All Souls by Christine Schutt, Paperback | Barnes & Noble
All Souls

All Souls

3.0 9
by Christine Schutt

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In 1997, at the distinguished Siddons School on Manhattan's Upper East Side, the school year opens with distressing news: Astra Dell is suffering from a rare disease. Astra's friends try to reconcile the sick girl's suffering with their own fierce longings and impetuous attachments. Car writes unsparing letters, which the dirty Marlene, in her devotion, then


In 1997, at the distinguished Siddons School on Manhattan's Upper East Side, the school year opens with distressing news: Astra Dell is suffering from a rare disease. Astra's friends try to reconcile the sick girl's suffering with their own fierce longings and impetuous attachments. Car writes unsparing letters, which the dirty Marlene, in her devotion, then steals. Other classmates carry on: The silly team of Suki and Alex pursue Will Bliss while the subversive Lisa Van de Ven makes dates with Miss Wilkes. The world of private schools and privilege in New York City is funny, poignant, cruel, and at its heart is a sick girl, Astra Dell, "that pale girl from the senior class, the dancer with all the hair, the red hair, knotted or braided or let to fall to her waist, a fever and she consumed."

National Book Award Finalist Christine Schutt has created a wickedly original tale of innocence, daring and illness.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

"Haunting and original, Florida is a beautiful book."—Claire Messud, author of The Emperor's Children

"In Florida, Christine Schutt conveys, through an odd, beautiful, and original language, real truths about childhood and longing. She is a truly gifted writer."—George Saunders, author of Pastoralia

Maud Casey
Christine Schutt's refreshingly strange novel All Souls is exciting evidence that she continues to push the boundaries of fiction. Schutt's work, which includes two story collections and a previous novel, Florida, is fiercely intimate, laying bare the jagged lives of girls and women in the wake of mental and physical illness, incest and abandonment…All Souls is shot through with [Virginia] Woolf's lyrical, restless spirit. Like the bees Lily Briscoe goes on to describe that "haunted the hives with their murmurs and their stirrings; the hives which were people," Schutt haunts Siddons. The result is a bold, sharp story about teenage girls, class and illness, about those moments when we achieve the miracle of human connection—and those when we don't.
—The New York Times
Publishers Weekly

The brutal, materialistic and dysfunctional underbelly of prep schools and the females who live in it create the foundation for Schutt's beautifully written but light-on-substance novel (following 2004's National Book Award finalist Florida). In the midst of 1997 Manhattan, all-girl prep school Siddons churns out ladies with a wide spectrum of academic skills, mental problems and severe insecurities, all of whom have been touched in some way by the novel's saintly lynchpin, Astra Dell, who leaves her studies behind to fight her rare cancer. Schutt introduces a large cast of characters who are dealing with Astra's absence and their own personal problems: Astra's best friend, anorexic Car; "dirty girl" Marlene; the inseparable and insensitive Alex and Suki; lesbian outcast Lisa; and their beloved instructors, the awkward Anna Mazur and Tim Weeks, the handsome colleague Anna's in love with. Unfortunately, Schutt shoehorns too many characters into a relatively thin book, and though there isn't a boring sentence in here, Schutt doesn't do enough with the familiar prep school setting to make the story resonate. (Apr.)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Library Journal

In this latest novel by Schutt (Florida,), the angst of very rich girls undergoing the stress of senior year in a Manhattan prep school is leavened by their reactions to a classmate who is ill in the hospital with a rare form of cancer. Astra Dell, who lost her own mother a few years ago in a violent accident, haunts her classmates: she becomes a rationalization for their bulimia and a reason to blame themselves for caring so deeply about their college applications. Her best friends rarely visit, or they resort to sending her thoughtless letters, but Marlene, a scholarship student, finds herself more comfortable on the neutral ground of the hospital room than in school. She regularly brings Astra her homework and becomes her most devoted visitor. Schutt's spare and artful prose strikes a balance between poignancy and cynicism in illustrating the interconnections of classmates, parents, and teachers. Some chapters are mere brief impressions, but these snippets cohere into a picture of the school's community and its sharp divisions of class and wealth. Recommended for popular fiction collections.
—Reba Leiding

School Library Journal

Adult/High School

Set in a girls' school on Manhattan's Upper East Side, this book is a wonderfully written, touching story. Popular Astra Dell spends much of her senior year in the hospital with a rare form of tissue cancer. A young teacher visits Astra and considers her own brother who died young, while doubting her role as teacher and her potential relationship with a colleague who loves being unattached almost as much as he enjoys the students' crushes on him. Astra's friend Car is too busy with a multitude of issues to visit, but sends angst-filled letters that are sometimes stolen by Marlene, the unpopular girl who visits every day and considers Astra her new best friend. Astra's widowed father finds it hard to speak with his own daughter. Like E. R. Frank's Life Is Funny (Puffin, 2002), All Souls is written from the perspectives of several characters. Schutt, who herself teaches at a New York girls' school, mines those hallways for an extraordinarily captivating take on the teachers', parents', and teens' troubled worlds. At times she evokes Virginia Woolf's style in the immediacy of her characters' thoughts. All Souls may at first remind teens of formulaic novels such as Cecily von Ziegesar's "Gossip Girl" series (Little, Brown), but they will quickly discover a style and depth to the writing that is refreshing for this genre.-Jennifer Waters, Red Deer Public Library, Alberta, Canada

Kirkus Reviews
A year (1997) in the lives of seniors at an exclusive Manhattan girls' school. With the delicacy that distinguishes her lapidary stories, Schutt (Florida, 2005, etc.) delivers a novel comprised of small moments experienced by students, parents and teachers at the elite (fictitious) Siddons School. Astra Dell, an ethereal redhead gravely ill from a rare cancer, spends most of her senior year in the hospital, where she receives other members of the Siddons community. Marlene, daughter of a dental receptionist who has struggled to keep her in private school, visits more faithfully than Astra's usual coterie of sleek, wealthy girlfriends. Marlene's academic prowess has proved disappointing: In her guidance counselor's parlance, the Ivy League colleges targeted by her classmates are "moon shots" for Marlene. Also at Astra's bedside is Miss Wilkes, a teacher who finds herself dangerously drawn to a student, Lisa Van de Ven, who masks inadequacies behind bad-girl bluster, and Carlotta "Car" Forestal, who has an eating disorder ineptly monitored by her too-thin, too-rich mother, and aggravated by her bisexual, absent father, who called Car fat at a Paris cocktail party. Shy teacher Anna Mazur, meanwhile, comes by with handsome colleague Tim Weeks, who's doomed to disappoint any admirers-by his own admission, Tim's development was arrested somewhere in middle school. Peripheral characters circle, including Wendell Bliss, father of another Siddons heartthrob, whose wealth has brought nothing but alienation, and Astra's father, blindsided by fate, which robbed him first of his wife, (killed by an errant cab) and now threatens to take his only child. Astra herself exhibits quiet, saintly strengthcouched in wry sayings. Although appropriate to a travelogue of an insular world, the diffuse focus weakens the narrative drive. Still, the spare prose, every word freighted with meaning, rewards repeated readings.
"Schutt's impressionistic style, with its extraordinary gift for exquisite economy, carries the day and creates a mood and tone that are hauntingly unforgettable." (Starred)
"Readers who love language and appreciate description will find All Souls worth reading.... Anyone who wants to read a high school story that's about more than just life as a model/fashionista/mean girl will enjoy this book."

New York Magazine
"[P]roves the puffy prep-school genre can shoulder real emotional weight—and that indeed, it sometimes should."
The New York Observer
"A very literary look at a private girls' school on the Upper East Side."
New York Sun
"One of the best private school novels to appear in recent years...With commendations from John Ashbery, and sentences that often demand rereading, Christine Schutt has mainly appealed to reader who don't begrudge a prose its small risks. In 'All Souls', her second novel, she makes a bid for wider appeal. Describing the small cosmos around an elite Upper East Side girls' school, Ms. Schutt imagines—or penetrates—an exclusive world at once sexy and lamentable, predictable but still mysterious. Her subject is not any one aspect of private school culture, but its almost intangible totality, the thing that gives a school, in all its decentered complexity, an identity. Miraculousl, she achieves this, and in a novel that is a model of succintness."
"In her latest novel, Christine Schutt once again proves herself an astute observer of human nature...Schutt seamlessly marries these girls to the unpredictable, indifferent threat of random fate, a clear, precise vision of privilege marred by tragedy."
New York Times Book Review
"Refreshingly strange.Schutt's work... is fiercely intimate, laying bare the jagged lives of girls and women.... Schutt's roving, kaleidoscopic vision—often wickedly funny—captures the quivering of all these souls in the heat of mortality.... It's the foreign land of teenage girldom—where bodies relentlessly blossom and friendships resemble toruous love affairs—that Schutt gets especially, achingly right.... 'All Souls' is shot through with [Virginia] Woolf's lyrical, restless spirit... The result is a bold, sharp story about teenage girls, class and illness, about those moments when we achieve the miracle of human connection—and those when we don't."
School Library Review
Set in a girls’ school on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, this book is a wonderfully written, touching extraordinarily captivating take on the teachers’, parents’, and teens’ troubled worlds...refreshing for this genre.

Product Details

Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
5.20(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.80(d)
Age Range:
14 - 18 Years

Read an Excerpt

The Girl No One Knows


Mr. Dell, in his daughter’s room, stuck his face into the horn of a stargazer lily, one of a . . . one of a . . . must have been a dozen, and he breathed in and said wasn’t that something. And wasn’t it: the pileup of cards, a stuffed bear, a bouquet of balloons, a banner, a bed jacket, books on tape.

We love you, Astra! The chorus to his daughter was always the same, and he, too, said the same, but he did not look at her famished face, did not meet her eye, did not take her hand; he wheezed out only so much cheer. “That party at the Mortons’” was how he started. Mr. Dell stood between his daughter’s bed and the window and described what he could of the Mortons’ party. “I’ve been to Suki’s before, Dad.” Okay, he had forgotten, so other things, then. Not far into the kickoff fund-raiser, the host had stood on a piano bench to say he was not sorry to be so poorly acquainted with the parents gathered, but he expected to know a lot about everyone by the end of the school year when the money for the senior gift was raised. “Then Mr. Morton expected he would never see any of us again.”

“That sounds like Suki’s dad.”

“Suki’s mother is funny.”

The room Suki’s father had spoken in was a very big, cream-colored box of a room, a cake box, a hatbox, something large and expensive. Mr. Dell described the party to his daughter in the way Grace would have described it: how things looked and sounded, the gurgle of civility among designing adults. He described what it felt like to be known as the parent of such a child, his own, his only, his best, bright addition.

“Dear, dear Astra, how are you feeling?” he asked now.

“Daddy,” Astra said, and she smiled when she told him how corny he was.

He told his daughter who had come to the Mortons’. Mrs. Forestal was there, so Mr. Forestal was not. Mr. and Mrs. Van de Ven, Mrs. Abiola, the Cohens, and Mr. Fratini were there. “I talked a lot to Alex’s mother—is that woman crazy? The Johnsons were not in attendance. The headmistress, Miss Brigham, was there for a short speech, and she asked after you—everyone there asked after you, darling. Everyone sends love.” Then he remembered that the Johnsons were in Europe meeting somebody royal.

Astra said, “The Johnsons have expensive fights that end with new jewels.”

The Mortons’ apartment was all bloody mahogany and damask. Crystal chandeliers, those plinking rainbows, were hanging everywhere. Double sconces, elaborate molding, herringbone floors. The caterers were using monogrammed family silver. The word expansive came to mind, or a three-tiered cake on a crystal stand, a monument in buttercream frosting, swags of sugar violets, silver dots. That was the equivalent dessert to the Mortons’ apartment as far as Mr. Dell was concerned. He looked at Astra again and saw how tired she was; her eyelids looked swollen as if she had been crying, and perhaps she had cried. He hadn’t been here for all the tests; he was at work.

“I wish I could be hungry,” Astra said. She shut her eyes.

Good night, ladies, good night, ta, ta, or however it went. Mr. Dell thought literature should be a consolation, but what he most often remembered did not comfort him. He did not have his wife’s gift, Astra’s inheritance from Grace for hope and serenity. Sick as his little girl was, she yet lay hopeful of recovery—fearful, too, at times, at times overwhelmed, given to deep, jagged sobs, and yet . . . she was sick and in pain on a sad floor in the hospital, and yet she seemed to feel his terror, his sorrow, and she consoled him by being mostly mild, sleepy, quiet. Most of the time when he visited, she slept and slept. She grew smaller.

Again he asked and again, day after day, “How do you feel?”

Better. Not well. Sick. Hurting. Hurting a lot. Here is where it hurts the most. Look at what they did.

Why was it hard to look when he had already looked into disaster, into the broken face of his beautiful wife in a bag on a gurney? Yes, he remembered saying to the figures standing behind him—a row of janitors, a man with a mop at attention was that who? Policemen? Morticians? Yes. My wife. This is Grace Walker Dell, yes. My wife.

What business had Grace there on that street at that hour? Why had she not been home, but she was saving money looking for a new lamp on Bowery. He wanted her here with him at this other, terrible bedside. He should not have to be alone.


Theta Kovack called First Wok and ordered garlic chicken, noodles, soup. Two Cokes. Marlene, at her ear, said, “General Tsao’s! Get General Tsao’s!” But Theta said, “Aren’t you on a diet?” and she scuffed off her shoes and unbuttoned her blouse. The twenty she extracted from her purse felt damp. “For when the guy comes,” she said, holding out the money. She let her skirt slip down her hips as she walked to her room and shimmied out of work. Of course, she didn’t want to see herself, but she saw herself, or parts of herself, her belly rucked by the band of her slip, an angry redness she rubbed at. Glad she had not gone to the Mortons’ party arrived wrongly dressed. Now the damp smell was surely hers, and nothing of Dr. Bickman’s office—the minty wintergreen of mouthwash, the cleansing alcohol, the doilies on the trays of tools—remained. A subway with a few stops and a three-block walk was all it had taken to grease Theta’s face.

A Daughter

Miss Wilkes, undressing at home, sniffed the bitter smell at the underarms of her turtleneck and said, “My god!” She sniffed again. When did her sweat turn so peculiarly acrid? The face she saw in the mirror, her own, seemed still a girl’s, not a teacher’s, but the stink of her was something awful, old. True, the girls themselves were not always so fresh. Edie Cohen, in her usual rush, liked to announce she hadn’t showered. The girls said, “Keep your arms down. Stay away!” But the girls got up close to each other and examined each other and were amused or mockingly repelled by what they sometimes found. “Want an Altoid?” Good girls mostly, polite, they offered her Skittles and mints, whatever they had secreted—and she allowed. Miss Wilkes said, “Yeah, I would like,” and she took her favorite colors. They got up close for her to pick and seemed startled at what they saw. What did they see? But they were never so familiar as to fix her. They would let her go through a class smudged rather than say, “Miss Wilkes, you’ve got ink on your chin.” Only Lisa Van de Ven had stopped her, had said, “Wait.” Lisa it was who had tucked in the label of her shirt, who had said, “Miss Wilkes,” holding out a box of Kleenex. Lisa Van de Ven, Lisa. Miss Wilkes was on the bed with the weight of her hand between her legs.


In a corner apartment with a southwestern view of Park Avenue’s islands bedded with begonias, glossy begonias, Suki Morton’s mother held the phone in one hand and a drink in the other and heard her daughter’s screed against that fat Dr. Meltzer and his chem class labs. “He keeps us late. He piles on the homework. We’re seniors, for god’s sake. We’re under a lot of stress as it is. I hate Dr. Meltzer.”

Mrs. Morton could not come up with an expression. Dr. Meltzer was a name attached to a fat man who smelled like the movies. Buttery and smoky at the same time. Butter-yellow teeth. Short-sleeved shirt, pocket protector, high waist, and waddle. Surely encountered in the movies but a teacher to be found in a public school, never one like Siddons. Mrs. Morton hung up the phone and said, “I never liked science.”

Ten blocks south, Suki’s best friend, Alex, was watching cheese melt over chips. She was talking to herself, rehearsing a college interview, saying that what she loved about this college was there were more boys than girls, better parties, good drugs. Alex was saying her ambition was to be the most famous party girl the school had ever known, and she knew what she was doing, and she could meet this goal.

Car Forestal twisted utensils through food she had mashed to look like war salvage, drought gruel, rancid scraps from boarding school. She was at the orphanage and eating with her baby “pusher,” the tiny silver spade from her godmother. Car pushed and smoothed and rearranged the food; she made patterns.

Copyright © 2008 by Christine Schutt

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted online at or mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

Meet the Author

CHRISTINE SCHUTT is the author of the short-story collection Nightwork. Her work, which has garnered an O. Henry Prize and a Pushcart Prize, is published widely in literary journals. Schutt lives and teaches in New York City.

Brief Biography

Place of Birth:
Watertown, Wisconsin
B.A., M.A., University of Wisconsin; M.F.A., Columbia University

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