From the Publisher
“With deep truth and immediacy, Gail Godwin illuminates an indivisible marriage—its experience, passion, thought, and wit; and its sundering into loss, longing, and remembrance. For such closeness, there should be a word beyond love.”
“With words alone, Gail Godwin has created an important piece of music about a love which death can only increase and deepen. Yes, and Frances Halsband’s illustrations are a haunting countermelody.”
“Evenings at Five reads like a novel, but it’s a fictionalization of a real event. Gail Godwin uses all the weapons of art to deal with her own all-too-real grief, and the result is a rigorous exercise in restraint, control, irony, memory.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“A LITTLE MASTERPIECE . . .
DEXTEROUS, STRONGLY FELT, MULTI-LEVEL WRITING.”
“[A] heartrending book . . . Brilliantly webbed scenes fill its pages . . . Godwin writes with enormous clarity and unvarnished prose. She writes, in other words, not to approach the truth but to forcefully ascertain it.”
“Possibly her truest book . . . There is a quiet dignity here that pulls you into the two people’s lives. . . . Full of wicked humor and sage and subtle advice, laced with achingly familiar refrains of love and loss, Evenings at Five could well restore a bereaved man’s or woman’s sense of self.”
—The Roanoke Times
“An exquisite portrait of a thirty-year relationship . . . There is a depth and intensity within that many large tomes never capture. . . . Just as Christina ultimately knows she has to move on, one assumes Godwin needed to write Evenings at Five to move on and work on another outstanding novel.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“QUIRKY, WRY, AND SURPRISINGLY POWERFUL . . .
with a delight in words and the ways people use and abuse them that is typical of this urbane author.”
“If asked to list my ten favorite American fiction writers, Gail Godwin would be among them. In this, her latest . . . she evokes in a short book the long married life of two artists. Evenings at Five is a strong tale of love-after-death.”
“The New York Times bestselling author of Evensong has scored again. . . . The novel, which can be read in one sitting, is an excellent showcase of Godwin’s talent. Those not already Godwin fans are apt to be converted.”
—The Sunday Oklahoman
“Gail Godwin has written a book about the heaviest matters of loss, grief, and loneliness with a touch so light that I was as often deeply amused by it as I was deeply moved.”
“The most balanced heart-rending book you ever read on the nature of loss, loneliness, and grief.”
“INTIMATE AND TOUCHING.”
“A fierce evocation of what—at some time or another—everyone is bound to endure. . . . An amazing little volume that contains an explosive emotional wallop.”
—ROBB FORMAN DEW
“An unflinching account of love, loss, grief, and the struggle toward consolation. It should touch every reader with its emotional power.”
“No one does the nitty-gritty of soul-searching like Gail Godwin. . . . [She] is one of the few contemporary novelists willing to tackle the ticklish (to modern writers) topic of religion in real life. In a novel inspired by her own experience, she does it again, beautifully.”
“Godwin accomplishes more in this smart, arch, and charming little illustrated novel than many of her peers do in far heftier volumes.”
The New York Times
Evenings at Five sound pretentious, and there are moments (many of them concerning that cat) that threaten to turn treacly, but for the most part Godwin expresses her heroine's vulnerable state of mind with tact and delicacy. — Jonathan Hartl
The Washington Post
Evenings at Five reads like a novel, but it's a fictionalization of a real event. Gail Godwin uses all the weapons of art to deal with her own all-too-real grief, and the result is a rigorous exercise in restraint, control, irony, memory. — Carolyn See
Celebrated novelist Godwin (Father Melancholy's Daughter) lost her companion of nearly 30 years, the composer Robert Starer, two years ago, and this book is a devoted, quirky, wry and surprisingly powerful fictionalization of aspects of their life together as working artists. It takes its text, as Godwin might like to say (her last novel was, after all, Evensong) from the cocktail hour the pair observed, well, religiously, at the end of their working day, exchanging their jokes, their thoughts, their sense of themselves and their friends and neighbors. It swiftly and seamlessly moves into husband Rudy's long illness, nobly borne, and wife Christina's profound sense of loss after his death, tempered frequently by flashes of hilarity and sweet sense. The book has an elusive tone, somber but never mawkish, with a delight in words and the ways people use and abuse them that is typical of this urbane author. For a book that can be read in an hour, it is remarkably dense, and can only whet the appetite for the new novel Godwin is said to be working on. The drawings that accompany the text, as illustrations of some of Rudy and Christina's household artifacts, are clean-lined but repetitious. (Apr.) Forecast: This is an odd hybrid of a book, but it is likely to appeal to Godwin's large following, opening as it does a window on her private life; it could also be sold as a gift book. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
A snippet of a story, drenched in autobiography and illustrated with cozy line drawings, comes from the well-respected popular author of Father Melancholy's Daughter and Evensong. Novelist Christina and composer Rudy had shared a life for almost 30 years before his death. They had met at Yaddo, the artist's retreat in Saratoga Springs, and threw away everything in their existing lives, except their work, to be together. The intimate details of their cocktail hour and his final years of illness, as well as Christina's new life alone, are wrenchingly portrayed. The reality of the characters is so close to the skin that this view inside their lives at a sorrowful time is almost too sad. Fans of Godwin's other fiction will be fascinated by this minor piece. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 12/02.]-Ann H. Fisher, Radford P.L., VA Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
A woman faces the void in her life and home after the death of her longtime companion. "He was a big man and he leaves a big space," writes Christina about the recently deceased Rudy, a Vienna-born composer who shared her life for 28 years. At five o'clock, when Rudy would punctually begin grinding ice and slicing lime for her gin and soda, their farmhouse in upstate New York seems especially empty. Throughout, Frances Halsband's line drawings of objects like Rudy's chair, his metronome, and "Ralph the knife" (for the limes) underscore the text's keening sense of absence as a palpable physical presence. Like Godwin (Evensong, 1990, etc.), Christina is a southern-born, divorced novelist, veteran of a teaching stint at Iowa; these similarities to her creator, along with the dedication to composer Robert Starer, Godwin's own partner, who died in 2001, suggest that this is not so much fiction as an autobiographical meditation on love and loss cast in the form the author knows best. A few carefully selected memories reveal Rudy's arrogance and frequently awful social behavior as well as his warmth and charm. Godwin's experience and skill (this is her 11th novel) show in the absence of sentimentality, the seamless shiftings of time as Christina remembers incidents from her past, and the nicely calibrated mix of tragedy and comedy. The predominant tone is certainly sad, but there's a surprising amount of humor, particularly in some very maladroit sympathy notes ("Beth is on her way to becoming an accomplished musician. Had it not been for Rudy's prompting, I might not have acted so quickly"). The story does feel rather slight, but presumably it's intended to be a personal statement, not the lastword on death or loss. As Rudy once remarked about his work, "I used to try to be original. Now I try to be clear and essential." Intimate and touching, albeit not revelatory. Agent: John Hawkins/John Hawkins & Associates
Read an Excerpt
Five o’clock sharp. “Ponctualité est la politesse des rois”: Rudy quoting his late father, a factory owner (textiles) in Vienna before the Nazis came. The Pope’s phone call, followed by the grinding of the ice, a growling, workmanlike sound, a lot like Rudy’s own sound, compliments of the GE model Rudy had picked out fourteen years ago when they built this house. Gr-runnch, gr-runnch, grr-rr-runnch. (“And look! It even has this tray you pull down to mix the drinks.” Rudy retained the enthusiasms of childhood.) He built Christina’s drink with loving precision after the Pope’s call. Rudy did the high Polish voice, overlaid with an Italian accent: “Thees is John Paul. My cheeldren, eet is cocktail time.”
Or sometimes Christina’s study phone would not ring. Rudy simply emerged from his studio below and called brusquely up to her in his basso profundo: “Hello? The Pope just called. Are you ready for a drink?”
The ominous rolled r’s on the “ready” and “drink”: if you’re not, you’d better be. I won’t be here forever, you know.
The cavalier slosh of Bombay Sapphire (Rudy never measured) over the ice shards. The fssst as he loosened the seltzer cap and added the self-respecting splash that made her able to call it a gin and soda. Then, marching over to the sink: “I need Ralph.” Ralph was their best serrated knife. The thinly cut slice of lime oozed fresh juice. Rudy cut well; he cut his own music paper, and he had been cutting Christina’s hair exactly as she liked it for twenty-eight years. And in summer, a sprig of mint from the garden, a hairy, pungent variety given to them by the wife of a pianist who had recorded Rudy’s music. Sometimes Rudy joined Christina in the gin and soda. Her financial man from Buffalo had given them two twelve-ounce tumblers with old-fashioned ticker tapes etched into the surfaces. She always kept them in the freezer, so they would frost up as soon as they hit the air.
Other times Rudy would say, “I need a Scotch tonight.” That went into a different glass, a lovely cordial shape etched with grapes, given to him by the daughter of a pasha who had invited him to her houseboat parties in Cairo back in ’42 and called him Harpo because his assignment in the Royal Air Force had been playing piano and harp to keep up troop morale. “I need a Scotch tonight” could mean either that his work had gone extremely well or that some unwelcome aspect of reality (his music publisher sending back sloppily edited orchestra parts, being put on hold by his health insurance provider, being put on hold by anyone at all) had undermined his creative momentum.
“Thees is Il Papa calling from the Vatican. Cheeldren, eet is cocktail time.”
Christina was a cradle Episcopalian who had gone to a Catholic school run by a French order of nuns in North Carolina. Rudy was a nonpracticing Jew who had gone to a Catholic Gymnasium in Vienna until age fourteen, when the Nazis came. Rudy always liked to tell how there were two Jews and one Protestant in his class at the Gymnasium, “and the Protestant had the worst of it by far.” So Rudy and Christina shared an affectionate fascination with Popes, especially this one, with his hulking masculine shoulders before they began to stoop, and his nonstop traveling, and all the languages.
What did I think, that we had forever? Christina asked herself, sipping the gin and soda she now made for herself. Often Rudy had interrupted himself in midsentence to explode at her: “You’re not listening!”
What was I listening to? The ups and downs of my own day’s momentum. We were both “ah-tists,” as the real estate lady who sold us our first house pronounced it. She herself had been married to an ah-tist. Her husband’s novel had been runner-up for the Pulitzer, she told us, the year Anthony Adverse won. Her name was Odette, as in Swann’s downfall. Rudy was fifty-two and I was thirty-nine and neither of us knew, until Odette carefully explained it to us, that you could buy a house without having all the money to pay for it up front.
Christina would arrange herself on the black leather sofa they had splurged on in their midlife prosperity (a combined windfall of a bequest from Rudy’s late uncle in Lugano, with whom Rudy had played chess, and a lucrative two-book contract for Christina, in those bygone days when there were enough competing publishers to run up the auction bid) and which the Siamese cats had ruined within six months. She would cross her ankles on the Turkish cushions on top of the burled-wood coffee table and train her myopic gaze on Rudy’s long craggy face and crest of white hair floating reassuringly from his Stickley armchair on the other side of the fireplace. An editor had once told Rudy he looked like “a happy Beckett.” Christina felt rich in her bounty: the workday was over and she had this powerful companion pulsing his attention at her, and her whole drink to go. They raised their cocktail glasses to each other.