Sept. 3, 1926—Alison Lurie, who used her longtime career in academe as material for critically acclaimed fiction, including the Pulitzer Prize-winning 1984 novel Foreign Affairs, was born in Chicago.
I first
encountered the work of Lurie in the mid-Seventies, with her biting academic
satire The War Between the Tates. Though she had written four prior
novels, this was the first to attract widespread attention—enough for it to
land on the bestseller lists and to be adapted into a 1977 TV movie starring Elizabeth
Ashley, Richard Crenna, and Annette O'Toole.
For anyone
wanting to know what how the nation’s campuses were roiled in the late Sixties
by the Vietnam War, women’s lib, and the sexual revolution, this insider’s
take, with its cool irony, remains an excellent place to start.
Many
neophyte authors follow the mantra “write about what you know,” but I was
unaware until I started researching this post just how closely Ms. Lurie
followed that.
Several of
her novels (including The War Between the Tates) feature characters from
Corinth University, a school that shares a classical association and upstate
New York setting with the institution where Ms. Lurie taught for decades,
Cornell University.
Her female
protagonists (the same age, within a few years, of Ms. Lurie) are often
involved with children’s literature—her academic specialty. She couldn’t help
but regard with tart disdain how these books were viewed by her colleagues, as
in this passage from Foreign Affairs:
“For the
truth is that children’s literature is a poor relation in her department
–indeed, in most English departments: a stepdaughter grudgingly tolerated
because, as in the old tales, her words are glittering jewels of a sort that
attract large if not equally brilliant masses of undergraduates. Within the
departmental family she sits in the chimney-corner, while her idle, ugly
siblings dine at the chairman’s table –though, to judge by enrollment figures,
many of them must spout toads and lizards.”
With all
of that said, readers should be careful not to construe her fiction as directly
autobiographical. Maintaining the kind of ironic distance she was able to keep
towards her characters would have been difficult, if not impossible, if they
derived entirely from her experiences and emotions.
For
instance, like Erica Tate in The War Between the Tates, Lurie suffered
through the collapse of her marriage to another academic. But, while the
marital conflict in the novel was brought to a boil by an extramarital affair,
Lurie’s marriage deteriorated as her first husband underwent a conversion to
Roman Catholicism—a spiritual orientation that, as the child of religious
skeptics, she had little or no use for.
Over the
years, I have wondered why Ms. Lurie was unable to sustain her mid-career
popularity. Some of it may relate to the fact that creators of so-called
“literary fiction” don’t work in genres where they can become “brand authors.”
But I
suspect most of the problem instead rests with her frequent recourse to the
academic environment she knew so thoroughly—a setting outside the experience of
many common readers in the U.S. Throughout most of her career, her popularity
was higher in the U.K., where writers such as A.S. Byatt, Kingsley Amis, David
Lodge, and Iris Murdoch have enjoyed success with “campus novels.”
Readers
who do try Ms. Lurie will find a fiction writer able to put her literary
influences to use in contemporary contexts:
*Her
consistently wry narrative voice (you can practically see her narrators
raise their eyebrows) is reminiscent of Jane Austen.
*With his
“international novels” (featuring encounters between innocent Americans and
more jaded British), interest in artists, and midlife fascination with the
supernatural, Henry James provided Lurie with another template.
*And her
intense study of children’s literature led Lurie to plumb the complex
personalities and frequent fears of the very young.
Above all,
Lurie exemplifies the tendency of so many writers—no matter their time or
nation—to write from a personal wound. With Lurie, that wound began even before
childhood, in birth. As she wrote in a 1982 essay for The New York Times Book
Review:
“I was a
skinny, plain, off-looking little girl, deaf in one badly damaged ear from a
birth injury, and with a resulting atrophy of the facial muscles that pulled my
mouth sideways whenever I opened it to speak and turned my smile into a sort of
sneer. I was clever, or, as one of my teachers put it, ‘too clever for her own
good,’ but not especially charming or affectionate or helpful. I couldn't seem
to learn to ride a bike or sing in tune, and I was always the last person
chosen for any team.”
The
precocious but lonely child took refuge in books, especially, at that young
age, fairy tales. To her joy, she discovered her own personal superpower: “With
a pencil and paper I could revise the world.”
It made
the difference in her life, which ended six years ago in a hospice in Ithaca,
NY.
Lurie
would be delighted to know that admirers of her fiction are celebrating the
centenary of her birth on both sides of the Atlantic this month. In New York
City, the 92nd Street Y will host “Alison Lurie at 100” on Tuesday, September 15, featuring authors Bruce Handy,
Joanna Rakoff, and Micah Perks in conversation with Cody Upton.
And in London,
the British Library hosts “An American in London: A Celebration of Alison Lurie”
on September 29, with speakers including Amanda Craig, Elly Griffiths, and Dame
Margaret Drabble.




