Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

Typically, I only write reviews for books I really love. I am not a book reviewer; this is not my job, and I think there's enough negativity out in the world without my adding to it just because I didn't care for a book. I'd so much rather enthuse about the books that have really inspired, taught, and moved me; I leave it to others to write about what worked for them in the books that left me cold. So it is with some surprise that I find myself feeling compelled to write a negative review of The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells, a book that at the moment appears to be nearly universally appreciated. I finished the book several days ago, and the ways in which it troubled me continue to nag. It's not just that I didn't care for the book -- although that's part of it -- but I found it unsettling in a way that goes beyond simply not enjoying a novel. So, here goes: In 1985, Greta Wells is suffering. Her beloved twin brother has just died, one of many young men lost in the early years of the plague known as AIDS, and her under-appreciated lover leaves her. She briefly tries therapy, but is somewhat inexplicably, and very quickly, shunted off to a practitioner of Electroconvulsive Therapy (a treatment even this novel acknowledges is used only as a kind of last resort, but let's not let the difference between grieving after devastating loss and major depression get in the way of the plot's catalyst). This is not just any ECT: it's a time travel-inducing shock treatment, and it just so happens that in two other branches of the multiverse, two other Gretas are also receiving their own treatments, as well, freeing them up to play musical chairs in time. So far, so good. My problem is not with the conceit of this novel. I am absolutely willing to suspend disbelief, to go through the wardrobe, fly on the shoulder of the North Wind, consider the possibility that an individual character might be born and reborn throughout a novel. (I mean it -- I could hold dual citizenship in Discworld!) So the fantasy aspect of the book is really not an issue for me. While I find it rather odd that the mechanism by which Greta travels through time is never explored or ever even really questioned -- why is this happening? who is Dr Cerletti? Is he the architect of this travel? are all patients receiving ECT thus affected, or only Greta and possibly one other patient? -- the simple lack of interest Greta (and thus the novelist) displays is far more problematic in other areas. For example: how exactly do Greta, Felix, and Ruth provide for themselves? Their material needs seem oddly few. In 1918 and 1941, Greta has a physician spouse, but other than that no one seems to work or to have any professional obligations or interests. Are these people air plants? How do they live? And more important, WHY? What drives them? They seem to live for love alone, which is my primary problem with this book. When 1918 Greta's lover secretly wishes that her husband might never return from the war, Greta muses on the selfishness of love: "We think of ourselves as heroes, saving a great work of art from the flames.... As if we were saving it for anyone but ourselves, and all the time we don't care what burns down, as long as this is saved. The whole gallery can fall to ashes for all we care. That love must be rescued, beyond all reason, reveals the madness at the heart of it." Perhaps the author thinks we all feel that way; I definitely don't include myself in the "we" here. This belief, that individual love is absolutely the be-all and end-all of the human experience, is what drives this novel. It is what allows Greta to sit idly by with the knowledge of Pearl Harbor and not say a word to anyone. She doesn't consider the implications of sharing or concealing what she knows, or think through the problem of changing history; it just doesn't occur to her to do anything because no one she loves is affected. There is no larger ethical structure in this novel beyond the pursuit of love (with apologies to Nancy Mitford). Don't see a problem with that? If there were a Greta from 2013 who traveled back to September 10, 2001, she'd spend the day trying to find her lover. It simply would not occur to this character to try and save anyone from the September 11 attacks -- unless she happened to be in love with the person, that is. It would make sense if her lack of interest in and knowledge about the larger world were symptomatic of her depression, but no -- this just seems to be the author's worldview. I've found it a bit surprising that so may readers have signed on, as well (although some reviewers have noted that they loved the book but didn't particularly like Greta, which I find interesting.) Then there are various logical/historical questions and issues. Why did the author make Greta and Felix German-American? It's really never explored beyond some quick references, and I suspect it was simply a means of explaining why Felix isn't serving in the military. They don't seem to have any cultural German heritage, nor do they experience divided loyalties or any sense of conflicted identity during either war. (And why would they, since in this novel, loyalty is always and only to self and the immediate beloved?) Why are there so many suggestions/implications about Prohibition in the 1918 world, when the Prohibition period did not begin until 1920? Why is there rationing in winter 1942, when the very first rationing of foods didn't begin until later that spring and summer? These are just a couple of points -- though there are many. I enjoyed the discussion of NYC in 1918 and 1942, but the author's shaky hold on wartime history made me wonder if he is really as knowledgeable as he seems. As an empty piece of entertainment, this novel could be fine. You might like it -- I certainly seem to be in the minority. However, this book seems to want to be more than fluff, and to have an agenda: that women have very limited options and interests and that individual, personal love reigns supreme. (The quasi-feminist soliloquy on p. 241 about Greta only wanting love and "only" having three worlds in which to find most clearly articulates this position.) That speech pushed me over the edge from simply not enjoying this book to loathing it, because it feels at once false and manipulative. Absolutely, women had fewer options historically than their male counterparts and than we do now, and we have had to work very hard in order to gain access to academic, professional, legal, and social resources. But to see the labors of the women's movement reduced to a cry for love -- by a male author -- well, it's just too much. The men in this novel really don't have a spectacular array of options, either, but that's another story. As it reads, this little speech feels like a tacked on attempt to garner the sympathy and support -- the sisterhood -- of female readers. I don't like that one bit. To feel that an author is empathetic is marvelous. To feel pandered to is offensive. There are moments that transcend the problems I outlined above: the gay cruising scene in Bloomingdale's in the 1918 world; the death of Felix, repressed until the novel's end; and a few others. But even in these moments, Greer's propensity for sentimentality overtakes his ability to write with subtlety. He tends toward the maudlin. When it comes right down to it, I found this book to be overly sentimental, and filled with purple prose. Reading it felt very much like eating a tub of frosting: a spoonful might taste all right, but after you've had more, you realize that it's synthetic and cloying, and not in the least bit nourishing. EDIT: If you loved/liked this novel and you think I am missing something or misunderstanding something, please let me know. Thanks!