Book Review: White Oleander by Janet Fitch

I just finished reading White Oleander by Janet Fitch, and it’s a hard one to capture in just a few words.  I close my eyes and see words scattered around a windblown, hot and cold harsh landscape.  The story is a landscape that blew under my skin; it burned, it ripped, it tore the skin right off my body.  If I haven't said it already, I'll say it, Janet Fitch is one hell of a writer!  The poetry of her words is nothing I've ever read before.  

In writing reviews I've often used the word “poetry” while describing the lyrical writing that lulls and rocks you like a lullaby, but Janet shakes the earth with her poetry, and I suppose that’s appropriate, living in Southern California where this story takes place.

I read the book in small increments, not that the story wasn't compelling me to move forward, but it was difficult for me to maintain my emotional balance, to stay upright, if I continued too far, too fast and for too long.  The character, Astrid, was a force.  Her mother, Ingrid, was another force.  My feelings were competing to sort out their needs, their likes, wants, and resigned acceptances of their placement in life, a hard life, a learned life, in all ways and shapes.

I traveled through their life and could feel the tension, the two magnets that attract if held one way, and repelled if held the opposite way.  I put myself between them at times, and felt my nerve endings tingle.  I wanted to escape, to breathe again some sanity into their insane world of people, all tangled around each other as if tumbleweeds were caught against each other and can’t let go; careening around the raw earthen landscape.  The smell of asphalt highways, the smell of flowers, perfumes, of bodily fluids that one can’t imagine unless you read Janet Fitch’s words through held breath.  I was assaulted on more than one occasion.

I close my eyes now and see a puzzle made of words, all lying face up on a dust covered card table, a puzzle waiting to be put together.  This is how I saw Astrid; she was the artist who saw what we can’t see.  She lived the life we couldn't even imagine.  I loved that girl.  I hurt for that girl.  I felt weak, I felt strong, I felt what she felt, and cried through a heartache of depression that overwhelmed me at times.  I wanted so badly to put her together, and not hurt her.

The story ends, and I want it to continue; I want to know more about her life, her mother’s life; and the people in her life she may or may not have come to love.  I want her to feel love.  I want her to be loved.  She’s in my thoughts, and I hold her close.  I love that girl.  I love the words of Janet Fitch.