That the university town of Troy is described as “the Athens of the Midwest” ought to be a signal that a conflicted tragedy on a Homeric scale is about to unfold. And that’s mostly true, although the “Homer” is more Simpson than Greek. Tragedy abounds—from the songbirds caught off guard by winter’s full force in the opening paragraph, to child abandonment, infanticide (sort of), fratricide (sort of), roommate-icide (sort of), racism, paternalism, terrorism, and people who quote Nietzsche. In the face of so much tragedy, Moore offers us Tassie Keltjin, intrepid baby-sitter, kilt clad bassist, and bard. When Tassie expresses doubt that the stars and the planets have anything to do with our lives down here, her roommate, Murph, succinctly replies, “How could they not?” They’re both right: the gods have no interest in us, yet we find ourselves buffeted and banged about by random chance, coincidence, and gruesome reality.
Fortunately, Tassie, her family, and her close friends have uncanny wit and revel in verbal gamesmanship. Because there is no making sense of things. Life just doesn’t make sense. And so you’ve got to laugh.
Lorrie Moore packs a wealth of observation, and disappointment, into this burbling novel. Sometimes it feels so full, you’ll think it will spill its bounds. Yet, she manages to keep it and Tassie on course through the worst of everything, even a metaphoric visit to Hades, to renewed hope and the return to the life of learning, and Starbucks. Be prepared to be surprised, confounded, appalled, and amused. Highly recommended.