Why were the two protagonists, siblings Maeve and Danny, just sitting outside the house like two cardboard cutouts? Why weren’t we ever getting inside their heads, instead of having the story narrated TO US? Was I ever going to know these two people? Was this, like, a play? Oooooh, a mansion! Well, that’s as appealing as an opera house or a jungle that holds the promise of sex!īut the doubts came quickly with this one. I even purchased a new hardcover copy (almost unheard of for me), and jumped right in to Patchett’s characteristically readable prose and her memorable one-liners. So, I started The Dutch House with a big smile on my face. The jungle! Okay, there was the scene with that kid and that scene on the dock that made absolutely no sense, but, but. yes, it’s true, the ending was bad, but, but, but. When one of the ladies mentioned the COMPLETELY IMPLAUSIBLE ending, I felt a small flutter of doubt in my heart. I was so stricken with jungle love, I was practically sitting there with my Pinot Noir, burning up with malaria. Then came the night at book club when we discussed Patchett’s State of Wonder. Why had I recommended this far flung tale of messy plot points and undeveloped characters to her? Later, on various telephone calls, my sister (another devoted reader and reviewer) frequently gave the beast a poke, belaboring, yet again, my recommendation of Bel Canto to her. The night my book club discussed Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto some ten years ago, I clutched my copy of that novel to my chest like a companion animal and huffed and puffed away, defensively, every time a woman in the group grumbled “so unbelievable” and “that ending!” Who were they, those wenches, to speak ill of a book I adored about love and opera?
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