 |
| |
ELEGANCE by Kathleen Tessaro
Here's a fair warning for you: I'm probably going to spend less time talking about the book, and more time talking about my wardrobe.
In the midst of an uninspiring marriage, the uninspiring Louise Canova discovers a little book called Elegance by Madame Antoine Dariaux. A one-stop, A-to-Z guide on elegance - not beauty - Louise follows it, disregards it, and eventually becomes a devotee of Dariaux's advice as her own life moves through unexpected changes and she learns both who she is and how to be the best she can.
Louise is almost an interesting character, given a bit of a past as a ballet dancer and a crazy mother, both of which come into play in one way or another as she embarks on a new life. Much of the nuance of her is nonexistent, though, in classic tell-not-show form. Even moments which seem like they should be "hints" to her person and her past are not so subtle: buying and eating four Kit-Kats, then throwing them up before getting on the train? A penny for your thought, there. The nuances weren't there, nor were the exploration of what could have made Louise interesting. The eating disorder was never properly dealt with, though it seems like it should have been, and the crazy mother flitted in and out of the plot as a crutch rather than a true influence.
As a novel, honestly, Elegance was engaging though not fantastic, although I will perfectly admit that as a thirty-year-old myself there was a lot of the book that I found amusing and (shit) applicable. Louise is dealing with a new life, a new awareness of her own body, previously completely covered by baggy, nondescript clothing. If she has it, shouldn't she flaunt it? What's wrong with wearing a clubbing outfit to the bar at the Ritz? If she takes a dress up for a new hem, why shouldn't she take it up six inches instead of two?
Ok, none of those are ones that I've dealt with. Promise. But there's something to be said for discovering a new life at thirty, like Louise is. No, I'm not twenty-two. But no, I'm not a suburban mother of three. Why should I dress like one just because I'm thirty?
This is where the struggle begins.
|
|
|
|
|
|
