyers, placates his mother with a fabricated story and tends to the children who miss their mother. He also attempts to keep his marriage intact-a daunting task when one's wife is incarcerated. In his Alice-esqe voice he muses, when paying Alice a visit: “She was going to be beyond reach. There would be nothing I could do to help her.”

Soon enough, after some genuine Hamilton blather, the preliminary hearing for Alice occurs. When questioned, Robbie claims that Alice not only hit but also sexually abused him. But before the trial ever occurs Hamilton makes it perfectly clear that Alice will be exonerated, as she has already painted a picture of Robbie as a perfectly horrible child while Alice is a Job-like figure struggling under the weight of unfair accusations. Perhaps it would have served the reader better to discover that for himself. It is decided at the hearing, despite Alice's lawyer's best effort, that a trail must be held.

Meanwhile, the relationship between Alice and Howard continues to buckle under the strain of her imprisonment, as the children also continue clamoring for their mother. Eventually, due to legal expenses, Howard is forced to sell the farm and moves into the sterile confines of Pheasant Glade. Howard's lone section of the book ends soon thereafter.

Alice resumes narration with her release from jail on bail. She then begins a discourse on prison life. Very little of it, if any, is worth mentioning. Hamilton does nothing but rehash old themes; the effect is that one feels like he is reading variations of the same limited set of sentences over and over again. Not soon enough, the trial begins, though Hamilton's painfully obvious foreshadowing has long ago told the reader what will happen. Throughout the novel, the reader has been force-fed pity for Alice by Hamilton. What comes at the end of the novel is not joy but rather relief that no more pity has to be spared on Alice. The final joy of the book is thus not that Alice is exonerated, but that this novel finally ends.