I recently listened to the audio book version of this novel, after it won the 2018 National Book Award for fiction. It was billed as a book about a woman mourning the loss of her friend to suicide by caring for his Great Dane, whom she inherits. I often read big book award winners, as I am curious, but this book held more appeal than usual to me because of the dog connection, of course.
But I didn’t find it to be much about the dog at all, or the woman’s relationship with the dog. That’s fine, of course – not every book has to be about a dog – but this was the way it was marketed. Hence, the cover. Instead the book seemed mainly to be a meditation on MFA programs and the kinds of people they employ and produce; at least of a certain generation. The woman is an instructor in one such program in New York, the man who committed suicide, her former professor, whom she remained friends with. The man was a celebrated writer and a huge womanizer who played women against each other and who seemed to believe himself superior to others, especially his female students. I had a hard – actually impossible- time relating to this woman and her love for this immensely unlikable man. I couldn’t bring myself to care about him as a character, and, hence, for her, for even liking him. She never made me understand why I should be sorry that this man had killed himself.
Hard as I tried, I just couldn’t relate to the main character at all. Maybe it was the tone of the audio book’s narrator (Hillary Huber), but the character, and, hence, the author, just came across as so superior, so condescending to her readers, and so judgmental of her characters. And just out of touch with the world, and lacking in reason. At one point, she is in a cafe and she sees a young woman with a therapy dog and she ridicules the woman for having a dog with only three legs. She never explains why a tripod can’t be a therapy dog; she just assumes everyone’s as devoid of sense as she.
I found her behavior throughout inexplicable. For example, she goes to great lengths to keep the dog in her apartment, which has a strict no pet policy. She thus risks losing a rent-stabilized apartment, which as anyone who’s ever lived in New York City well knows, is often the only way anyone with less than a seven-figure salary can live there. I never really understood why she did this because she didn’t seem to much like the dog. I guess she just couldn’t bear the thought of disobeying the wishes of the condescending womanizer.
To me, the best parts of the book were discussions of other writings on grief. I took note of many of the works she talks about and I may even consult a print copy of the book for those alone. For me, this book did not add anything to that literature.
Last weekend I went to the Tucson Festival of Books and Nunez was supposed to be on a couple of the panels, which I planned to attend. I often get more out of a work when I hear a writer speak about it. Unfortunately, her flight was grounded due to NY weather. But I am always willing to listen to different viewpoints, so if anyone really liked this book, please do tell! You can find the book here.
