Well, all of us have ups and downs in our lives. Therefore, it is not surprising that the fictitious house, which outlived its first owners, becomes a witness (and sometimes the cause) of vagaries of fortune of every kind. Children set adrift with an estranged father, a—canonically—evil stepmother, children uprooted from their home—and children left in the home, and therefore no less unhappy. Excessive, unhealthy attachments. Attempts to forgive and to ask for forgiveness.
If you were ever captivated by East of Eden or A Hundred Years, The Dutch House by Ann Patchett, which spans three generations of a single family (not counting minor characters), will be right up your alley. But unlike the other two books, here the main cause of misfortune is not some external force, but each character’s unwavering belief that they know exactly what is best. For others, of course, never for themselves.
Be prepared to clutch your head more than once, wondering why they would waste years of their lives on an uninteresting pursuit out of revenge, or cultivate hatred only to knead it back into themselves like over-risen dough. And why the narrative gallops ahead at times, only to return to events a quarter of a century old or drag itself along like one long, exhausting day.
If you nevertheless manage to push through the layers of grievances, a somewhat happy ending awaits you. Yet behind the scenes remains a question that is never fully addressed. It appears in the novel like the seeds in an orange: indispensable, but offering little to no pleasure, because not everyone can imagine the typical day of a person with diabetes in the middle of the last century. But let's try.
by mainblick on Pixabay
Insulin came into the world in 1921, when Frederick Banting and Charles Best managed to coax life out of a cloudy pancreatic extract, and, within a year, to save a dying boy in Toronto. But for decades afterward, diabetes remained a harsh companion
By the 1950s, when the main character, Maeve, developed the disease, insulin was still drawn from cows or pigs; glass syringes must be boiled, and the needles were so thick they need sharpening on pumice stones. Urine tests served as the only guide, imprecise and always late. A sudden low was treated with whatever sweetness stands closest to the hand: a glass of orange juice, a spoon of honey, a piece of candy fished from a pocke
The 1960s changed little. Even as an adult, Maeve, like many others in real life, administered her doses the old way, with no guarantee. Disposable needles existed but were rare; blood sugar was recognized not by numbers ('cause no numbers were available), but by the rush of cold sweat or the eerie dimming at the edges of consciousness. Like a quiet, constant negotiation with one’s own body.
The 1970s promised progress, but only in theory. The first glucometers were introduced, enormous and costly, meant for clinics rather than families. The real relief dawned in the 1980s. In 1982, Humulin, the world’s first biosynthetic human insulin, crafted by Genentech and produced by Eli Lilly, appears. It was purer, kinder, more predictable. Insulin pens followed this invention in the middle of the decade, finally replacing the glass syringes of Maeve’s youth; glucometers shrunk into something a person can actually hold with one hand.
And only toward the new millennium, almost at the end of the novel, analogue insulins and lightweight pens become standard. By then, a glucometer has been no bigger than a matchbox, and a normal day with diabetes less resembled a duel with the body that betrayed you.
***
In the end, The Dutch House is not a novel about illness, but a novel about inheritance of houses, memories, loyalties, and the burdens we carry long after they cease to be useful. And yet the story invites us to dive beneath its polished surface. Looking at the bright fish with a mask on is pleasant enough, but the true depths emerge only under the faint lamp of an anglerfish, that unexpected, unsettling illumination that reveals what has been lurking all along.
What to read on the topic:
If you’re interested in how novels quietly rely on historical context they never explain, you might also enjoy my previous post on cultural references left deliberately unexplored.
No comments:
Post a Comment