This Is a Love Story

“You remember, in the beginning, how much we talked about art. How it felt. Wild in the head, calm in the body. Like having just sneezed or just yawned. I remember that before you, I’d never called it art to anyone. I admitted to loving it to you before anyone else. And though it was different for me […] I knew that feeling of protection, satiety, you spoke of. It made me feel seen. You did.”

Abe’s first-person, direct-address narration establishes the novel’s theme of Memory as a Form of Intimacy and Connection by directly connecting to how Jane’s relationship with art changed his life. He and Jane are actively recalling the start of their relationship and their impact on one another—particularly in the context of their artistic practices. Abe’s meditative tone conveys The Role of Art in Shaping Identity, which began with the inception of his and Jane’s love. The passage establishes his and Jane’s relationship as central to the novel’s themes and trajectory.

“Then I remember a sound you only ever made—and you made it since the beginning—when I gathered you to my chest. A singy exhale, as if you were laughing but also crying but also writing a poem with your breath. Whewoooooooo. And then we were still, you and me, me and you, cloaked and kept, heart to heart, cheek to chest, belly to belly, Maybe for you, I think, joy in security, security in consistency, consistency in love.”

Abe’s use of figurative language enacts his writerly sensibilities and the depth of his and Jane’s connection. He likens his and Jane’s physical intimacy to “writing a poem” and describes it using words like “breath,” “cloaked,” “kept,” “security,” and “consistency.” His linguistic choices echo the ineffability of his and Jane’s connection while conveying the lyrical way that he sees the world. He is actively searching for language to describe an emotion that transcends language.

“You remember finding inspiration in everything. A penny, a raisin, a tooth, a book, a building, a crocheted lobster, a crow in the snow. You remember how many times you tried to draw your mother. You remember trying to remember her: it felt like playing a piano with no keys.”

Abe and Jane’s memories of Jane’s artistic practice capture the role of art in shaping identity. Jane finds “inspiration in everything” because she sees, processes, and understands the world according to her artistic creations. Making art also offers her a way—even if it is incomplete—to remember her late mother.

“You remember that we weren’t planning it. You never thought you’d be a mother. You remember that you never thought you wouldn’t necessarily and thinking that perhaps there are two kinds of women and maybe you were the second kind.”

Abe and Jane’s memories of Jane’s first pregnancy introduce the novel’s subtextual explorations of motherhood while subtly contributing to the theme of the role of art in shaping identity. For as long as Jane can remember, art has been her primary form of self-expression and self-definition. She didn’t imagine herself becoming a mother because she didn’t perceive maternity as a way to define herself or shape her life. The passage thus foreshadows Jane’s complex regard for maternity both during her pregnancy and throughout Max’s upbringing.

“You remember that when my mother wasn’t there, you panicked. You remember how hard it was to look Max in the eyes. Not because you were scared of him but because of what he might see in you.”

Jane’s relationship with Max captures her sense of shame and guilt. Jane wanted to be a good mother but couldn’t “look Max in the eyes” because she feared that he would perceive her insecurity, fear, and doubt. Her understanding of herself and her love for Max changed over time, but at the time referred to in this passage, she was experiencing postpartum depression—a mental health condition that distanced Jane not only from Max but also from herself.

“You remember when you started painting about it. You remember, at first, the guilt of using him. You already had so much momentum, maybe you didn’t have to. But you did. Sometimes, you don’t get to choose. It came pouring out of you, you say. You remember stepping back, knowing it was something.”

Jane’s evolving relationship with her artwork after Max’s birth furthers the novel’s theme of the role of art in shaping identity. In translating her maternal experience via artistic creation, Jane began to process her postpartum depression and atypical experience of motherhood. While she felt guilty for using Max, expressing this relationship in her visual art felt like an emotional outpouring. She reconnected with herself for the first time since becoming a mother.

“Here I am. I am thinking about arc. This part, Alice, isn’t the twist and turn. The wrench or the climax, the part when the reader thinks they’ve got your number and you rehook them because you can. This was just a moment. I never should have done it or brought it up. This is a love story.”

Abe’s decisive tone in this passage conveys his desire to invalidate the significance of his relationship with Alice. He likens their dynamic to a narrative structure, referencing “arc,” “the twist and turn,” “the climax,” “the reader,” and the hook. His use of language conveys how Abe relies on literary devices to understand his own experience. He insists that Alice isn’t one of these elemental parts of his story because he believes that his and Jane’s story is more important.

“So, he says. As far as your work, I’m not sure the issue is arc. Ask him what the issue is. Surely, he says, you’re not writing the story you want to write. Wonder if this is your in. Or maybe a suggestion? Or maybe too much can actually be too much. Stop staring at his face.”

Abe’s writing advice for Alice contributes to the theme of the role of art in shaping identity. Abe encourages Alice to write what she “wants to write” instead of writing around it. For Alice, this means writing about her feelings for Abe—her attachment to Abe is entangled with her attachment to writing, both of which consume her sense of self when she’s in college.

“It was a trick of the eye or the mind or whatever. That’s when things go wild: the waves, the dips and doozies. There is more to life than floating, you think. There are patterns, drama, art. You want to start over. Or start again. You long for life, stirred. You write about all that.”

Alice’s writing process conveys her relationship with art and her desire to make sense of her life via writing. She wants to capture “the waves, the dips and doozies,” implying that she hopes storytelling can capture the ineffable and meandering aspects of her experience. Her use of language in this passage subtextually authenticates her relationship with storytelling, although she later abandons the practice.

“It is just that you have always imagined being with someone older, wiser, long dinners, skillful sex. Gravitas. You’ve imagined a short story, no surprise. Maybe this one. And perhaps that’s your main problem: the imagining. It gets in the way.”

For Alice, life and storytelling are nearly synonymous. Because she’s “imagined a short story” for herself, she attempts to live out this story in real time. The second-person point of view illustrates her work to bridge the gap between fiction and reality in order to realize her imaginings and dreams.

“Do not think of his wife. Do not think of the graduate school bills in your room, unopened, or what your mother would say […] or how you’re craving egg salad. Instead, think about how, in the beginning, you get to be seen. You get to show how brave, how complex, how uniquely yourself you are constantly.”

The second-person narrator employs an imperative mood and affects an instructive tone. Because the second-person pronouns are supplements for Alice’s first-person pronouns, Alice is telling herself what to do and how to navigate her relationship with Abe. She tells herself what not to think and what to think—formally capturing her dichotomous feelings and desire to remain in control.

“Soon, he puts his face into your neck. Soon, you cannot catch your breath or do you even have it? Is this the thing of getting older? you wonder. Or being a father? The lovingness of it. The care. When he kisses you, there is kindness and adeptness. And rhythm. His hands are everywhere; his arms are walls behind you. He is more capable than you imagined. Stronger. You imagine yourself falling. It won’t hurt. Or maybe it will. You don’t care.”

The way Alice describes her and Abe’s kiss enacts the significance of this intimate moment to her character. The kiss is defined by “wonder,” “lovingness,” “care,” “kindness,” and “adeptness”—emotions that evoke notions of tenderness. Although Alice knows that she may get hurt by becoming involved with Abe, the love she feels with and for him trumps the potential pain. The passage thus suggests that Alice is willing to take risks to satisfy her longing for comfort and care.

“Soon, you invent less. There is less cause. Comfort is intimacy. Intimacy is comfort. It doesn’t feel like giving up, and yet. It feels like an unscrewing of something.”

Alice’s decision to stop writing after Abe pushes her away implies that Alice’s love for Abe was entangled with her love for writing. Without Abe, she believes that there “is less cause” to continue telling stories, a notion that suggests that Alice’s attachment to her professor and fiction writing were more superficial than they originally appeared. The passage’s latter line complicates this notion: The image of “an unscrewing of something” evokes notions of looseness and loss. Alice lets go of writing along with Abe because she no longer feels like she has a right to identify as an artist without her connection to Abe.

“They were never a family per se. They were a triangle broken into lines. The one from him to his mother especially dashed. The one to his father intact, but faint. A really nice thing Max can say about his mother is that she would die for her art. A really nice thing he can say about his father is how much he loves her.”

The third-person limited narrator of Max’s chapter uses figurative language to convey the complexity of his familial relationships. Their family dynamic is likened to “a triangle broken into lines.” The line connecting Max to Jane is “especially dashed,” while the line connecting Max to Abe is “intact, but faint.” These images enact Max’s simultaneous connection to and distance from his parents—fraught relationships that trouble Max’s sense of self in the present.

“Sometimes, Max wonders if it is because of who Jaclyn is or because Max can’t be sure of who she is that he keeps on with her. She is so much shadow, or maybe so much light, that he’s unsure of the actual thing of her. And what is the connection, really? Some people are bound by mind, body, or heart. Never Max.”

Max holds himself at a distance from Jaclyn because he is afraid of intimacy. The passage contributes to the novel’s theme of The Evolution of Love and Relationships: While Max has had time to heal his relationship with Jane, he remains as removed from her as he is from Jaclyn. He justifies these emotional habits by suggesting that he is not the type of person who binds himself to another “by mind, body, or heart.” However, believing this myth about himself ultimately becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“Outside, Max and Jaclyn stand in the blinding sun. It feels as if they’ve just landed from outer space because of the light, but not only. There is a kebab cart and Max’s stomach growls. He looks at Jaclyn, who is wan, on a boat, headed downstream. He should just tell her how he feels. The truth is exposing and soft. He does not tell her. He cannot.”

Max’s relationship with and regard for Jaclyn reveals the truth of his character’s nature. He likens Jaclyn to a boat “headed downstream”—a metaphor that implies that she is drifting away from him and that he has no power to stop her. He does nothing to stop her from literally or figuratively floating away, even though he knows that he “should just tell her how he feels.” His fear of vulnerability and commitment keeps him from fostering healthy intimacy with others.

“She retains nothing. Creativity is slippery. Her work has suffered. She shuffles around in her studio, exhausted. She longs to nap but cannot get comfortable. […] She does not emote: cry or rage or laugh hysterically. Her face, too, as if to reflect her insides, has gone wan, especially around her eyes, as if she’s been powdered over, chalked.”

Jane’s experience of pregnancy draws her away from her artwork and compromises her sense of self, and this scene furthers the novel’s theme of the role of art in shaping identity as it reveals how her ability to create is linked with every aspect of her being. Jane has always identified as an artist, but because she feels uncomfortable, distracted, and disembodied during pregnancy, she feels disconnected from her life as an artist. The references to “powder” and “chalk” evoke notions of erasure, which captures the fragility of Jane’s artistic practice and sense of self during this era of her life.

“Jane was so young when she died. She didn’t know the right things to ask. Now those things are the only ones she feels she must know. The sky is bright and colorless, bleached with cold. Jane does not want a grapefruit. She wants to ask her mother what is coming: if it is, in fact, time. If she will be all right.”

Jane’s reflections on her late mother contribute to the theme of memory as a form of intimacy and connection. Jane remembers her mother on the day she gives birth to Max because she longs for closeness at a time when she feels alone. She wishes that her mother were by her side. In thinking about her, Jane draws up her memory and resurrects her comforting, guiding presence.

“Max’s cry comes through, but Jane yawns against it. She realizes: nothing hurts. She isn’t afraid of swirling into mud. There is an echo in the trees. There is a breeze. It is the world itself, she thinks, abiding. It does that when we make things. It says, Okay.”

When Jane begins to make art again, she returns to herself once more. She can hear Max crying, but she feels comfortable and at peace because she’s actively creating something new. The references to “yawns,” “trees,” and “a breeze” evoke notions of relaxation and calm and illustrate Jane’s feelings when she’s working. In these ways, the passage reinforces the role of art in shaping identity.

“There was someone else, he says. Abe opens his eyes. Jane closes hers. The world stops. The Park. For a moment, or maybe a hundred moments, it comes to a whirring, whizzing halt. Everything wobbles in response. The trees, Jane’s torso, her brain, the road. She can feel it in her neck but in her spine and throat too, which is instantly sickened. Whiplashed. It is so cold.”

The narrator’s use of figurative and descriptive language illustrates Jane’s emotional response to Abe’s revelation about Alice. While Abe sees his interactions with Alice as nothing, learning about her causes Jane to feel “a whirring, whizzing halt.” Everything around her “wobbles,” and she feels “sickened,” “whiplashed,” and “cold.” These physiological reactions convey the disruptive nature of Abe’s betrayal to Jane’s peace of mind, upending her balance and sense of reality.

“Either way, for now, Jane’s blood boils. She hasn’t been perfect but she has, at least, been honest. And so, she can hold on to this—she is allowed—this feeling for as long as she wants. To not forgive, surrender—but instead, to cut cut cut, make holes, make something while she still can. Jane Drew This When She Was Able.”

Jane’s decision to cut a slit into a page of Alice’s story captures her longing to make a mark, literally, before she dies. Although her blood is boiling, her act of revenge is small—one cut in one passage of Alice’s manuscript. However, even this small incision feels significant to Jane—she claims her place in both Abe’s and Alice’s stories via the act of making something new.

“Oh, Jane, I say. I cover my face. I don’t know how to tell you that there has never been fault between us. Or at least never anything specific. You were. I was. We have always just been water, slipping through holes.”

Abe’s use of direct syntax and diction enacts his desire to put Jane at ease. He dismisses her concerns about her role in his affair by prioritizing the importance of their connection. He likens their love for each other to “water, slipping through holes”—a metaphor that evokes notions of gravity, ease, and natural movement. The metaphor captures the way that Abe sees the evolution of love and relationships over time.

“If you are still breathing, you are still listening. If you stop breathing: that’s how you know. The difference between stopping and ending is that one is intentional. Anything can be a beginning if you say it right. Any moment can be the end.”

This reflective passage furthers the novel’s theme of memory as a form of intimacy and connection. Abe is reluctant to stop remembering even when Jane passes away because he fears that if he stops, he’ll break his connection with his wife. Memory has kept them together, and he doesn’t want this connection to end in death or silence.