It is my unscientific but educated opinion that most authors are better at short stories than longer works. With full-length narratives, authors are prone to blathering on or cramming in unnecessary details or cluttering the story with extraneous characters. With short stories they are forced to make careful choices about each word and sentence. The shorter form commands a discipline that longer works do not.
Penelope Fitzgerald applies that discipline to her novel The Bookshop (and, I imagine, to her other full-length works; she has a habit of being nominated for and/or winning the Booker Prize). She employs an economy of words that reminds me of the writers of the early-to-mid twentieth century, folks like D. H. Lawrence or R. K. Narayan. You’ll be cruising along, vrooming through her very straightforward and direct style, and then it will suddenly occur to you that she related something in a single paragraph that would have taken other writers whole pages to describe.
Because of Fitzgerald’s gift with the language, I would have enjoyed this book no matter what, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was a gloomy little piece of work. Initially I was worried that it would be charming or cozy, and there were some iffy moments in the middle where it looked like everything was going to turn out okay, but by the end human nature had reared its ugly head and my own bleak worldview was heartily affirmed.
The real reasons to read this book (I hope I’ve made this clear already, but I’m going to hit you over the head with it again, just in case) are to enjoy Fitzgerald’s prose, and to marvel at her depressing perspective on the world. The actual story itself is secondary. All you need to know is that a woman named Florence Green decides to open a bookstore in Hardborough, England, in 1959. Got that? Woman opens bookstore. That’s all the plot summary you need.
Check the WRL catalog for The Bookshop
Oh, Penelope. I don’t think Penelope’s ever been in the same room with “cozy,” and I love her for it. Great review!