The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

Aw man, what a great book. This novel was an absolute pleasure to read. The writing was fantastic. If it had not been so nice, the convoluted nature of the plot would have almost been too cliche and unnecessary. But perhaps it is because the writing was so good that this novel really represents its category, a sort of magic realism that is very modern-day. Krauss really does have a talent for words; the prose was like poetry, the metaphors just barely eccentric and weird enough to pass the threshold of efficient.

Once again, the writing cannot be emphasized enough. The reason I started to read this book was because of a quote I saw that someone had posted:

“Her laugh was a question that he wanted to spend his whole life answering.”

While the other writing in the novel was similarly nice, none of it was quite as atomic as that line.

A second nice quote was,

“… and the melodramatic few who professed their love at the sight of her naked body.”

Sentences like this really show the importance of a well-placed word. Think about how important “professed” is, and whether another would have sufficed. Spoke? Crooned? Perhaps. More importantly, think about the word “melodramatic.” The sentence changes so much because of that one word, and how it interacts with every other word near it.

And a third, relatable, quote that I enjoyed was,

“After all, who doesn't wish to make a spectacle of his loneliness.”

But apart from such powerful writing, Krauss is also able to articulate the world in a different, very dream-like form. While it’s true that some of her descriptions may not have a strong foundation (even though realisticity is not mandatory), they are very artfully done, and their presence is light enough that one feels joy rather than the traditional scorn for creative lit.

An aspect that all great books share is their assumption of the readers knowledge. It adds depth to the work, and I especially enjoyed reading a bit more about Jewish, Polish, and New York life. Every character also had a small part, and sometimes the smallest, like Bird, had the most important.

This was essentially a love story. Other events occurred. Children grew up. But, it was always about a man and his love for a woman whom he never really got to know (but, who ever does). It’s a bit odd that Litvinoff who shared his love for Alma used the same words to serenade Rosa. Did he love Alma, or Rosa? But of course, the answer is both. The novel also asks questions about death, and can scares us into thinking of our own legacy. Will I still be in love with a girl I was in love with in High School? Is it worse to forget her?

And of course, the book is horribly depressing with its short descriptions of terrible events, which it treats like nothing while describing for paragraphs the subtleties of teenage love. To see your child die must be unimaginably terrible.

Still, the hopeless romantic in us all will enjoy the joining of threads, much like the way we enjoy perfectly arranged items, that small shiver of joy in order that restores our faith in hope.