Book Review: Her Fearful Symmetry, by Audrey Niffenegger

Few novels have proven to be as disappointing as this one.

The Time Traveller’s Wife was a wonderful read; not perfect, but still very enjoyable, beautifully written, and with a very unique premise. Her Fearful Symmetry held the expectation of more. The title alone is evocative. William Blake wrote The Tyger about light, and dark, and how one cannot be without the other: good cannot exist without evil. The ‘fearful symmetry’ is a reference to this, while the central characters of the novel – Julia and Valentina – are ‘mirror twins’. Add to this the setting in the shadow of High Gate Cemetery and the possibilities were astonishing. The woman who wrote The Time Traveller’s Wife must surely do wonders with this concept.

Or not.

Billed as ‘a delicious and deadly ghost story about love, loss and identity’, Her Fearful Symmetry fails on every single count bar one – it involves a ghost. The central ‘romance’ in the novel is between Robert and Elspeth, who dies in the first line of the book, and it is her ghost who provides the majority of the rather ill-conceived plot. Robert grieves, as anyone would, however his grief is hindered by the revelation that Elspeth’s ghost is still present. He then forms a tentative relationship with one of the twins – Valentina, or ‘Mouse’ as her sister Julia calls her – although this is more due to her resemblance to Elspeth than anything else.

There is little true love in this book. The most resounding ‘love story’ in fact revolves around two minor characters living in the house next to the cemetery. Martin and Marijke are hopelessly in love, however Martin has some serious mental health issues, which have proven impossible for Marijke to live with any longer. She leaves him, not because she no longer loves him, but because she loves him enough to understand her absence is the only thing which might convince him to help himself, and get better. She issues an ultimatum: she will take him back, if he is able to leave the house, and follow her to Amsterdam. This element of the plot is genuinely interesting, and when Julia becomes friends with Martin, takes on an entirely different aspect which could have been truly spectacular. It is actually Julia’s attempts to help Martin, and her love for Valentina, which are the most touching elements of the story, while Julia’s pain over events ultimately prove to be the truest emotions in the whole novel.

The notion of identity is never explored in any depth. There is a poorly constructed plot line concerning Julia and Valentina, in which Julia is supposedly the dominant and bossy twin, and Valentina follows her lead, does as she’s told, and fiercely resents Julia for it. The old adage of ‘show don’t tell’ applies here, for while we are told a few times that Valentina feels smothered by her sister and desperate to get away from her, we never truly feel that is the case. While we can sympathise with the ‘Mouse’, she has ample opportunity to assert her independence and never takes advantage. Her attempts to display her own identity, and fight Julia, are limited and badly written, the result of which being that later plot developments, which hinge on Valentina’s supposed desire for independence, simply do not work; the reader never feels Valentina’s desperation, and so her extreme actions are unbelievable, since they lack motivation.

The other aspect to the plot concerning identity is the fully predictable, badly plotted, and confusingly explained history between Elspeth and her own twin sister, Edwina, mother of Julia and Valentina. The intention here is clear: Elspeth and Edwina, themselves twins, had their own issues when it came to finding their identities. This is then ‘mirrored’ in the ‘mirror twins’, who are supposed to be struggling with identity issues of their own . Again, had it been handled correctly and well written, it could have been an excellent subplot. As it stands, the explanation of it is so convoluted – despite what happened being obvious from the first chapter – that it borders on ridiculous. There is no logic behind the actions of any of the characters involved. They behave irrationally, believing the unbelievable, accepting the unacceptable, and spending lifetimes doing things without motivation. It is a poorly designed plot mechanism intended to draw the reader through the first three quarters of a very uneventful novel with the promise of a ‘big secret’ which, as it turn out, is neither big nor in any way a secret, either to the characters involved or the reader.

Elspeth’s ghost is another wasted element, doing nothing of interest until the very end of the book. In fact, everything of interest happens at the very end of the book, yet the ending is not only rushed, but redundant.

This novel has often been described as ‘Gothic’, yet there is nothing Gothic about it until one scene at the very end which is truly macabre; had the rest of the narrative had this feel to it, the novel would have been spectacular. There are a few random references thrown in as an attempt to create a ‘Gothic’ feel: the twins discuss Steampunk in two lines of dialogue, overheard by another character who doesn’t understand what they’re talking about; Valentina tries and fails to make a black velvet ‘Goth’ dress for herself; and one of the twins remark that Robert would be a ‘Goth’ if he were a teenager.

This does not a Gothic novel make.

There are only three truly Gothic aspects of this novel and all are totally wasted. The ghostly elements could have been turned into so much more. There is a beautiful scene early on, of children playing in the graveyard, and it is obvious even at that point that these children are ghosts. Yet they are not mentioned again until the very end. While Niffeneger clearly did her research on Highgate Cemetery, it is delivered in sections that feel more like lectures than quality fiction. The setting should have created an atmosphere, a feel of the dark, ghostly and ethereal elements the author clearly wanted to portray, yet it does not. It is clinical. Further to this, the Gothic genre is not just about cemeteries and ghosts; it’s about horror, and human nature, the gender roles that underpin society, and the evils that men (and women) do. Only one aspect of the whole novel achieves this, and it is dropped into the plot near the end, executed swiftly, and then rushed so much you could literally miss it.

The ‘twist’ at the end is poorly executed, unfounded, and ultimately unbelievable. Ironically it is not the fantastic elements of the plot that make it unconvincing, but the fact that the previous actions and responses of the characters do not substantiate such a turn of events; you simply cannot believe any of those involved in the final sequence would act the way they do. This undermines the entire novel, leaving you feeling cheated – the wonderful potential implied by the title and premise have been wasted. Had the dynamic between Julia and Valentina been fully realised, the plot unfolded from the very beginning instead of crammed into the end, and the dark aspects of the plot fully drawn, it could have worked. The truly interesting plot elements are rushed through in the last couple of (very short) chapters, while the majority of the book is filled with endless descriptions, almost none of which are relevant to the plot.

The one redeeming feature of the entire novel is that it is written by Niffenegger. That really is the extent of the praise that can be offered. Niffenegger has a way with descriptive prose which is truly unique and a pleasure to read. That is not nearly enough, however, to compensate for the absurdity of the plot developments and flaws in characterisation. Overall, the book reads like a first draft; raw, undeveloped, full of mistakes and plot holes. Had this book been honed, and truly explored to the extent of its potential, with the first half of it cut down to the barest minimum and the last quarter expanded extensively, it might have been good.

Never has a published book more thoroughly demonstrated the benefit of drafting and redrafting a novel, no matter how painful the process might be; never has a book been more in need of a good editor.

Book Review: The Time Traveller’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger

The genre of the book is debatable. On one level it is simply a love story, and one could easily be forgiven for filing it away under ‘fiction’. That said, the paradoxical nature of the romantic relationship, which is central to the plot, leaves a question as to whether it should actually be viewed as a work of science fiction. It does not quite fit comfortably into this category either, since the time travel which takes place in the book does not develop as a result of technology or technological advancement, but is rather a speculative matter of biology.

Henry DeTamble has a genetic condition which sends him hurtling back and forth through time. He has no control over when he shifts and no true control over where and when he goes – although it becomes clear that he usually ends up in proximity to the most important people in his life, including himself.

The novel has a slight edge of fantasy to it as a result, however at its core, it is an exploration of relationships and human nature, with a sidebar in existentialism. On a basic level, it is a tale of love conquering all, yet on a deeper level it explores the impossible nature of love and the contradictory and inherently selfish nature of humanity. Time travel is not the point of the novel, it is the mechanism used to convey the deeper meaning and themes of the novel, and it is very beautifully done.

This book is, in one sense, mind boggling. The entire plot revolves around the fact that, at the age of thirty-six, Henry meets six year old Clare Abshire. In his present, he is married to Clare (by then an adult), and after several meetings with child-Claire eventually tells her that he is the man she will marry when she is older – he knows this, because for him it has already happened. Years later, when Clare is an adult, she runs into the Henry of her present, who at that point has never met her, and tells him all about their numerous encounters. For Henry, these incidents have yet to happen, but for Clare they are an intricate part of her childhood and her entire identity. It’s a classic predestination paradox: Clare would not have been able to tell Henry they were going to get married unless they had already got married, as she wouldn’t have known without Henry telling her. Yet it seems highly doubtful that they ever would have ended up together had Clare not essentially introduced herself as his future wife, and so a question hangs over the entire plot: did Clare and Henry fall in love with each other because they fell in love, or did they fall in love with each other because each had been told by the other that they were – in another time – already in love and married.

For those who enjoy quantum physics, it’s a fun plot, if rather predictable. For those who enjoy a good romance, it’s a good read if, again, a little predictable. The joy of the novel however comes in the eloquence of the writing and the depth of the characters – even minor characters shine in a manner that is unexpected in most novels. The point of view is also compelling. First person narrative has many huge benefits yet it often suffers from a lack of additional perspectives. Not so in this novel, for the point of view alternates between Henry and Clare, yet is always first person. As a result, you come to know both characters extremely well. It takes a great deal of skill to accomplish a believable, multiple point of view, first person narration, as the author must keep the voice for each separate character utterly consistent and completely distinct. Characters do not often come through with enough clarity for the shifts in point of view to be distinguishable, and you are left with the impression that the different characters are all very ‘samey’. That is not the case here, for while there is some initial confusion getting used to skipping back and forth between Henry and Clare – both in terms of point of view and past and presents – once you settle into it, you are left with two beautifully drawn characters who immerse you in their lives, and the deep-seated nature of their love for each other. It is almost as if, by being told that are the loves of each other’s lives, all uncertainty has been removed and they are left to simply love each other in a way that most people could never experience. They have no boundaries, no limits, and no uncertainties. At the same time, one feels that they are severely limited by this knowledge, for Clare never fully explores her life without Henry, as he is the centre of it from the time she is six years old. She spends her whole life waiting to meet him, and once she does she spends her whole life with him, and caught in limbo when he is torn away to other times. Henry on the other hand, skips through life with odd snippets of knowledge of a future he knows will happen, but is often uncertain of when.

The only downfall of the book is the predictability of the plot, for throughout you are longing for them to thwart the inevitable future. You are rooting for Henry to grow a pair and try to change the future he has seen, yet he never does – he know his own fate, and accepts it, despite the pain he knows it will cause those he loves most. It seems it never even occurs to him to try to change or avoid it; like Clare, he spends his life awaiting the moments he is certain will come and, as a result, fails to fully experience the present.

The predictability of the plot, and the lack of twists and turns, is at once a disappointment in an otherwise wonderful read, and the core of the novel itself, which explores concepts of free will and fate. Despite their abiding love for each other, both Henry and Clare suffer greatly as a result of their unconventional romance, and the over-riding question is whether they ever had any choice in the matter, or if the course of their lives (and everyone else’s) is predetermined.

Do any of us truly choose who we fall in love with?