239 p. First reading.
Posted 13 May 2007.

It is always a pleasure to read a book that exhibits fine craftsmanship. The book may lack vaulting ambition, or grandeur of conception, but what it tries to do it does extremely well. This book by Eric Hodgins, his only book as far as I know, is just such a piece of work. It is light-weight, but expertly done.

It is also very funny. The story concerns Mr. Blandings, a New York ad writer, and his wife. After living in New York City all their lives, they decide to buy a home in the country. They dream of good country people, fresh air and open spaces, fireplaces and heavy oak ceilings. From day one, however, things go wrong. The real estate agent sells them an overpriced, falling down “colonial home”. Legal fees pile up. Their neighbours despise them. The house falls down. Their fortunes go downhill from there.

I particularly liked Hodgins’ evocation of that confused, helpless feeling one has when lost in a bureaucratic labyrinth, badgered by mysterious rules and beset by exorbitant fees. Although Mr. Blandings lands in every possible trap, each decision he makes seems quite reasonable at the time.

I’ve remarked on the craftsmanship of the book. This is true of the story itself, which is nicely shaped, but especially of the language, which is deft and elegant. The passage quoted below is a good example of the care with which he writes; it reads easily, but look more closely: it is not easy to write this well.

[Flushing the toilet]
Mr. Blandings with slight timidity pushed the flush lever on the stylishly low porcelain tank. The toilet acknowledged a human impulse with an almost imperceptible click, and then the waters in its uncleansed bowl began a silent, lovely swirl; implacable but beyond the limits of human audibility. This is marvellous, Mr. Blandings thought. Hitherto, when he activated a toilet, he had been accustomed to that same melancholy, long, withdrawing roar that Matthew Arnold had first observed and commented upon at Dover Beach in the midst of the disenchantment of Victorian England. The swirling waters gathered themselves up, silently still, and sluiced themselves, by a miracle of quiet abnegation, out of his sight forever. Without warning there then emerged from the toilet’s deepest inwardness so harsh and terrifying a yawp as to make Mr. Blandings leap backwards into the hall.