Love Invents Us

Love Invents Us

3.1 8
by Amy Bloom

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National Book Award finalist Amy Bloom has written a tale of growing up that is sharp and funny, rueful and uncompromisingly real.  A chubby girl with smudged pink harlequin glasses and a habit of stealing Heath Bars from the local five-and-dime, Elizabeth Taube is the only child of parents whose indifference to her is the one sure thing in her life. 


National Book Award finalist Amy Bloom has written a tale of growing up that is sharp and funny, rueful and uncompromisingly real.  A chubby girl with smudged pink harlequin glasses and a habit of stealing Heath Bars from the local five-and-dime, Elizabeth Taube is the only child of parents whose indifference to her is the one sure thing in her life.   When her search for love and attention leads her into the arms of her junior-high-school English teacher, things begin to get complicated.  

And even her friend Mrs. Hill, a nearly blind, elderly black woman, can't protect her when real love—exhilarating, passionate, heartbreaking—enters her life in the gorgeous shape of Huddie Lester.  

With her finely honed style and her unflinching sensibility, Bloom shows us how profoundly the forces of love and desire can shape a life.

Editorial Reviews

Lise Funderberg

Amy Bloom's first novel, Love Invents Us, spills over with the same rich, shaggy eloquence that brought her critical acclaim and award in her short story collection, Come to Me. This coming-of-age novel's jolie-laide protagonist, Elizabeth Taube, is a disaffected, disconnected-but-spirited girl trapped in the sameness of suburban Long Island. Her self-involved parents may not love her, but others do, including a furrier who takes to picking her up after elementary school so that he can feed her chocolates and wrap her in ash-blonde mink. Perversity is in the eye of the beholder, however, and for the affection-starved Elizabeth, indulging a fur fetish seems a fair trade-off for the mostly chaste paternal affection she receives in exchange.

Bloom doesn't skirt the pain of rejection and loneliness, but embraces it along with the humor and intelligence (and imperfect judgment) that give her characters their aching credibility. Through Elizabeth, Bloom comments wryly on the nature of love, as in this aside about high school sex: "Kids have nowhere to fuck and nowhere to shower. Only adults, cheating and careful, clean up afterwards." At one point in her quest for happiness, Elizabeth, a half-Jewish white girl, wanders into an A.M.E. Zion church, where the minister talks her into helping out Mrs. Hill, an elderly, nearly blind member of the congregation. Mrs. Hill lodges her curmudgeonly, self-righteous self into Elizabeth's affections, and when the opportunity arises, grills Elizabeth's middle school teacher (and, by now, lover) about his intentions regarding "her girl."

Love Invents Us, is a misleading title for this immensely satisfying read, for while we learn about Elizabeth through her head-ons and sideswipes of the heart, her actual identity ù and her knowing acceptance of the world as a simultaneously disappointing and love-filled place ù needs no invention. It's clear and strong from the book's first sentence: "I wasn't surprised to find myself in the back of Mr. Klein's store, wearing only my undershirt and panties, surrounded by sable." Don't let the near-pedophilia fool you, though, or mask the essence of the love story within ù surprisingly innocent even as it reflects the best and worst of human frailty and desire. -- Salon

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
The first two thirds of this first novel exhibit many of the excellent qualities seen in Bloom's highly praised short-story collection, Come to Me. Again, Bloom's prose combines lyrical imagery with a comfortable vernacular; her protagonist's vision of the world is distinctive, wry and intense. We meet Elizabeth Taube as a preteen in upper-middle class Great Neck, Long Island. Perceptive enough to know that she is unloved by her mother, a chilly interior decorator, and her father, a remote accountant, she is too innocent to understand the attentions of an elderly furrier, who teaches her about the power of the body to arouse passion. A short while later, she acquires the two lovers who will have the largest impact on her life. One of these, Max Stone, is her junior-high school English teacher and a clear father figure. Max tries and fails to repress the sexual aspect of his love for Elizabeth, and as a result ends up a broken man. While Max is almost entirely unsympathetic, Elizabeth's other lover, a black high school star athlete named Huddie Lester, is often too good to be true. The sure hand for characterization and plotting that Bloom showed in her stories is not always in evidence here; a blind black woman that Liz befriends is a fully realized and memorable character, yet her parents are especially unpleasant and underdeveloped. The book's pacing sometimes lags, and the last third of the novel, with Elizabeth a middle-aged mother, lacks credibility. Yet Bloom's beautifully inflected prose captivates a reader. Her keenly perceptive evocation of a young woman's burgeoning self-awareness and her sensuous descriptions of erotic passion are fashioned with undeniable intelligence and grace. FYI: The first chapter of this novel is virtually identical to a story in Come to Me titled "Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines.''
Library Journal
National Book Award finalist Bloom (Come to Me, LJ 5/1/93) won't disappoint her fans with a first novel that chronicles a young girl's journey into adulthood and her search for love and acceptance. Bloom's heroine, Elizabeth Taube, is a chubby, lonely, neglected child who begins to find comfort in mostly the wrong places: the back room of Furs by Klein with Mr. Klein; the candy counter at Frank's Five and Dime, where she is caught stealing; and in the arms of her English teacher, Max. When she is 16 she meets Huddie Lester: "Love and desire slammed us into each other, giddy and harmlessly wild as bumper cars." Bloom's incredible talent lies in her ability to disturb, humor, and delight without ever becoming heavy handed or awkward. She has given us a true love story, minus all the sugar coating. Highly recommended.-Editha Ann Wilberton, Kansas P.L., Kansas City, Mo.
Kirkus Reviews
Bloom, a psychoanalyst and the author of the highly-praised story collection Come to Me (1993), offers a first novel that is at once tamer and more troubling than her earlier book, tracking an ordinary young woman's neurotic sexual development and fate.

From the age of ten, when we first meet Elizabeth Taube, a schoolgirl growing up in suburban Long Island in the '60s, she's an oddly willing object of adult men's sexual fantasies. In a series of loosely connected stories, she lives these out, first modeling mink coats in her underwear in the darkened shop of the town furrier, who plies her with Belgian chocolates, and later (after her emotionally distant parents announce a divorce) having a prolonged, reluctant affair with adoring high-school English teacher Max. Liz also takes to stealing—especially from a feisty, loving old lady named Mrs. Hill, whom she helps take care of after school through the offices of a black church that she's got involved with. And that's how she becomes the lover of Huddie, a handsome black teenager and local basketball hero whose father sends him to an aunt in Alabama when he discovers that his son is sleeping with a white girl. Liz goes off to college, then returns home to nurse (and sexually taunt) Max during his fatal illness, and then disappears. The narrative picks up years later, with Liz the single mother of a quirky boy who's evidently destined to be gay. That's when Huddie shows up in Liz's life again, a slightly paunchy father of two grown children, still obsessed with Liz. They make a life together.

No one gets over Liz—and the novel is troubling because the reader never knows why. The male characters often come alive, but Liz rarely does in this rather inconclusive and puzzling debut.

Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Vintage Contemporaries Series
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Product dimensions:
5.20(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.50(d)

Read an Excerpt

Just as I Am

I wasn't surprised to find myself in the back of Mr. Klein's store, wearing only my undershirt and panties, surrounded by sable.

"Sable is right for you, Lizbet," Mr. Klein said, draping a shawl-collared jacket over me. "Perfect for your skin and your eyes. A million times a day the boys must tell you. Such skin."

No one except Mr. Klein had ever suggested that my appearance was pleasing. My mother took time out from filling half the houses on Long Island with large French cachepots and small porcelain dogs to take me shopping at Lord and Taylor's Pretty Plus; her aesthetic sense made her look the other way when the saleswomen dragged me out in navy blue A-line dresses and plaid jumpers. Looking at me sideways, she saw the chewed ends of my hair, smudged pink harlequin glasses, a bad attitude.

I stood on a little velvet footstool and modeled fur coats for Mr. Klein. He had suggested I take off my perpetual green corduroys and hooded sweatshirt so we could see how the coats really looked. I agreed, only pretending to hesitate for a minute so I could watch his thin grey face expand and pinken. I felt the warm rushing in my chest that being with him gave me. He also gave me Belgian chocolate, because he felt Hershey's wasn't good enough for me, and he told me that if only God had blessed him and Mrs. Klein with a wonderful daughter like me, he would be truly happy, kayn ahora. My mother never said I was wonderful. My father, whose admiration for my mother had diminished only a little over the years, was certainly not heard thanking God for giving him the gift of me.

"This one next, Lizbet." Mr. Klein handed me a small mink coat and set a mink beret on my dirty hair.

"This is my size. Do kids wear mink coats?"

If you had to dress up, mink was the way to go. Much better than my scratchy navy wool, designed to turn chubby Jewish girls into pale Victorian wards. The fur brushed my chin, and without my glasses (Mr. Klein and I agreed that it was a shame to hide my lovely eyes and so we put my glasses in his coat pocket during our modeling sessions) I felt glamorously Russian. I couldn't see a thing. He put the beret at a slight angle and stepped back, admiring me in my bare feet and my mink.

"Perfect. This is how a fur coat should look on a girl. Not some little stick girl in rabbit. This is an ensemble."

I turned around to see what I could of myself from the back: a brown triangle topped by a white blur and another brown smudge.

I modeled two more coats, a ranch mink, which displeased Mr. Klein with its careless stitching, and a fox cape, which made us both smile. Even Mr. Klein thought floor-length silver fox was a little much.

As always, he turned his back as I pulled on my jeans and sweatshirt. I sat down on one of the spindly pink velvet chairs, putting my sneakers on as he put away the coats.

We said nothing on the drive home. I ate my chocolate and Mr. Klein turned on WQXR, the only time I ever listened to classical music. Mr. Klein rounded my driveway, trying to look unconcerned. I think we both expected that one Monday my parents would finally come rushing out of the house, appalled and avenging.

I went inside, my shoelaces flapping against the hallway's glazed, uneven brick. Could anything be less inviting than a brick foyer? It pressed into the soles of my feet, and every dropped and delicate object shattered irretrievably.

I know some cleaning lady greeted me; we alternated between elderly Irish women, who looked as though they'd been born to rid the world of lazy people's private filth, and middle-aged Bolivian women quietly stalking dust and our greasy, oversized fingerprints.

Every dinner was a short horror; my eating habits were remarked upon, and then my mother would talk about politics and decorating and my wardrobe. My father talked about his clients, their divorces, their bank accounts. I would go to my room, pretend to do my homework, and read my novels. In my room, I was the Scarlet pimpernel. Sometimes I was Sydney Carton and once in a while I was Tarzan. I went to sleep dreaming of the nineteenth century, my oldest, largest teddy bear held tightly between my legs.

Mr. Klein usually drove up beside me as I was walking to the bus stop. When I saw the tip of his huge, unfashionable blue Cadillac slowly slide by me and pause, I skipped ahead and dropped my books on the front seat, spared another day of riding the school bus. He dropped me off in front of Arrandale Elementary School as the buses discharged all the kids I had managed to avoid thus far.

On the mornings Mr. Klein failed to appear, I kept a low profile and worried about him until the routine of school settled upon me. I was vulnerable again only at recess. The first two days of kindergarten had taught me to carry a book everywhere, and as soon as I found a place on the pebbled asphalt, I had only to set my eyes on the clean black letters and the soft ivory page and I would be gone, spirited right out of what passed for my real life.

Our first trip to Furs by Klein was incidental, barely a foreshadowing of our afternoons together. Mr. Klein passed me on the way home from school. Having lost two notebooks since school began, I'd missed the bus while searching the halls frantically for my third-bright red canvas designed to be easily seen. I started home, a couple of miles through the sticky, smoky leaf piles and across endless emerald lawns. No one knew I liked to walk. Mr. Klein pulled up ahead of me and signaled, shyly. I ran to the car, gratified to tears by a smile I could see from the road.

"I'll give you a ride home, but I need to stop back at my shop, something I forgot. All right?"

I nodded. It was better than all right. Maybe I'd never have to go home. He could drive me to Mexico, night after night through the Great Plains, and I wouldn't mind.

Furs by Klein stood on the corner of Shore Drive, its curved, pink-tinted windows and black lacquered French doors the height of suburban elegance. Inside stood headless bodies, six rose-velvet torsos, each wearing a fur coat. There were mirrors everywhere I looked and a few thin-legged, armless chairs. The walls were lined with coats and jackets and capes. Above them, floating on transparent necks, were the hats.

Mr. Klein watched me. "Go ahead," he said. "All ladies like hats." He pulled down a few and walked discreetly into the workroom at the rear. I tried on a black cloche with a dotted veil and then a kelly-green fedora with a band of arching brown feathers. Mr. Klein emerged from the back, his hands in the pockets of his baggy grey trousers.

"Come, Lizbet, your mother will be worried about you. Leave the hats, it's all right. Mondays are the day off, the girls will put them back tomorrow." He turned out the lights and opened the door for me.

"My mother's not home." I'm really an orphan, adopt me.

"Tcha, I am so absentminded. Mrs. Klein tells me your mother is a famous decorator. Of course she is out-decorating."

He smiled, just slightly, and I laughed out loud. He's on my side.

Almost every morning now, he gave me a ride to school. Without any negotiating that I remember, I knew that on Monday afternoons I would miss my bus and he would pick me up as I walked down Arrandale Avenue. I would keep him company while he did whatever he did in the back room and I tried on hats. After a few Mondays I eyed the coats.

"Of course," he said. "When you're grown up, you'll tell your husband, 'Get me a sable from Klein's. It's Klein's or nothing.'" He waggled a finger sternly, showing me who I would be: a pretty young woman with a rich, indulgent husband. "Let me help you."

Mr. Klein slipped an ash-blonde mink jacket over my sweatshirt and admired me aloud. Soon after, he stopped going into the workroom, and soon after that, I began taking off my clothes. The pleasure on Mr. Klein's face made me forget everything I heard in the low tones of my parents' conversation and everything I saw in my own mirror. I chose to believe Mr. Klein.

At home, to conjure up the feeling of Mr. Klein's cool round fingertips on my shoulders, touching me lightly before the satin lining descended, I listened to classical music. My father made approving snorts behind The Wall Street Journal.

I lay on the floor of the living room, behind the biggest couch, and saw myself playing the piano, adult and beautifully formed. I am wearing a dress I saw on Marilyn Monroe, the sheerest clinging net, with sparkling stones coming up over the tips of my breasts and down between my legs. I am moving slowly across the stage, the wide hem of my sable cape shaping a series of round, dark waves. I hand the cape to an adoring Mr. Klein, slightly improved and handsomely turned out in a tuxedo cut just like my father's.

My mother stepped over me and then stopped. I was eye to toe with her tiny pink suede loafers and happy to stay that way. Her round blue eyes and her fear of wrinkles made her stare as harsh and haunting as the eyeless Greek heads she'd put in my father's study.

"Keeping busy, are you, Elizabeth?"

I couldn't imagine what prompted this. My mother usually acted as though I had been raised by a responsible, affectionate governess; guilt and love were as foreign to her as butter and sugar.

"Yeah. School, books." I studied the little gold bar across the tongue of her right loafer.

"And all is well?"

"Fine. Everything's fine."

"You wouldn't like to study an instrument, would you? Piano? Perhaps a piano in the library. That could be attractive. An older piece, deep browns, a maroon paisley shawl, silver picture frames. Quite attractive."

"I don't know. Can I think about it?" I didn't mind being part of my mother's endless redecorating; in the past, her domestic fantasies had produced my queen-size brass bed, which I loved, and a giant Tudor dollhouse, complete with chiming doorbell and working shower.

"Of course, think it over. Let's make a decision next week, shall we?" She started to touch my hair and patted me on the shoulder instead.

I didn't see Mr. Klein until the following Monday. I endured four mornings at the bus stop: leaves stuffed down my shirt, books knocked into the trash can, lunch bag tossed from boy to boy. Fortunately, the bus driver was a madman, and his rageful mutterings and yelping at invisible assailants captured whatever attention might have come my way once we were on the bus.

It was raining that Monday, and I wondered if I should walk anyway. I never thought about the fact that Mr. Klein and I had no way to contact each other. I could only wait, in silence. I pulled up my hood and started walking down Arrandale, waiting for a blue streak to come past my left side, waiting for the slight skid of wet leaves as Mr. Klein braked to a stop. Finally, much closer to home than usual, the car came.

"You're almost home," he said. "Maybe I should just take you home? We can go to the store another time." He looked rushed and unhappy.

"Sure, if you don't have time, that's okay."

"I have the time, tsatskela. I have the time." He turned the car around and drove us back to Furs by Klein.

I got out and waited in the rain while he unlocked the big black doors.

"You're soaking wet," he said harshly. "You should have taken the bus."

"I missed it," I lied. If he wasn't going to admit that he wanted me to miss the bus, I wasn't going to admit that I had missed it for him.

"Yes, you miss the bus, I pick you up. Lizbet, you are a very special girl, and standing around an old man's shop in wet clothes is not what you should be doing."

What I usually did was stand around in no clothes at all, but I could tell that Mr. Klein, like most adults, was now working only from his version of the script.

I sat down uneasily at the little table with the swiveling gilt-framed mirror, ready to try on hats. Without Mr. Klein's encouragement, I wouldn't even look at the coats. He didn't hand me any hats.

He pressed his thin sharp face deep into the side of my neck, pushing my sweatshirt aside with one hand. I looked in the mirror and saw my own round wet face, comic in its surprise and pink glasses. I saw Mr. Klein's curly grey hair and a bald spot I would have never discovered otherwise.

"Get your coat." He rubbed his face with both hands and stood by the door.

"I don't have a coat."

"They let you go in the rain, with no coat? Gottenyu. Let's go, please." He held the door open for me and I had to walk through it.

The chocolate wasn't my usual Belgian slab. It was a deep gold-foil box tied with pink and gold wisps, and topped with a cluster of sparkling gold berries. He dropped it in my lap like something diseased.

I held on to the box, stroking the fairy ribbons, until he told me to open it.

Each of the six chocolates had a figure on top. Three milk, three bittersweet, each one carved with angel wings or a heart or a white-rimmed rose. In our fat-free home, my eating habits were regarded as criminal. My parents would no more have bought me beautiful chocolates than gift-wrapped a gun for a killer.

"Lizbet . . ."

He looked out the window at the rain and I looked up at him quickly. I had obviously done something wrong, and although my parents' anger and chagrin didn't bother me a bit, his unhappiness was pulling me apart. I crushed one of the chocolates with my fingers, and Mr. Klein saw me.

"Nah, nah," he said softly, wiping my fingers with his handkerchief. He cleared his throat. "My schedule's changing. I won't be able to give you rides after school. I'm going to open the shop on Mondays."

"How about in the morning?" I didn't know I could talk through this kind of pain.

Meet the Author

Amy Bloom's collection of short stories, Come to Me, was a finalist for the National Book Award and the Los Angeles Times Fiction Award.  Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, Story, Antaeus, River City, American Fiction, and other fiction magazines, and has been anthologized in the 1991 and 1992 Best American Short Stories collections and in the 1994  O. Henry Prize Story Collection.  A contributing editor for New Woman and the Boston Review of Books, Amy Bloom lives in Connecticut.

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Love Invents Us 3.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 8 reviews.
Amy0705 More than 1 year ago
I loved this book. It really does tell the story of how love invents us...all types of love. The romantic stories are a little jumbled, but sometimes that happens. I feel like the love struggles are true and beautiful, and it's really easy to be in the story. I thought theat the characters were relatable. The writing was amazing. In school they teach you how to show not tell. That's what Amy Bloom does. I saw everything I read. It was a true delight to read.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
Amy Bloom writes stories that really hit home with any adult that has ever expierienced the sorrows and joys of love, in all forms. This book is a continuation of one of her short stories found in her collection 'Come To Me'. It is a wonderful expansion on the story, and I only hope that Bloom will write another novel very soon. Don't pass up this incredible author, she is one of the best I have read in recent years.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I thought the title was superb, I mean something I had never thought of 'love invents us.' And along with that, does it really invent us? Of course, it invents us, it changes us, it makes us and it breaks us. The 'book' love invents us' by Amy Bloom. In my opinion this book is defintely not for the average teenager. This is a story of a girl, looking back upon her life Growing up, she was always the one in the corner by herself, at lunch eating by herself, at recess with her head in a book. She was a only child, her parents never took any interest in her, in her school life, in who she was, and what she was becoming. In the 6th grade she finds herself drawn to her English teacher, Mr. Stone. As time goes by she finds herself turning to Mr. Stone with her problems. Until one day after school she falls hopelessly in love with 'Huddie.' Tall, dark, and handsome, she spends every moment with him, and every moment away from him thinking about him. It was true love for the both of them. The story goes on with her love or Huddie and her of her unique relationship with her 6th grade English teacher. This is a wonderful book, that explores love in it's different forms.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I cannot believe this book even got published. If you want to read this book borrow it. Because you will give it back in seconds flat. This book is so scrambled. I am an avid reader of classics that are by far much harder than todays books to read and this book had me re-reading things to find out where and what time they are happening. Sometimes you cannot even tell who is talking or when they show up in the book. For instance: Who is the boys father? Serious time and place issues here. I don't recommend this book at all.Disheveled to say the least
Guest More than 1 year ago
When I saw the title on this book, I just had to get it. When I started reading the book, I realized, that the only creative and interesting thing about this book was the title. As far as I'm concerned, Amy Bloom is only good at putting interesting titles on her books. I was very disappointed with this book, and I seriously don't reccomend it. Don't waste your money on it.