This story can be found in the July 20, 2015 issue of The New Yorker magazine.
First Line: "I have somehow become a woman who yells, and, because I so not want to be a woman who yells, whose little children walk around with frozen watchful faces, I have taken to lacing on my running shoes after dinner and going out into the twilit streets for a walk, leaving the undressing and sluicing and reading and singing and tucking in of the boys to my husband, a man who does not yell."
Last Line: "It is terribly true, even if the truth does not comfort, that if you look at the moon for long enough night after night, as I have, you will see that the old cartoons are correct, that the moon is, in fact, laughing, but not at us, we who are too small and our lives too fleeting for it to give us any notice at all."
I had a hard time finishing it. For me, it was somewhere around the swans. I just stopped caring about this woman and her thoughts, observations, feelings on these therapeutic walks.
I loved the first line: "I have somehow become a woman who yells"... It has promise and it draws me in because I am a mother and I have a dense understanding of the shame, frustration, and hopelessness that comes in moments that are pent up and explode. But then the piece develops into a series of vignettes - possibly even mini-stories. I am sure there can be great symbolism drawn from them, but, again, I didn't care to find the connections between her and the nuns, and the swans, and the teenage boy.
As I forced myself to buckle down and finish the story, and I had some moments of compassion for her, the pain she must have felt discovering her husband's secret, but then I trusted she would be fine - especially as she began to move into a hopeful tone.
The pacing is akin free-verse poetry. It is a bit distracting. And while some of the poetic images were great (there were plenty of interesting details), I wanted a closer, more intimate tone. The narrator shut down and needed a walk, taking us along, speaking in a code - dancing around her feelings. I wished I had spent my time in another way.
Photo credit: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/38/Lauren_groff_bw.jpg
This review first appeared in The Canon City Daily Record.
I love to drive through town
just as the sun goes down and the lights inside the houses are turned
on. I can see into the homes. I see kids around the table, heads bent
over homework. I see a blue light reflected in a man's glasses as he
sits at a computer. I see a woman laughing, coaxing hair behind her ear.
A front door opens, letting out a dog, allowing me to see furniture,
pictures on the walls, dishes in the sink. I've seen so much, yet I've
never seen foul play.
Rachel Watson, The Girl on the Train, passing through the outskirts
of London, looks through windows, too. She sees a couple - a "golden
couple" - on her morning and evening rides. She feels connected with
them, creates idealized stories about them, imagines she really knows
them. And then something unexpected happens - something that does not
match her fantasy of this couple. There is a news report that suggests
dark, suspicious events. Lonely Rachel may have answers. But can her
questionable perspective be trusted? This startling spine-chiller has
only just begun.
Saying too much may give away important details, for this story
echoes Hitchcock's mastery of the psychological thriller. The details
are the story. Facts cleverly unfold within the novel, keeping the
reader entertained, convinced - only to be surprised, again, by the
ending. Suspense is part of the compelling magic of this book.
The Girl on the Train is representative of a new genre: thrillers
concerning the domestic lives of women. Themes of motherhood and
marriage feature prominently, the backbone of Ms. Hawkins's fast-paced
story. It has been compared to another New York Times Bestseller, Gone
Girl. These novels are relatable, examining the lives accepted as the
norm, and bringing crimes against women to the discussion. But this
isn't a feminist diatribe. This is a story about a woman who must
overcome her blemished past in order to solve a fatal mystery.
The pacing of the unpredictable plot overlaps the steadying lull of a
train - morning and evening. It is narrated, alternately, by three
different women, each with a unique perspective on the events at hand.
Rachel, Megan, and Anna are each convincingly and painfully flawed
without being feminine archetypes. They are complex, lives entangling.
Paula Hawkins began her writing career as a journalist in London.
While The Girl on the Train is her first thriller, she has also written
under a pen-name, Amy Silver. Her earlier works were romantic comedies,
but she favors writing tragedies in contemporary settings. And here, in
this unconventional work, it is obvious she has found her niche.
