DON'T BE A STRANGER

A middle-aged New York writer loses herself to romantic obsession with a handsome musician.

Loving someone who doesn’t love you is bad. Everyone in Ivy Cooper’s life keeps telling her that, and at 52, divorced from the father of her young son, now fixated on a younger man named Ansel Fleming who explicitly rejects any possibility of commitment from day one, she doesn’t really need to be told. And it doesn’t matter anyway because she’s a goner, as fatally obsessed as any bunny-boiling love addict in life or literature. Minot is an elegant writer, her sentences and paragraphs stylishly cropped, her dialogue quotation mark–free, her epigraphs chosen from classic sources: Rilke, Emerson, Lao Tzu, Oscar Wilde, Henry James, Rumi. In pellucid prose she captures each of the emotional states Ivy cycles through on the roller coaster of erotic fascination, delusion, bliss, mania, devastation—while also buffeted by the emotions and responsibilities of motherhood and of a career as a writer. While its individual parts are spare and polished, as a whole the book is ungainly. It’s divided into three sections, each of which has three chapters. The last section, which occurs after we have the sense that we already know everything we need to know, begins with an overly arty chapter about seeking help in “the rooms”—the Brown Room, Pink Room, Red Room, White Room, etc.—revealed to be a therapist’s office, yoga studio, 12-step meeting room, movie theater, lecture hall. In the next chapter, Ivy’s son has a brush with a very serious illness, an inherently suspenseful topic, but which at this point raises the question, “What are we doing here?” When the final chapter begins with, “She felt she ought to be at the end of this by now. She looked back and saw that what she had thought was close to the end was more like only halfway through the middle,” it’s almost as if author and reader are sharing a private joke.

Almost as painful to read about as it is to experience, which is both a complaint and a compliment.