The New York Times
Bridge of Sighsby Richard Russo
Lucy is sixty years old and has spent his entire life in Thomaston, New York. Like his late, beloved father, Lucy is an optimist, though he’s had plenty of reasons not to be—chief among them/i>
This moving novel follows Louis Charles Lynch (“Lucy”) as he and his wife of forty years are about to embark on a vacation to Italy.
Lucy is sixty years old and has spent his entire life in Thomaston, New York. Like his late, beloved father, Lucy is an optimist, though he’s had plenty of reasons not to be—chief among them his mother, still indomitably alive. Yet it was her shrewdness, combined with that Lynch optimism, that had propelled them years ago to the right side of the tracks and created an “empire” of convenience stores about to be passed on to the next generation.
Lucy's oldest friend, once a rival for his wife's affection, leads a life in Venice far removed from Thomaston. In fact, the exact nature of their friendship is one of the many mysteries Lucy hopes to untangle in the “history” he’s writing of his hometown and family. And with his story interspersed with that of Noonan, the native son who’d fled so long ago, the destinies building up around both of them (and Sarah, too) are relentless, constantly surprising, and utterly revealing.
Bridge of Sighs, from the beloved Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Empire Falls, is a moving novel about small-town America that expands Russo's widely heralded achievement in ways both familiar and astonishing.
The New York Times
The Washington Post
The challenge facing those who perform Russo's novels is the self-effacing, low-key nature of his protagonists. The line between a faithful rendition of the character and a snoozer may be as narrow as the street that divides the rich from the poor in Russo's upstate New York town of Thomaston. Unfortunately, Morey's performance finds itself the poor side of the tracks. Lou C. ("Lucy") Lynch's narration of events is read in an even, objective tone as if Morey were reading the evening news on an amateur radio show. He does emphasize words and ideas, but the overall effect is monotonous and doesn't do justice to Russo's rich material. Morey's narrative voice for Bobby, Lucy's childhood friend and nemesis, is deeper but more of the same. Morey gives a bit more energy to the third narrator, Sarah, Lou's wife. The result is more soporific than a Thanksgiving turkey, and getting through Russo's sharp account of the factory towns he knows so well becomes more a chore than a pleasure. Simultaneous release with the Knopf hardcover (Reviews, Aug. 13). (Oct.)Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
With the same humor and pathos that turned Empire Fallsand Straight Maninto best sellers, Russo's latest tale unravels the tangled skein of love, regret, hope, and longing that wraps itself around friends and family in a small upstate New York town. Russo's multigenerational tale follows the fortunes of two families, especially the careers of the respective sons. Although Louis Charles Lynch and Bobby Marconi come from very different backgrounds, they bond over Bobby's defense of Lou in elementary school. As they grow older, they drift apart, with Bobby changing his name to Robert Noonan and moving to Venice, where he becomes a world-famous artist. Louis stays in Thomaston, marries high school sweetheart Sarah (also an artist), and helps out his family in their grocery store. Although Louis reluctantly agrees to visit Venice with Sarah, several events converge to alter their plans (including Sarah and Bobby's possible love for each other), and their lives change in ways that neither could have anticipated. While Russo's tale gets off to a slow start and the attempt to tell the parallel stories of Louis and Bobby is not always successful, Russo's novel is nevertheless a winning story of the strange ways that parents and children, lovers and friends connect and thrive. [See Prepub Alert, LJ6/1/07.]
Henry L. Carrigan Jr.
- Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
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Read an Excerpt
First, the facts.
My name is Louis Charles Lynch. I am sixty years old, and for nearly forty of those years I’ve been a devoted if not terribly exciting husband to the same lovely woman, as well as a doting father to Owen, our son, who is now himself a grown, married man. He and his wife are childless and likely, alas, to so remain. Earlier in my marriage it appeared as if we’d be blessed with a daughter, but a car accident when my wife was in her fourth month caused her to miscarry. That was a long time ago, but Sarah still thinks about the child and so do I.
Perhaps what’s most remarkable about my life is that I’ve lived all of it in the same small town in upstate New York, a thing unheard of in this day and age. My wife’s parents moved here when she was a little girl, so she has few memories before Thomaston, and her situation isn’t much different from my own. Some people, upon learning how we’ve lived our lives, are unable to conceal their chagrin on our behalf, that our lives should be so limited, as if experience so geographically circumscribed could be neither rich nor satisfying. When I assure them that it has been both, their smiles suggest we’ve been blessed with self-deception by way of compensation for all we’ve missed. I remind such people that until fairly recently the vast majority of humans have been circumscribed in precisely this manner and that lives can also be constrained by a great many other things: want, illness, ignorance, loneliness and lack of faith, to name just a few. But it’s probably true my wife would have traveled more if she’d married someone else, and my unwillingness to become the vagabond is just one of the ways I’ve been, as I said, an unexciting if loyal and unwavering companion. She’s heard all of my arguments, philosophical and other, for staying put; in her mind they all amount to little more than my natural inclination, inertia rationalized. She may be right. That said, I don’t think Sarah has been unhappy in our marriage. She loves me and our son and, I think, our life. She assured me of this not long ago when it appeared she might lose her own and, sick with worry, I asked if she’d regretted the good simple life we’ve made together.
Though our pace, never breakneck, has slowed recently, I like to think that the real reason we’ve not seen more of the world is that Thomaston itself has always been both luxuriant and demanding. In addition to the corner store we inherited from my parents, we now own and operate two other convenience stores. My son wryly refers to these as “the Lynch Empire,” and while the demands of running them are not overwhelming, they are relentless and time-consuming. Each is like a pet that refuses to be housebroken and resents being left alone. In addition to these demands on my time, I also serve on a great many committees, so many, in fact, that late in life I’ve acquired a nickname, Mr. Mayor—a tribute to my civic-mindedness that contains, I’m well aware, an element of gentle derision. Sarah believes that people take advantage of my good nature, my willingness to listen carefully to everyone, even after it’s become clear they have nothing to say. She worries that I often return home late in the evening and then not in the best of humors, a natural result of the fact that the civic pie we divide grows smaller each year, even as our community’s needs continue dutifully to grow. Every year the arguments over how we spend our diminished and diminishing assets become less civil, less respectful, and my wife believes it’s high time for younger men to shoulder their fair share of the responsibility, not to mention the attendant abuse. In principle I heartily agree, though in practice I no sooner resign from one committee than I’m persuaded to join another. And Sarah’s no one to talk, serving as she has, until her recent illness, on far too many boards and development committees.
Be all that as it may, the well-established rhythms of our adult lives will soon be interrupted most violently, for despite my inclination to stay put, we are soon to travel, my wife and I. I have but one month to prepare for this momentous change and mentally adjust to the loss of my precious routines—my rounds, I call them—that take me into every part of town on an almost daily basis. Too little time, I maintain, for a man so set in his ways, but I have agreed to all of it. I’ve had my passport photo taken, filled out my application at the post office and mailed all the necessary documents to the State Department, all under the watchful eye of my wife and son, who seem to believe that my lifelong aversion to travel might actually cause me to sabotage our plans. Owen in particular sustains this unkind view of his father, as if I’d deny his mother anything, after all she’s been through. “Watch him, Ma,” he advises, narrowing his eyes at me in what I hope is mock suspicion. “You know how he is.”
Italy. We will go to Italy. Rome, then Florence, and finally Venice.
No sooner did I agree than we were marooned in a sea of guidebooks that my wife now studies like a madwoman. “Aqua alta,” she said last night after she’d finally turned off the light, her voice near and intimate in the dark. She found my hand and gave it a squeeze under the covers. “In Venice there’s something called aqua alta. High water.”
“How high?” I said.
“The calles flood.”
“What’s a calle?”
“If you’d do some reading, you’d know that streets in Italy are called calles.”
“How many of us need to know that?” I asked her. “You’re going to be there, right? I’m not going alone, am I?”
“When the aqua alta is bad, all of St. Mark’s is underwater.”
“The whole church?” I said. “How tall is it?”
She sighed loudly. “St. Mark’s isn’t a church. It’s a plaza. The plaza of San Marco. Do you need me to explain what a plaza is?”
Actually, I’d known that calles were streets and hadn’t really needed an explanation of aqua alta either. But my militant ignorance on the subject of all things Italian has quickly become a game between us, one we both enjoy.
“We may need boots,” my wife ventured.
“We have boots.”
“Rubber boots. Aqua alta boots. They sound a siren.”
“If you don’t have the right boots, they sound a siren?”
She gave me a swift kick under the covers. “To warn you. That the high water’s coming. So you’ll wear your boots.”
“Who lives like this?”
“Maybe I’ll just sit in the car and wait for the water to recede.”
Another kick. “No cars.”
“Right. No cars.”
“No cars,” I repeated. “Got it. Calles where the streets should be. No cars in the calles, though, not one.”
“We haven’t heard back from Bobby.”
Our old friend. Our third musketeer from senior year of high school. Long, long gone from us. She didn’t have to tell me we hadn’t heard back. “Maybe he’s moved. Maybe he doesn’t live in Venice anymore.”
“Maybe he’d rather not see us.”
“Why? Why would he not want to see us?”
I could feel my wife shrug in the dark, and feel our sense of play running aground. “How’s your story coming?”
“Good,” I told her. “I’ve been born already. A chronological approach is best, don’t you think?”
“I thought you were writing a history of Thomaston,” she said.
“Thomaston’s in it, but so am I.”
“How about me?” she said, taking my hand again.
“Not yet. I’m still just a baby. You’re still downstate. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“You could lie. You could say I lived next door. That way we’d always be together.” Playful again, now.
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “But the people who actually lived next door are the problem. I’d have to evict them.”
“I wouldn’t want you to do that.”
“It is tempting to lie, though,” I admitted.
“About what?” She yawned, and I knew she’d be asleep and snoring peacefully in another minute or two.
“Promise me you won’t let it become an obsession.”
It’s true. I’m prone to obsession. “It won’t be,” I promised her.
But I’m not the only reason my wife is on guard against obsession. Her father, who taught English at the high school, spent his summers writing a novel that by the end had swollen to more than a thousand single-spaced pages and still with no end in sight. I myself am drawn to shorter narratives. Of late, obituaries. It troubles my wife that I read them with my morning coffee, going directly to that section of the newspaper, but turning sixty does that, does it not? Death isn’t an obsession, just a reality. Last month I read of the death—in yet another car accident—of a man whose life had been intertwined with mine since we were boys. I slipped it into the envelope that contained my wife’s letter, the one that announced our forthcoming travels, to our old friend Bobby, who will remember him well. Obituaries, I believe, are really less about death than the odd shapes life takes, the patterns that death allows us to see. At sixty, these patterns are important.
“I’m thinking fifty pages should do it. A hundred, tops. And I’ve already got a title: The Dullest Story Ever Told.”
When she had no response to this, I glanced over and saw that her breathing had become regular, that her eyes were closed, lids fluttering.
It’s possible, of course, that Bobby might prefer not to see us, his oldest friends. Not everyone, Sarah reminds me, values the past as I do. Dwells on it, she no doubt means. Loves it. Is troubled by it. Alludes to it in conversation without appropriate transition. Had I finished my university degree, as my mother desperately wanted me to, it would have been in history, and that might have afforded me ample justification for this inclination to gaze backward. But Bobby—having fled our town, state and nation at eighteen—may have little desire to stroll down memory lane. After living all over Europe, he might well have all but forgotten those he fled. I can joke about mine being “the dullest story ever told,” but to a man like Bobby it probably isn’t so very far from the truth. I could go back over my correspondence with him, though I think I know what I’d find in it—polite acknowledgment of whatever I’ve sent him, news that someone we’d both known as boys has married, or divorced, or been arrested, or diagnosed, or died. But little beyond acknowledgment. His responses to my newsy letters will contain no requests for further information, no Do you ever hear from so-and-so anymore? Still, I’m confident Bobby would be happy to see us, that my wife and I haven’t become inconsequential to him.
Why not admit it? Of late, he has been much on my mind.
From the Hardcover edition.
Meet the Author
Richard Russo is the author of eight novels; two collections of stories; and Elsewhere, a memoir. In 2002 he received the Pulitzer Prize for Empire Falls, which like Nobody’s Fool was adapted to film, in a multiple-award-winning HBO miniseries.
- Gloversville, New York
- Date of Birth:
- July 15, 1949
- Place of Birth:
- Johnstown, New York
- B.A., University of Arizona, 1967; Ph.D., University of Arizona, 1979; M.F.A., University of Arizona, 1980
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This is my favorite Russo book! I loved the characters and the way they relate to each other. "Bridge of Sighs" is a beautiful read of real characters struggling to make sense of the world they live in. His characters try to make the best of the cards they are dealt. There are a number of themes running throughout the book, but for me the main one is the question of which path to take in life? Do we really choose which path to take? Is regret inevitable regardless of which path we take? There will always be problems to solve, no matter. This is real life. Witty. Insightful. Exciting. I just loved it!!
I loved this book. I hated to finish and leave behind characters that I had come to know and love. It brought back memories of my own childhood and the "characters" that inhabited that landscape. Russo has written eloquently about "telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," and also about the secrets we withhold, even from ourselves. It's a character driven novel that moves simultaneously between past and present, as do we all in our own lives. It's about understanding where we've been and making peace with that and welcoming with open arms who we've become and where we're going. Russo has painted a rich canvas that he invites you to step into. For me, it was hard to resist.
Richard Russo never fails to tell a story which invites you into the lives of characters who make you laugh and cry. Well developed story line, little twists and turns, a book to enjoy on all levels.
A complex and compelling story of Small Town America, told by Lou Lynch (Lucy) who, as the main character, is writing about his life. Throughout the story, which spans about 50 years, we meet Bobby, Sarah, Tessa, Dec, and many more family members and friends. Russo tells this tale with intelligence and detail and great insight into human behavior.
Richard Russo returns to the small, declining northeastern towns he customarily chronicles to reveal the moving and complex emotional lives of two generations of two apparently ordinary families. The situations in which he places his characters are neither highly dramatic nor unusual, but he freights them with feelings that are all the more intense for being so recognizable. The plot is complex and the switches between narrative foci and time frames make for some initial confusion, but as the story unfolds all is clarified. The characters are fully drawn and we are drawn to them, seeing in their dilemmas many of our own.
I really liked Empire Falls and was excited to read this book. While Russo is a terrific writer and I liked the book, I was left somewhat disappointed at the end. I am not sure I can accurately articulate why. I feel like the story was building up to a big climax that never really happened - and because of that, we never really got to know 2 of the 3 main characters as well as we should have. Put another way, even though the book was 600+ pages long, it feels like at the end Russo rushed to finish it with and didn't give as much thought to tying up the story as he did to the earlier sections - the ending almost feels like a completely different style than the rest of the book. And maybe that's what left me disappointed.
Reading Bridge of Sighs by Richard Russo is like being handed a piece of really wonderful chocolate, it is to be savored. Like all of Russo's novels this book is about small town life. The characters are normal and deeply flawed at the same time. The are peaks and valleys in this novel to be sure, but the end result is the same. When you are finished with this story, the characters will stay with you for a long while.
But so what? Each book, within its covers, is its own individual and to make comparisons like some reviewers are doing here, seems unfair. Yes, another book about small town America and maybe we've seen these characters before because we simply recognize ourselves in them and let's face it, most readers read to escape from themselves and their lives. Even in this regard, one cannot fairly put this book aside as 'just another' ... Mr Russo with his amazing literary talent has spewed pages and pages full of a beautiful story through magnificent and eloquent prose so much so that even a very short sentence makes you stop and ponder. That's why I loved this work. Richard Russo is an absolutely extraordinary story teller and I could not put Bridge of Sighs down until the very end. Amazing! I'm giving Bridge of Sighs 5 stars.
I procrastinated to a great extent reading the last 200 pages, because I was so reluctant to let it go. This is a beautiful novel. To me, it's the great american novel, I loved it soooo much! The writing is simply gorgeous. . . kept me completely enthralled. This book is a very important one and I wish I could get everyone I know to read it, I'll certainly give it my best shot! I have read everything Mr. Russo has written, and loved them all. I very eagerly awaited this one and was by no means whatsoever disappointed, in fact, it was better than I could hope for! Kudos to you Mr. Russo, you continue to amaze me with your talent.
Wonderful in it's simplicity. How Russo tells a tale of family, friends, love and life with such depth... The town is Every Town, the people are Everyone and the themes are universal. But in his telling the story truly breathes. Loved the book...
I have enjoyed all of the Russo books, but this one seemed like a long journey that never led to anywhere. True, you can't beat the beauty of his writing, which is unmatched in my opinion. I, however, found the ending just didn't fulfill the over 600 pages to get there. If you are entertained by reading about ordinary lives that stay ordinary (which I suppose is as most of us live), it may be a long and satisfying read . . .but, for me this seemed like a long journey that just ran out of gas.
A beautifully written book about getting older, marriage, an everything in between.
What craftsmanship! So many characters living the present, while revealing their past. Not a story of dysfunctional personalities but rather ordinary personalities with both strengths and weaknesses.
A beautiful story! I was drawn to the characters as my own family members and hated to give them up when the story ended. I loved the bits of humor woven into the storyline and the consister reminder to love and accept people as they are (a principle we can apply in our own lives). I guess I can say I came away from reading this book feeling encouraged and better about life in general. The strong language in some parts kept me from giving it a five star rating.
Honestly, I have tried other books by this acclaimed author, but I could not get into them. For some reason, this one clicked for me. He is a good author; I read and reread some of his sentences, then read them out loud. I highly recommend this book.
I enjoyed 'Mystic Falls' very much but I loved 'Bridge of Sighs.' My favorite novels have believable characters that seem like people you know but the writing offers exceptional insight about their lives. This novel is all about what you have and haven't done with your life and then living with the consequences. I read this novel several months ago but I think about its message often. There are so many passsages that state so eloquently thoughts I could never express as well myself.
Russo has spun an amazing story, one with twists and turns between the present and the past. While it takes a while to make connections, especially between the plot and the title, the finely woven sub-plots all come together to transport the reader over the Bridge. The cover, dove-tailing two distinct photos, is a link to the characters' sighs, reminding us that despite how much we want or try, our past is forever bridged to our present.
It is a rare book that can leave me unsure about whether or not I liked it. The style was quite accessible, yet disjointed. The characters were generally likable, yet showed little development over the course of 500 pages. The plot was generally unclear as the author jumped back and forth between characters, flashbacks, and references to events that may have already been covered, may yet be covered, and may not be genuinely discussed at all. The book contains some profanity and racial slurs. It was certainly not a stinker of a book, but I expected something more.
This is the first book of Richard Russo that I have read. I heard rave reviews from people that I share an interest in books I had high expectations. To tell the truth I started to read back in fall but could not get into the book. I put it down with the thought that it was just me and not the best time to start a new book. Sure enough ...I picked it up again two weeks ago and could not put it down. I loved the characters and the slow build. It was like a John Irving character similar to Owen Meany. The period it covered closely mirrored parts of my childhood and adulthood. I did become immersed in the family and the drama and heartache. Just when I was ready to deal with the story coming to some conclusions....it didn't. Very poor ending given how much you invest. Never saw it coming an so completely not believable. I just kept thinking "he doesn't know how to end this". Thankfully in the last few pages he takes a leap and somewhat ends it but too late for me. I would give him another chance though because I do like his writing style.
While I enjoyed this book and the writer's style of writing, I thought it was just too long and in some parts thought it was tedious. I could relate to the characters, however, as I remember many of them from my preteen and teen years. Overall, I enjoyed the book.
Enjoyed this book...liked the way the characters wrapped together.
I am about half way through this book. I am already thinking "What will I do when I can't visit these wonderful people everyday!" They have become almost like family and the writing is easy to read - very enjoyable! I can't wait to read something else by Russo.
This book had me by the throat, but it seemed like he all of a sudden just wanted to wrap the thing up and be done with it. Disappointing, especially after Mohawk, which I thought was absolutely incredible--but I give this one 4 stars because up to the last couple chapters it was fantastic.
I have always loved Russo's work - his best, by far is Straight Man... however, this effort definitely fell short. His main character Lucy/Lou does nothing to engender connection with the reader... he is a whiner, who cannot face reality nor understand even the simplest logic. It becomes quite annoying. I kept waiting for this fundamental flaw to change. If the intent was for the reader to sympathize with Lou and/or Big Lou, that effect was lost. This was not up to Russo's usual standards - if you have not yet read Straigh Man - DO SO - that novel is sharp, witty, and worthy of your time!