It’s a new year, and
for the first blog of 2023 I’ve chosen a book that insightfully portrays the sometimes unexpected process of recovery and hope: Anne Tyler’s 1985 classic The
Accidental Tourist.
The central character, Macon Leary, is an early middle-aged man who could be described as sleep-walking through life. About a year earlier, his pre-teen son Ethan was shot dead as a bystander in a fast-food restaurant robbery. Grief has only exacerbated Macon and wife Sarah’s pre-existing marital issues, which becomes clear as she asks for a divorce early in the book.
Post-separation, he stays in their marital home, mired in low-level depression, and expending minimal effort to get through the day. Then he breaks his leg, and moves back into his old family home along with his late son’s marginally trained Welsh corgi Edward. There he is looked after by his younger sister Rose, a spinsterish, motherly woman whose self-appointed job is to keep house for her two older brothers who also live there, as well as to help various elderly neighbours. Macon writes guidebooks for reluctant business travellers, and continues to work from home while recovering. As the weeks slip by, he is slowly and willingly drawn (back) into the cautious, controlled home-life of his siblings.
But the outside world intrudes. Macon’s single, sporty editor tracks him down; Julian hadn’t known about his broken leg, separation, or eccentric, cloistered family, and is curious to learn more about this very private man. Muriel Pritchett: a dog trainer Macon employs when Edward’s misbehaving escalates, is also interested in learning more about him.
On the surface Muriel and Macon seem like a unlikely pair. She’s a much younger, financially insecure, often chaotic, and embarrassingly unrefined single parent, who regularly disrupts Macon’s orderly world and buttoned-down demeanour. Yet, as he spends time with her and her allergy-prone young son, he is unexpectedly nudged out of his emotional cocoon. When Sarah comes looking for another chance, and Macon’s family continues to disapprove of Muriel, Macon must choose between the safety and comfort of the known, or a more open, courageous life—and version of himself—he’s discovered through Muriel.
And, in a parallel story of opposites attracting, playboy-like Julian becomes besotted with prim, sheltered Rose. Despite resistance from her family, they marry, but Rose is soon pulled back into the familiar routine of her caregiver role and “the Leary groove.” To find out how it ends, you’ll have to read the book.
So, what is it about this novel that made an impression? As is often the case, it starts with the writing. Tyler’s descriptive language is highly effective in creating mood: the greyness and immobility of early grief, the constrained tone in the Leary home, the painful endings of a marriage. Many other details also made the story come alive. Just a few include: the moment-by-moment struggles of training a leashed dog on crutches, the smell of Macon’s estranged mother as she brushes past him at Rose’s wedding (“she smelled of bruised gardenias”), and the rain disappearing before it hits the ground on Macon’s work trip to Winnipeg.
That descriptive skill also helped me connect more deeply with the characters. This includes details of external attributes, like Muriel’s free-spirited, “vintage” wardrobe and Rose’s prim, old-before-her-time lifestyle. But Tyler also offers us glimpses into the characters’ inner worlds through her acute eye on (often subtle) behaviour. As well, characters are realistically well-rounded: not wholly good or bad. Macon Leary, for example, is a sympathetic character as he mourns the loss of his son, marriage, and usual mobility, yet the reader also learns of a man who can be frustratingly remote, selfish, ordered, and pedantic.
Several of these well-rounded characters are presented in the context of their past. The Leary brothers and sister were abandoned fairly early by their parents and raised by stern, conservative grandparents. Muriel’s relationship with her critical mother and her husband’s departure soon after her premature son was born, gives us insight into the underpinnings of her neediness, but also of her generosity and empathy.
This was also one of the first books I read that insightfully portrayed the complexities of parental grief: the guilt, the sometimes-illogical blame game, and the different ways individuals grieve, even whilst facing a common loss. Tyler also explores the psychology of taking life and relationship risks, sometimes pretty unexpected ones. Moving forward and embracing something new often means saying goodbye to a past that is also valued. This is not easy stuff, and the author handles such conflict with great truth and care.
And, while I rarely say this, I would highly recommend the movie version of this book as well. The novel's dialogue is well-reflected in the movie, and, dare I say, the excellent casting, acting, and cinematography even elevate the book in some respects. Whether via the book and or the movie, I encourage you to delve deep into this sometimes sombre but ultimately hopeful story.
