The Blue Hour: A Life of jean Rhys by Lillian Pizzichini (2009; Norton, ISBN 978-0-393-05803-1)
Sometimes, a good biography can read like a great novel. That’s the case with The Blue Hour. I would use the adjective “great” to modify “biography” but to me, a “great” biography (one that dots all the i’s and crosses all the t’s) is the result of painstaking research which reveals a compelling story. But it’s difficult for a “great” biography to replicate the storytelling of a “great” novel simply because biography generally avoids narrative nonchalance in favor of concrete truth. This book proves that a good biography, one that relies more upon storytelling and less upon abject fact, when enlivened by curt dialogue and the melodrama of everyday life, can triumph.
Ella Gwendoline Rees Williams, the impoverished-mysterious- troubled- alcoholic- depraved writer we know as Jean Rhys walks off the pages of this fine book into your living room, parlor, or wherever it is that you happen to be entrenched while reading this can’t-put-it-down work. You won’t like Jean much despite her feline attractiveness and initial charm. In fact, much of the time, you will be yelling: “Why are you so damned self-absorbed? Why don’t you care for those who profess to love you? Why can’t you be a mother to your children?” Mental illness as a defense, you say? Sustained. Alcoholic abuse as an excuse, you plead? Surely true. An unfeeling mother and a clueless father? Again, the evidence is with you. But that is only the beginning of this psychological peeling away of the layers to Jean Rhys, a 20th century writer who, in many ways, is the female equivalent of Hemingway: A man she met once, briefly, but remembered as the gentleman who helped her put on her coat.
If you’re a non-writer, read this book to understand what it’s like to be tormented by the unwritten stories in your head. If you’re a writer, read this book and say: “Thank God, that isn’t me.” 5 stars out of 5.
