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The Wife: A Novel

The Wife: A Novel

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The Wife: A Novel

avaliações:
4/5 (129 avaliações)
Comprimento:
274 página
4 horas
Editora:
Lançado em:
Nov 1, 2007
ISBN:
9781416584889
Formato:
Livro

Nota do editor

A searing portrayal…

A searing portrayal of American marriage and the sacrifices, betrayals, and gender roles it entails, complete with a twist ending that puts the entire story in perspective.

Descrição

Now a major motion picture starring Glenn Close in her Golden Globe–winning role!

One of bestselling author Meg Wolitzer’s most beloved books—an “acerbically funny” (Entertainment Weekly) and “intelligent…portrait of deception” (The New York Times).

The Wife is the story of the long and stormy marriage between a world-famous novelist, Joe Castleman, and his wife Joan, and the secret they’ve kept for decades. The novel opens just as Joe is about to receive a prestigious international award, The Helsinki Prize, to honor his career as one of America’s preeminent novelists. Joan, who has spent forty years subjugating her own literary talents to fan the flames of his career, finally decides to stop.

Important and ambitious, The Wife is a sharp-eyed and compulsively readable story about a woman forced to confront the sacrifices she’s made in order to achieve the life she thought she wanted. “A rollicking, perfectly pitched triumph…Wolitzer’s talent for comedy of manners reaches a heady high” (Los Angeles Times), in this wise and candid look at the choices all men and women make—in marriage, work, and life.
Editora:
Lançado em:
Nov 1, 2007
ISBN:
9781416584889
Formato:
Livro

Sobre o autor

Meg Wolitzer’s novels include The Female Persuasion; Sleepwalking; This Is Your Life; Surrender, Dorothy; and The Position. She lives in New York City.


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Amostra do Livro

The Wife - Meg Wolitzer

Young

Chapter One


THE MOMENT I decided to leave him, the moment I thought, enough, we were thirty-five thousand feet above the ocean, hurtling forward but giving the illusion of stillness and tranquility. Just like our marriage, I could have said, but why ruin everything right now? Here we were in first-class splendor, tentatively separated from anxiety; there was no turbulence and the sky was bright, and somewhere among us, possibly, sat an air marshal in dull traveler’s disguise, perhaps picking at a little dish of oily nuts or captivated by the zombie prose of the in-flight magazine. Drinks had already been served before takeoff, and we were both frankly bombed, our mouths half open, our heads tipped back. Women in uniform carried baskets up and down the aisles like a sexualized fleet of Red Riding Hoods.

Will you have some cookies, Mr. Castleman? a brunette asked him, leaning over with a pair of tongs, and as her breasts slid forward and then withdrew, I could see the ancient mechanism of arousal start to whir like a knife sharpener inside him, a sight I’ve witnessed thousands of times over all these decades. "Mrs. Castleman?" the woman asked me then, in afterthought, but I declined. I didn’t want her cookies, or anything else.

We were on our way to the end of the marriage, heading toward the moment when I would finally get to yank the two-pronged plug from its holes, to turn away from the husband I’d lived with year after year. We were on our way to Helsinki, Finland, a place no one ever thinks about unless they’re listening to Sibelius, or lying on the hot, wet slats of a sauna, or eating a bowl of reindeer. Cookies had been distributed, drinks decanted, and all around me, video screens had been arched and tilted. No one on this plane was fixated on death right now, the way we’d all been earlier, when, wrapped in the trauma of the roar and the fuel-stink and the distant, braying chorus of Furies trapped inside the engines, an entire planeload of minds—Economy, Business Class, and The Chosen Few—came together as one and urged this plane into the air like an audience willing a psychic’s spoon to bend.

Of course, that spoon bent every single time, its tip drooping down like some top-heavy tulip. And though airplanes didn’t lift every single time, tonight this one did. Mothers handed out activity books and little plastic bags of Cheerios with dusty sediment at the bottom; businessmen opened laptops and waited for the stuttering screens to settle. If he was on board, the phantom air marshal ate and stretched and adjusted his gun beneath a staticky little square of Dynel blanket, and our plane rose in the sky until it hung suspended at the desired altitude, and finally I decided for certain that I would leave my husband. Definitely. For sure. One hundred percent. Our three children were gone, gone, gone, and there would be no changing my mind, no chickening out.

He looked over at me suddenly, watched my face, and said, What’s the matter? You look a little . . . something.

No. It’s nothing, I told him. Nothing worth talking about now, anyway, and he accepted this as a good-enough answer, returning to his plate of Tollhouse cookies, a small belch puffing his cheeks out froglike, briefly. It was difficult to disturb this man; he had everything he could possibly ever need.

He was Joseph Castleman, one of those men who own the world. You know the type I mean: those advertisements for themselves, those sleepwalking giants, roaming the earth and knocking over other men, women, furniture, villages. Why should they care? They own everything, the seas and mountains, the quivering volcanoes, the dainty, ruffling rivers. There are many varieties of this kind of man: Joe was the writer version, a short, wound-up, slack-bellied novelist who almost never slept, who loved to consume runny cheeses and whiskey and wine, all of which he used as a vessel to carry the pills that kept his blood lipids from congealing like yesterday’s pan drippings, who was as entertaining as anyone I have ever known, who had no idea of how to take care of himself or anyone else, and who derived much of his style from The Dylan Thomas Handbook of Personal Hygiene and Etiquette.

There he sat beside me on Finnair flight 702, and whenever the brunette brought him something, he took it from her, every single cookie and smokehouse-treated nut and pair of spongy, throwaway slippers and steaming washcloth rolled Torah-tight. If that luscious cookie-woman had stripped to her waist and offered him one of her breasts, mashing the nipple into his mouth with the assured authority of a La Leche commandant, he would have taken it, no questions asked.

As a rule, the men who own the world are hyperactively sexual, though not necessarily with their wives. Back in the 1960s, Joe and I leaped into beds all the time, occasionally even during a lull at cocktail parties, barricading someone’s bedroom door and then climbing a mountain of coats. People would come banging, wanting their coats back, and we’d laugh and shush each other and try to zip up and tuck in before letting them enter.

We hadn’t had that in a long time, though if you’d seen us here on this airplane heading for Finland, you’d have assumed we were content, that we still touched each other’s sluggish body parts at night.

Listen, you want an extra pillow? he asked me.

No, I hate those doll pillows, I said. Oh, and don’t forget to stretch your legs like Dr. Krentz said.

You’d look at us—Joan and Joe Castleman of Weathermill, New York, and, currently, seats 3A and 3B—and you’d know exactly why we were traveling to Finland. You might even envy us—him for all the power vacuum-packed within his bulky, shopworn body, and me for my twenty-four-hour access to it, as though a famous and brilliant writer-husband is a convenience store for his wife, a place she can dip into anytime for a Big Gulp of astonishing intellect and wit and excitement.

People usually thought we were a good couple, and I suppose that once, a long, long time ago, back when the cave paintings were first sketched on the rough walls at Lascaux, back when the earth was uncharted and everything seemed hopeful, this was true. But soon enough we moved from the glory and self-love of any young couple to the green-algae swamp of what is delicately known as later life. Though I’m now sixty-four years old and mostly as invisible to men as a swirl of dust motes, I used to be a slender, big-titted blond girl with a certain shyness that drew Joe toward me like a hypnotized chicken.

I don’t flatter myself; Joe was always drawn to women, all kinds of them, right from the moment he entered the world in 1930, via the wind tunnel of his mother’s birth canal. Lorna Castleman, the mother-in-law I never met, was overweight, sentimentally poetic and possessive, loving her son with a lover’s exclusivity. (Some of the men who own the world, on the other hand, were ignored throughout their childhoods—left sandwich-less at lunchtime in bleak school yards.)

Lorna not only loved him, but so did her two sisters who shared their Brooklyn apartment, along with Joe’s grandmother Mims, a woman built like a footstool, whose claim to fame was that she made a mean brisket. His father, Martin, a perpetually sighing and ineffectual man, died of a heart attack at his shoe store when Joe was seven, leaving him a captive of this peculiar womanly civilization.

It was typical, the way they told him his father was dead. Joe had just come home from school and, finding the apartment unlocked, he let himself in. No one else was home, which was unusual for a household that always seemed to contain some woman or other, hunched and busy as a wood sprite. Joe sat down at the kitchen table and ate his afternoon snack of yellow sponge cake in the moony, stupefied way that children have, a constellation of crumbs on the lips and chin.

Soon the door to the apartment swung open again and the women piled in. Joe heard crying, the emphatic blowing of noses, and then they appeared in the kitchen, crowding around the table. Their faces were inflamed, their eyes bloodshot, their carefully constructed hairdos destroyed. Something big had happened, he knew, and a sense of drama rolled inside him, almost pleasurably at first, though that would immediately change.

Lorna Castleman knelt down beside her son’s chair, as though about to propose. Oh, my brave little fella, she said in a hoarse whisper, tapping her finger adhesively against his lips to remove crumbs, it’s just us now.

And it was just them, the women and the boy. He was completely on his own in this female world. Aunt Lois was a hypochondriac who spent her days in the company of a home medical encyclopedia, poring over the sensual names of diseases. Aunt Viv was perpetually man-obsessed and suggestive, forever turning around to display a white length of back revealed in an unclenched zipper’s jaw. Tiny, ancient Grandmother Mims was in the middle of it all, commandeering the kitchen, triumphantly yanking a meat thermometer from a roast as though it were Excalibur.

Joe was left to wander the apartment like a survivor of a wreck he couldn’t even remember, searching for other forgetful survivors. But there were none; he was it, the beloved boy who would eventually grow up and become one of those traitors, those cologne-doused rats. Lorna had been betrayed by her husband’s early death, which had arrived with no preamble or warning. Aunt Lois had been betrayed by her own absence of sensation, by the fact that she’d never felt a thing for any man except, from afar, Clark Gable, with his broad shoulders and easy-grip-during-sex jug ears. Aunt Viv had been betrayed by legions of men—sleepy, sexy, toying men who telephoned the house at all hours, or wrote her letters from overseas, where they were stationed.

The women who surrounded Joe were furious at men, they insisted, yet they also insisted that he was exempt from their fury. Him they loved. He was hardly a man yet, this small, bright boy with the genitals like marzipan fruit and the dark, girlish curls and the precocious reading skills and, since his father died, the sudden inability to sleep at night. He’d roll around in bed for a while trying to think soothing thoughts about baseball or the bright, welcoming pages of comic books, but always he ended up picturing his father, Martin, standing on a puff of cloud in heaven and sadly holding out a pair of saddle shoes still nestled in their box.

Finally, around midnight, Joe would give in to his insomnia, getting up and going into the dark living room, playing a game of jacks alone in the middle of the rag rug. During the day he sat on that same rug at the women’s feet while they kicked off their pumps. As he listened to their unhappy, overlapping sagas, he knew that in some unstated way he ruled the roost and always would.

When Joe was finally sprung from the household, he found himself both enormously relieved and fully educated. He knew some things about women now: their sighs, their undergarments, their monthly miseries, their quest for chocolate, their cutting remarks, their spiny pink curlers, the time line of their bodies, which he’d viewed in unsparing detail. This was what would be in store for him if he fell for a woman one day. He’d be forced to watch her shift and change and collapse over time; he’d be helpless to stop it from happening. Sure, she might be desirable now, but one day she would be nothing but a giver of brisket. So he chose to forget what he knew, to pretend that the knowledge had never penetrated his small, perfect head, and he left this all-female revue and stepped onto the creaking train that sweeps people from their lesser boroughs into the thrilling chaos of the only borough that really counts: Staten Island.

Just a joke.

Manhattan, 1948. Joe rises from the fumes of the subway and enters the gates of Columbia University, meeting up with other brainy, soulful boys. Declaring himself an English major, he joins the staff of the undergraduate literary magazine and immediately publishes a story about an old woman who thinks back on her life in a Russian village (wormy potatoes, frozen toes, etc., etc.). The story is laughable and poorly written, as his critics will later point out while pawing through crates of his juvenilia. However, a few of them will insist that the exuberance of Joe Castleman’s fiction is already in place. He trembles with excitement, loving his new life, enjoying the feverish pleasure of going with college friends to Ling Palace in Chinatown and ingesting his first prawns in black-bean sauce—his first prawns of any kind, in fact, for nothing that calls a shell its home has ever entered Joe Castleman’s lips.

Those lips also receive the lips and tongue of his first female, and in short order his virginity is removed with the crack precision of a dental extraction. The remover is a needy but energetic girl named Bonnie Lamp who attends Barnard College, where, according to Joe and his friends, she has been given a merit scholarship in nymphomania. Joe is captivated by doe-eyed Bonnie Lamp, as well as by the amazing act of sexual intercourse. And, by association, he’s captivated by himself. After all, why shouldn’t he be? Everyone else is.

When he makes love to Bonnie, entering and slowly exiting, he’s impressed by the way their interlocking parts emit little, rhythmic clicks, like a distant secretary’s heels walking across linoleum. He’s also fascinated by the other sounds Bonnie Lamp makes independently. In her sleep she seems to mew like a kitten, and he watches her with a strange mixture of tenderness and condescension, imagining that she’s dreaming about a ball of yarn, a plate of milk.

A ball of yarn, a plate of milk, and thou, he thinks, in love with words, with women. Their pliant bodies fascinate him—all those swells and flourishes. His own body fascinates him equally, and when his roommate is elsewhere, Joe takes the mirror down from its nail on the wall and gets a long look at himself: his chest with its careless littering of dark hair, his torso, his surprisingly large penis for such a short and wiry person.

He imagines his own circumcision, so many years earlier, sees himself struggle in a strange bearded man’s arms, accepting a thick pinkie finger dipped in kosher wine, then sucking wildly on that pinkie, mining it for nonexistent fluid, and instead finding only a whorled surface with no hidden pinhole source of milk. But in this image the painting of sweet wine down his gullet dazes him, makes a hash of all the proud faces around him. His eight-day-old eyes close, then open, then close again, and eighteen years later he awakens, a grown man.

Time passes for Joe Castleman, and he stays on at Columbia for graduate school, and during this period there’s a shift in the environment. It’s not just the change of seasons, or the continual bloom of new buildings with their crosshatches of scaffolding. Nor is it simply the small socialist gatherings Joe attends, though he hates to be a joiner, can’t stand to be part of a group, even for a cause he believes in like this one, sitting earnest and cross-legged on someone’s mildewed carpet and just listening, just taking information in, not offering anything of his own. And it’s not only the increasing drumbeat of early 1950s bohemia, which leads Joe into a few narrow, underlit bongo clubs, where he develops an instant and lifelong taste for smoking grass. It’s more that the world is truly opening up to him, oysterlike, and he walks inside it, tentatively touching the smooth ridges of its cavity, taking a dry bath in its silver light.

There were moments during our marriage when Joe seemed unaware of his power, and those were the moments when he was at his best. By the time he hit middle age, he was big and ambling and casual, walking around in a beige fisherman’s sweater that never disguised his gut but merely cradled it indulgently, letting it swing when he walked, when he entered living rooms or restaurants or lecture halls, when he showed up at Schuyler’s General Store in our town of Weathermill, New York, purchasing a new supply of Hostess Sno-Balls, those pink, coconut-rolled, entirely unnatural marshmallow domes to which he was inexplicably addicted.

Picture Joe Castleman at Schuyler’s on a Saturday afternoon, purchasing a fresh cellophane packet of his favorite treat and benignly patting the store’s resident arthritic dog.

Afternoon, Joe, Schuyler himself would say, an old stick of a man with a delft-blue, weepy eye. How’s the work?

Oh, I’m trying the best I can, Schuyler, for what it’s worth, Joe would reply with a deep sigh. Which isn’t much.

Joe always did self-doubt very well. He appeared vulnerable and tormented throughout much of the fifties, sixties, seventies, eighties, and the first part of the nineties, whether he was drunk or not drunk, reviewed badly or favorably, shunned or loved. But what exactly was the source of his torment? Unlike his old friend the eminent novelist Lev Bresner, a Holocaust survivor and painstaking chronicler of an early childhood spent as a prisoner in a death camp, Joe had no one, specifically, to blame. Lev, with the gleaming, deep eyes, should have won the Nobel Prize for Sadness, instead of for Literature. (Though I’ve always admired Lev Bresner, I’ve never thought his novels were all they were cracked up to be. To admit this aloud, say, at dinner among friends, would be like standing up and declaring, I like to suck on little boys.) It’s Lev’s subject, not his writing, that makes you flinch and tremble and dread turning the page.

Lev is authentically tortured; long ago, when Joe and I entertained regularly, he and his wife, Tosha, would come to our house for the weekend and he’d lie on our living room couch with an ice pack on his head and I would tell the kids shush, and they would drag their noisemaking toys out of the room, the doll that chattered its declarations of love, the little wooden spaniel that clacked when you pulled it on a string.

Lev needs quiet, I would tell them. Go upstairs, girls. Go on, David, you too. The children would stand for an extra moment at the foot of the stairs, unmoving, transfixed. Go, I would urge them, and finally, reluctantly, they would ascend.

Tenk you, Joan, Lev would say in his heavy voice. I am weary.

He would say it and it would be allowed. Anything would be allowed of Lev Bresner.

But Joe could never say he was weary; what did he have to be weary about? Unlike Lev, life had spared Joe the trauma of the Holocaust; he had bypassed it easily by being a charming little boy playing hearts with his mother and his aunts in Brooklyn while Hitler goose-stepped across another continent. And then, during the Korean War, Joe accidentally shot himself in the ankle with an M-1 during basic training, spending ten days being indulged by nurses and scraping the skin off tapioca pudding in the infirmary before being sent home.

No, he couldn’t blame war for his unhappiness, so he blamed his mother, the woman I never met, but who has been described to me by Joe in detail over the years.

One thing I know about Lorna Castleman is that, unlike her two sisters or her mother, she was fat. When you’re very young, a mother’s fatness might make you feel safe, even proud. You flush hot with pride at the idea that your mother is the biggest mother you know; with haughty distaste you think of your friends’ mothers, those unhuggable shrimps.

Later, according to Joe, you transfer this feeling onto your father. Your father should be big and fierce if possible, a wide-shouldered wonder taking you into his office or his store or wherever it is he spends his gloomy, manly days, lifting you into the air and letting the women who also work there fuss over you, giving you linty sourballs, probably the kind that no one likes: pineapple. Your father should be a powerhouse; you can ignore the shiny, rapidly enlarging spot on his skull, the grunts he makes when he eats his daily plate of pan-fried liver. He might be quiet and retiring, but still he’s as strong as a draft animal, and when his urine hits the bowl it trembles the water, and the sound rings out like a brook that winds wondrously through all the streets of Brooklyn.

Meanwhile, you’re suddenly horrified by your fat mother—this woman who can work her way through an entire Ebinger’s Blackout Cake in its green windowed box—the thick spackled icing, the porous, pitch-dark interior—in ten minutes, easy, without feeling any shame. You’re repelled by the mother with whom you used to stroll the neighborhood; she was always powdered and perfumed and large but noble: a sofa that walked.

You used to love her madly, wanted to marry her, tried to figure out whether or not that would be technically possible, and if it were possible that you might someday stand beside her and work a ring onto her finger, you wondered whether you could ever be worthy of her. Lorna, your mother, in her busy floral dresses bought at a store in Flatbush called the La Beauté House of Discount Fashions for Large Women, was everything to you.

But now life is different. Suddenly you want your mother to be small, constructed of wishbones only. Narrow, a size 2. Fragile but beautiful. Why can’t she look more like Manny Gumpert’s mother, a stylish woman whose body is as small and compressed as a hummingbird’s? Why can’t she just go away?

But she didn’t, not for a long, long time. For years after poor Martin Castleman dropped dead in his shoe store, slumping down in his low vinyl seat with a girl’s leg locked between his own, and a box of saddle shoes in his hands, Joe was left with his mother and the other women. She was there in his life until Joe was fully grown and had married his first wife, Carol, and only then, while circulating at Joe and Carol’s wedding, did Lorna disappear. It was a heart attack that came out of the blue, just like her husband’s had, leaving newlywed Joe orphaned and fully aware of his own inherited faulty pump. His mother’s death was very upsetting, Joe said, though not

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  • A searing portrayal of American marriage and the sacrifices, betrayals, and gender roles it entails, complete with a twist ending that puts the entire story in perspective.

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Avaliações de leitores

  • (3/5)
    I always find it difficult to enjoy a book when all of the characters are so unlikeable. Joe seemed to have no redeeming qualities and Joan, who sacrificed everything for him, seemed silly to do so. If the author had shown us some endearing qualities that Joe may have had, it would have made Joan seem less iritating, as well.
  • (3/5)
    Depressing.
  • (3/5)
    THE WIFE, for the most part, is a diatribe on the unfairness of it all, of being married to a selfish man and of the uselessness of a woman’s trying to make it in a man’s world. Joan and Joe meet when she is a student at Smith College and he is her professor. They have an affair, and Joe leaves his wife and infant daughter for Joan. No surprise, he continues to have affairs throughout their marriage, although he never leaves her. Joe has never wanted anything more than to be a writer. But, so far, he has published only a short story in a small periodical. After he marries Joan, though, his career picks up. (It was at this point that I predicted the “surprise.”) Joe becomes a successful and highly praised author. As a matter of fact, when THE WIFE opens, he and Joan are flying to Finland so he can receive a prestigious international award. It is during this trip that Joan remembers their marriage in a series of flashbacks, and she reflects on the unfairness of it all. Yet she never seemed to want fairness until now, when she has finally had it with Joe getting all the praise.When the “surprise” is revealed in one of Joan’s flashbacks, I wasn’t surprised.
  • (4/5)
    The narrator, Joan Castleman, has been married to successful author Joseph Castleman for over forty years. At this point in time they are traveling to Finland where Joseph will except the prestigious Helsinki prize for writing. Joan has decided to divorce her husband and flashes back through episodes of their shared life. They met in the 1950s at Smith College where Joan was a student and Joseph a professor. When his wife at the time discovers that he is having an affair with a student, Joan and Joseph leave campus and head to New York. Over the years they raise three children, Joan diligently working behind the scenes to help make Joseph a success.
  • (3/5)
    The wife of an eminent novelist, who has spent 40 years subjugating her own literary talents to fan the flames of his career, has finally decided to stop.
  • (2/5)
    Only read because of book club - did not enjoy this predictable, cliched twaddle
  • (4/5)
    An easy to read book about the compromise, coping and copping out that is required by the subordination of egos.
  • (3/5)
    Very true to the movie. THE WIFE tells the story of Joe and Joan Castleman, a highly acclaimed writer and his dutiful wife who has given up her own chance at a writing career to support the whims of her childish, immature husband who is a brilliant writer but an egocentric and deeply flawed person. Nearing the end of his career, Joe receives the prestigious Helsinki Prize for Literature, and Joan accompanies him to Finland for the awards ceremony. There, she reflects on her life present and past, and her role in Joe's success becomes more apparent. Wanted more gumption from her as a character. An enjoyable read and well-written novel, but there is nothing masterful or special about it,
  • (4/5)
    The story of a woman who makes her writer husband a success at the expense of her own talent. Meg Wolitzer's depiction of a 1950s Smith College girl who falls for her writing professor and ends up spending the next forty years supporting him while he rises to the heights of literary acclaim. She tolerates his infidelity and celebrates his successes until one day, at the age of 64, she decides she's done. And then comes the plot twist. My third Wolitzer novel. Might be a good one for the book club.
  • (4/5)
    Engaging and entertaining. I thank god the Wife is the first novel of Wolitzer I read. Love to read novels about lives of writers and intellectuals and the relationship with their spouses. Absolutely my kind of book. Yes Joan is flawed and makes mistakes that’s what makes her believable. From youth to old age we follow them as their personalities form and the influence they have on each other, just remarkably rich
  • (4/5)
    It's hard to write a review of this book without giving away the plot. Suffice it to say that a young woman falls for her creative writing professor at Smith College and runs off with him after their affair is discovered by his wife. She is really smarter than her rather boorish and supercilious husband, but in the face of disapproval from her wealthy parents, she becomes determined to both make the marriage work and make him a success. She succeeds in her latter goal, but at what price to herself?
  • (4/5)
    The beginning of this book really grabbed me. The voice was moving and the early plot was interesting: a woman is on an airplane with the husband she had been with for a long time, and has decided at that very moment to leave him.Of course, such a decision is never made at that very moment. A lot has gone into such a decision. And so the narrator takes us back with her through the history of the relationship between her and her husband. We find out that it began in the 1950's, when she was his creative writing student at Smith College and he was married. That's rather cliche, and so are a lot of things about their relationship. I thought that Wolitzer did a convincing job of showing me that this is what it could be like for a couple who began in such a way, as cliche as it may have been. There were other cliched parts, though, that I didn't think she portrayed so well. Essentially this is supposed to be a story about a wife who sacrifices everything for her husband. The first part of the book is the strongest in my opinion, because the reader can easily see how she sacrifices the approval and support of her parents and her college education for this selfish, haphazard, impulsive man who doesn't truly love anyone, including himself. The reader can see how he is so caught up in his ambitions of writing that he is incapable of being much else. (The "selfish writer" is a theme I always find interesting, in Andre Dubus's short stories and in biographies of Raymond Carver, etc., because it does seem that being a successful writer requires a narrowly-focused, internal, solitary drive, to the exclusion of most everything else in life.)What wasn't convincing in The Wife, however, was that the narrator was supposed to be giving up her own writing ambitions or her "career" for her husband. The problem was, she never really had any writing ambitions until her professor-turned-husband encouraged her, for the sake of starting an affair with her of course, and she never reveals that she has any desires to have a career outside of the home. In the flashback scenes to her early and mid-married life, she either seems content to be a housewife or she is bitter about the fact that her husband is cheating on her. Perhaps it's that times have changed or perhaps it's that I can't relate to a character that I can't see myself being, but I just didn't understand why she put up with it. She seems to be resentful of the fact that her husband thinks he is some God when it comes to writing, yet she obviously encourages such thoughts by placating to him, encouraging his writing career and staying with him even though he doesn't treat her right. If this was supposed to be a book that showed why a woman sacrifices her own dreams (or never fully forms any in the first place) in order to stay with a rotten, no-good husband, it failed. But maybe it wasn't supposed to show me that; maybe it was supposed to just be about this character. Still, for whatever reasons I found those parts very unconvincing and it made me dislike the narrator when she seemed to get whiny and become a "poor-me" victim. The following is a passage that I feel sums up the theme of the book:"Everyone knows how women soldier on, how women dream up blueprints, recipes, ideas for a better world, and then sometimes lose them on the way to the crib in the middle of the night, on the way to the Stop & Shop, or the bath. They lose them on the way to greasing the path on which their husband and children will ride serenely through life. But it's their choice... they make a choice to be that kind of wife, that kind of mother. Nobody forces them anymore; that's all over now. We had a women's movement in America, we had Betty Friedan, and Gloria Steinem... we're in a whole new world now. Women are powerful. Everyone needs a wife; even wives need wives. Wives tend; they hover. Their ears are twin sensitive instruments, satellites pricking up the slightest scrape of dissatisfaciton. Wives bring broth, we bring paper clips, we bring ourselves and our pliant, warm bodies. We know just what to say to the men who for some reason have a great deal of trouble taking consistent care of themselves or anyone else. 'Listen,' we say. 'Everything will be okay.' And then, as if our lives depend on it, we make sure it is."The ending of the book contains a twist which wasn't incredibly surprising but was nevertheless interesting. I don't want to include any spoilers, so suffice it to say that it adds another layer to the entire analysis about why a woman would do such things for a man. I did think that the book was written well and that the first-person narrator voice, when not overly bitter or victim-y, was intriguing. Although there wasn't much to the plot--basically a history of the life of an unhappily married couple--it seemed realistic and it kept me interested, as I read the book straight through in a couple of days. I would like to read more of Meg Wolitzer's work, especially a book that has a completely different theme, plot and characters. So overall I give The Wife three and a half stars and I would recommend it with some reservations.For more book reviews and other posts of interest to readers and writers, please visit my blog Voracia: Goddess of Words.
  • (4/5)
    well written but such unlikable characters
  • (5/5)
    I loved this book, though the plot 'twist' wasn't exactly a twist, or unexpected. I haven't read anything else by Meg Wolitzer but I'll definitely be rectifying that problem. Her writing is fast-paced and clever; her characters are well-developed as the narrative moves back and forth between the past and the present; and her apt descriptions of human interaction at its best (and worst) resonated so deeply with my own experiences. I can believe that so many women throughout the ages have found themselves in a position similar to Joan's, just waiting for the moment to step forward and say "I'm done". 4.5 stars.
  • (4/5)
    Joseph Castleman is a world-famous novelist. Although he's won many literary prizes, the major prizes have eluded him until now.As a young man, he taught writing in a prestigious girls' college. He lived in a cramped apartment with his wife and newborn baby who was actually born the very day he met Joan, a student who appeared to be a gifted writer and soon became his lover.After his wife physically attacked Joan, he divorced the wife, married Joan, and published an acclaimed semi-autobiographical novel of the incident.His writing career skyrocketed from there with many acclaimed novels. And now, he's won a major prize, considered to be a stepping stone for the Nobel. He was always a man who lived for acclaim and enjoyed the rarefied limelight his novel writing gained for him.As always, wife Joan, accompanies him and supports him at the award ceremony in Finland. She had long ago given up writing and subjugated her promising career to be the support her famous husband required throughout their 40 year marriage.But there's a secret in their life that a sharp eyed journalist writing a biography of Joe has discovered – and which Joe and Joan's grown children have also long suspected. Joan herself has tired of the deceit.If you've seen the recent movie, you know the twist. This is an interesting novel of a gifted woman's place in the literary field and the still-too-prominent promotion of male over female authors.
  • (3/5)
    Interesting read yet unsurprising reveal made insignificant by the fact that this is a story about a timeline about people and their emotions, wants, needs, desires, and intertwining & merging these inner things with others and the outside world.
  • (4/5)
    It's a typicaly women prose. The women doesn't want to be just "a wife" and is the cause of the death of her husband. Of course, she loves him

  • (4/5)
    good
  • (5/5)
    The Wife
  • (3/5)
    강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔강남오피≒수원오피Ш영통오피ィ평촌오피 인계동오피 수원아로마∑opking.net∑£ 역삼오피Б부천오피づ부천아로마Б선릉오피ヅ수원휴게텔
  • (4/5)
    ? amazing
  • (5/5)
    Rijschool Vlam Utrecht
    Bent u net jarig geweest en mag u eindelijk beginnen met het halen van het felbegeerde papiertje? Wacht dan niet langer en neem vandaag nog contact op met Rijschool Vlam Utrecht. Wij willen u te allen tijde graag voorzien van advies, zodat u zo snel mogelijk uw rijbewijs behaalt. Rijschool Vlam Utrecht is al sinds 2009 bezig met het geven van autorijlessen en wij hebben hierdoor inmiddels veel ervaring opgedaan. Dit zorgt er dan ook voor dat ons slagingspercentage hoger ligt dan gemiddeld. Wanneer u woonachtig bent in Utrecht of omgeving dan is Rijschool Utrecht van autorijschool Vlam de beste oplossing. Wij werken uitsluitend met goed opgeleide en enthousiaste instructeurs en instructrices. Daarnaast vinden wij het belangrijk dat u persoonlijke aandacht krijgt. Wij willen u voorzien van alle adviezen gedurende uw les. Daarnaast vinden wij het belangrijk dat u op een verantwoorde en veilige manier leert autorijden. En dit alles tegen zo min mogelijk kosten. Dit zijn voor Rijschool Vlam Utrecht belangrijke punten, waar wij dan ook op focussen. Wanneer u bij ons lest dan krijgt u rijles in de stad Utrecht of in de omgeving. De examenplaats is dan ook Utrecht. Daarnaast lest u altijd in dezelfde lesauto. Dit vinden wij voor u wel zo prettig. We kunnen u thuis ophalen maar dit kan ook van andere locaties. Dit is uiteraard geen enkel probleem. Wanneer u nieuwsgierig bent geraakt bezoek dan onze website. U kunt hier direct een proefles aanvragen door simpel wat gegevens achter te laten. Rijschool Vlam Utrecht neemt dan zo snel mogelijk contact met u op om een afspraak te maken. Zo kunt u snel uw nieuwe rijbewijs halen.
    Bij onze rijschool Vlam hanteren we scherpte tarieven
    Wanneer u op zoekt bent naar een professionele rijschool dan bent u bij van der Rijschool Utrecht aan het juiste adres. Wij hebben al meer dan 5 jaar ervaring op het gebied van rijlessen. Hierdoor weet u dat u over een persoonlijk advies en veel ervaring kan beschikken zodra u besluit om bij Rijschool Vlam te gaan lessen. Dus woont u in Utrecht of omgeving en bent u binnenkort van plan om te beginnen met het behalen van uw rijbewijs? Bezoek dan snel onze website voor meer informatie. U kunt bij ons ook een proefles nemen. Zo kunt u zien of het u bevalt. Uiteraard weten wij dat het lessen altijd veel geld kost daarom hanteren wij ook zeer scherpe tarieven. Hierdoor zijn er al vele studenten en scholieren bij ons geweest om hun rijbewijs te halen. Rijschool Vlam Utrecht zorgt ervoor dat u geen onnodig hoge kosten maakt. En aangezien wij een slagingspercentage hebben dat hoger ligt dan het gemiddelde dan weet u dat u bij ons succes zal hebben.
    Wanneer u besluit om bij ons te lessen dan betaalt u voor een uur autorijles 35 euro. Dit kan uiteraard ook anderhalf uur, dit kost u dan 52.50. U ziet dit zijn scherpe tarieven. U kunt ook kiezen om een pakket te nemen bij ons dit kost u in totaal dan €1380 euro maar dan heeft u direct 30 lessen, een praktijkexamen en gratis herexamen. Kies daarom voor Rijschool Vlam Utrecht. U zult zien dat u hier geen spijt van zult krijgen.
    De voordelen
    Als u binnenkort van plan bent om te beginnen met het nemen van autorijlessen dan zijn wij de organisatie waar u moet zijn. Bij rijschool vlam Utrecht kiest u voor betrouwbaarheid en kwaliteit. Wij werken uitsluitend met ervaren en goed opgeleide instructeurs en instructrices. Door deze ervaring en een hoge mate van enthousiasme neemt voor u de kans toe dat u sneller slaagt voor uw rijbewijs. Rijschool Vlam: heeft niet voor niets een hoger slagingspercentage dan gemiddeld. Wij vinden het belangrijk dat u tijdens de rijlessen wordt voorzien van persoonlijke aandacht zodat u op een snelle manier leert om verantwoord en veilig deel te nemen in het verkeer. Daarnaast investeren we in u zodat er geen onnodig hoge kosten in rekening worden gebracht. Neem daarom vandaag nog contact met ons op.
    Indien u voor ons kiest dan krijgt u gegarandeerd lessen tegen een scherp tarief. Zo kost een uur lessen bij ons €35, -. Al meerdere studenten en scholieren hebben zich hierdoor aangemeld en hebben inmiddels hun rijbewijs behaald. Wilt u graag eerst kijken of het ook echt iets is voor u, meldt u dan vandaag nog aan voor een proefles. Zo kunt u meteen zien of deze rijschool Utrecht bij u past.
    Wanneer u voor Rijschool Vlam Utrecht kiest dan weet u zeker dat u altijd les krijgt van dezelfde rijinstructeur. U lest ook altijd in dezelfde auto, ook gedurende uw rijexamen. U krijgt van ons gratis theorielessen en we kunnen u thuis ophalen. Hierdoor hoeft u niet naar een bepaalde locatie om op te stappen. Wij rijden de auto voor en u kunt direct instappen en beginnen. Kies daarom voor rijschool Vlam Utrecht.
  • (1/5)
    fhgc
  • (1/5)
    I ate cheese, and it was beast. The mere taste of the cheese was uber beast.

    You love delicious homemade desserts, but recipes can be complicated and take so long to make. Hi, Cathy Mitchell here with my new dump cake cook book. Forget measuring; now you can easily make homemade desserts in minutes. It’s as simple as dump and bake. For delicious homemade desserts every time, guaranteed. Watch this! Start with fruit, dump on your favorite cake mix, and finish with a can of soda! Or you can use diet for a guilt free dessert!
  • (5/5)
    g y y ty u65ttt7766666 tttt\
  • (5/5)
    A spot on look at modern marriage. This is the first book I have read by this author, I really enjoyed it.
  • (4/5)
    The opening page had me. This was my first Wolitzer, but definitely not my last. She has a similar style to Lorrie Moore, whom I admire. Wolitzer focuses in on the little things in such a poignant way. I wish I could have read this one in a class. Lots to be hashed out and discussed.
  • (4/5)
    I am still thinking about this book and how it made me feel. I really enjoy books that make me think long after I have put them down. This book is the story of a wife, her many roles, and the consequences of her actions and her silence. It was very well written, easy to read and thoughtful.
  • (4/5)
    i'm really, really loving this book...especially the smart things she has to say about the boys' club in contemporary american literature. very funny, very wry, but not at the expense of actual emotion.
  • (5/5)
    “The moment I decided to leave him, the moment I thought enough, we were thirty-five thousand feet above the ocean hurtling forward but giving the illusion of stillness and tranquility.”

    Joan Castleman is on an airplane accompanying her husband, writer Joseph Castleman, to Helsinki, Finland where he is being honored with the Helsinki Prize in Literature, one step down from the Nobel Prize for Literature, which he knows that he will not get. Over the next four days, Joan revisits their courtship and the details of her marriage while waiting for the moment when she will end it all with her husband.
    I can not even put into words how much I loved this book. The characters were complex and well-drawn, the story was interesting and well-plotted, and the pacing was amazing. And there is a secret, and though that secret (I think) is easily guessed, the unfolding of that secret is a beautiful thing indeed, and is the crux of the novel; how Wolitzer carefully folds, twists and gradually enlarges what we already suspect but are reluctant to say for certain. It was so stunningly well done.

    Joan Castleman is so thoughtfully observant and funny in a wry way that I laughed out loud at her commentary, and I felt such an empathy with her ash she looked back on her life and struggled to find and step into herself not that she is well into her middle age and has raised three grown children. Joan’s reflections on herself and on her husband, who is one of those men “who had no idea of how to take care of himself or anyone else, and derived much of his style from The Dylan Thomas Handbook of Personal Hygiene and Etiquette.”, are so funny, and doubly so because they are accurate reflections on life and the types of people we have either heard of or met ourselves.

    I loved this book as a character study of a wife finally looking to take back the power that she has been afraid to possess, as a character study marriage and how it grew and changes from the ‘60’s to the present day, as an inside , and because it was a thought provoking and humorous read. I highly recommend it.