The quiet exasperation of family: "Persuasion" and "A Weekend in New York"
I recently finished Persuasion by Jane Austen, and A Weekend in New York by Benjamin Markovitz. Two very different novels, about widely different things, in eras so widely unlike each other. And yet, the common thread of exasperation runs through both. I didn't expect to find something in common between these two. In fact, I chose to read A Weekend in New York precisely because I loved Persuasion so much, I wanted to read something of a different flavor.
Alas, they had more in common than I thought. Of course, not the longing-for-the-lost-love and seeing-your-ex-for-the-first-time-in-years part, which is the main precis for Persuasion.
The other part of it: the restrained disdain for her family, and the inner thoughts of someone who actually could not stand them, but is bound to them by love, obligation, and duty.
This is precisely what Anne feels for her father and sisters, and to a certain extent, Lady Russell, whom she loves, but also disagrees with on some very important things. She respects them, yes. She will stand by them. But she finds herself still being caught off guard when confronted with the reality that she isn't like them, and she is often tired of dealing with them. She'd rather be in another family's house, she'd rather be with an old friend, she'd rather be seeing her ex, even if it pains her not knowing how he still feels about her.
In much the same way, every character in A Weekend in New York feels suffocated by their family. They are fiercely loyal to each other, no doubt about it. They love each other so much, evidently, by the mere fact that everyone is willing to fly to New York, move their schedules around, stay in one apartment, just to see Paul play the US Open. But the shifting allegiances even in small disagreements, the discomfort brought up by throwaway comments, the dulling ache of wondering "Do these people really know me?" It's all so relatable. Each family has their own language, their own culture. And within that space, every member tries to navigate that the best way they know how, depending on the situation, based on decades of history and knowledge. For an "in-law" like Dana, it was easy to feel overwhelmed, like walking on eggshells. Even with her own husband, Paul. But even for the Essingers themselves, they find themselves stepping on land mines, or catching a lit grenade. Nothing really happens in the book, actually. It's all very interior. Surprisingly, I enjoyed it even more for what it is. Maybe because I share those same thoughts, those same worries. That seeming paradox of feeling exasperated about having to explain myself to people who are supposed to know me, but also feeling at ease to just say what's on my mind immediately - even if it's hurtful - without much thought because they do know me.
A unique kind of mental and emotional suffering precisely because it is the place that is most familiar.
The everyday miseries of family are rarely dramatic enough to qualify as tragedy. There are no villains, no betrayals, no grand revelations. Instead, there are accumulated misunderstandings, old assumptions that harden into fact, and roles assigned so long ago that nobody remembers who did the assigning.
And still, what is the alternative? The answer in both books is not escape. Anne does not stop loving her family because she sees their flaws. The Essingers do not abandon one another because spending time together can be exhausting. If anything, their irritation is evidence of attachment. We are rarely exasperated by people who do not matter to us.
Maybe that is what I found most relatable in Persuasion and A Weekend in New York, and why I quite enjoyed finding that common thread. Not the feeling of being misunderstood by strangers, which is easy enough to accept, but the feeling of wondering: when will the people closest to me understand me perfectly? Of course, that will never happen. No one can completely see and know our own selves the way we do. We can never see and know them completely, either. And so, families will have the same fights, and bring up the same stories, and pick at the same wounds. Day after day, year after year. Carrying decades of shared history in every exchange.
And yet, we still hope and wonder and long for it. Being seen. Even if not fully, even if not well enough. Because despite being unknown by them, we cannot dare say that we are unloved. To turn that famous phrase on its head: To be only slightly seen and known is to be loved all the same. When confronted with strangers, even kind ones, we long for the ties we know. We do not run away from them, because there is enough love to keep trying.
(P.S. Of course, I swooned over Captain Wentworth's letter, a confirmation of his remaining feelings for Anne. The yearning, the longing, the happy ending. Ahhh, still my favorite Austen novel, by a mile.)