Reviewed by Jason R. Freeman
Timed to coincide with the release of her debut novel The Miracles of Ordinary Men, Hamilton writer Amanda Leduc published an article in the National Post entitled “Writing sex in the age of Fifty Shades of Grey” on May 9. Despite my admiration for Leduc’s snagging a promo article in a national paper, I feel I must begin by being unequivocal: Miracles is not a sexy book. In fact, the sex constitutes one of the novel’s most problematic elements.
Miracles does not suffer from a lack of ambition, taking on themes of God, faith, guilt, destiny, duty, family, and, yes, sex. The novel falls within the genre confines of magical realism, or, as one of Leduc’s jacket blurbers puts it, “fantastic realism,” and alternates between two third-person perspectives: Sam, a school teacher, who has suddenly sprouted wings that are visible only to some, and Lilah, a young woman consumed by guilt, blaming herself for her younger brother’s homelessness on the streets of Vancouver.
On the level of crafting sentences, Leduc is certainly accomplished. The novel moves quickly, Leduc’s sentences light and spry, her descriptions keen and economical: “Stacy was fond of low-cut blouses. The skin above her breasts was freckled, as though someone had flicked a brush of light brown paint against her flesh, one final flourish.”
Of the two perspectives, insofar as they can be independently considered, Sam’s is the more successful. The novel begins in medias res as Sam resurrects his dead pet cat, this being one of the powers that apparently accompany his newly grown set of wings. Soon after, Sam contacts his childhood priest, Father Jim, looking for guidance. The bulk of Sam’s half of the book has the pair discussing God, as Sam attempts to discern what the wings could possibly mean for his future.
The novel begins with chapter 10 (Lilah’s chapters are numbered similarly, but with Roman numerals) and counts down, a simple yet surprisingly effective gambit to emphasize the fact that the entire book is building towards a single scene. As Sam’s physical body transforms, Leduc builds tension, a not inconsiderable feat considering the lack of incident in most of Sam’s chapters.
Lilah, the novel’s other protagonist, works as an assistant in an office, “administrative sludge,” as she puts it, an excellent turn of phrase whose power is unfortunately dulled by its continual redeployment. Lilah’s half of the novel is mainly concerned with interactions with her brother, the homeless lost soul Timothy, and her mother, who is dying of cancer. As in Sam’s chapters, God pops up everywhere: Timothy ponders his own place in the universe, claiming “No one can help me but God,” and Lilah’s mother laments the fact that Lilah has strayed so far from the church.
Perhaps inevitably, the stories of Sam and Lilah intersect, and the way Leduc connects the two stories works extremely well—the connection is surprising, but, once revealed, seems as though it should have been obvious to an attentive reader.
Early in the novel, Lilah enters into a romantic relationship with her boss, Israel. Yes, dear reader, here comes the sex—I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. The book’s jacket describes Lilah and Israel’s relationship as Lilah “seeking penance under the harsh hand of her boss.” Harsh hand, indeed—most encounters between Lilah and Israel proceed thusly: they go on a traditional date (dinner at a restaurant, etc.), they return to Israel’s house, Israel physically assaults Lilah, and then they have sex. At least, I assume they have sex—in the majority of cases, Leduc elides the actual act. (In fact, I wasn’t certain their relationship was indeed a sexual one until, 100-plus pages into the novel, Lilah thinks back on one of their encounters and remembers “Israel, above her. Israel, around her, inside of her, everywhere.”)
In the Post article, Leduc admits the book has “only a few sex scenes.” However, by my count, Miracles contains but a single scene of sex, and it lasts all of a sentence: “They fuck quickly, on Roberta’s bed, with the breeze coming in from the window.” What the book has, in spades, is scenes of violence, such as the one that precedes the sex quoted above: “he backhands her, casually, but with enough force to send her reeling over the bed … he hits her in the stomach, a fist down into her solar plexus. She moans and crumples into a ball on the bed.”
So, the sex itself exists as a bit of a bait and switch. What really interests Leduc is the violence—more, specifically, the pain Israel inflicts upon Lilah. Leduc attempts to connect this pain to the very Catholic idea of the value of suffering: “Teresa of Avila beat herself and saw God; so too might Lilah’s own penance bring with it visions of something else. A better world? A life where she is stronger, more than equal to her sins?” Obviously, Leduc wants the reader to compare Sam’s transformation with the transformation that Lilah herself is undergoing with Israel: “perhaps Israel is making her into a different person altogether now, with every slap of his hand.”
On the fantastic side of the fantastic realism equation, this comparison may work fine: God is visiting suffering upon Lilah that will enable her to transcend her guilt. When viewed realistically, however, a major problem reveals itself. The crucial difference between Lilah and Teresa of Avila, or Christina of Retter, a mystic who “burned her vagina with a glowing piece of wood, and called the pain her doorway to God,” is that these historical figures chose their pain. But Lilah’s pain is being forced upon her by Israel. Lilah does not consent.
It is possible for one to interpret certain passages, such as Lilah thinking that “Perhaps she will emerge from his hands like a newborn, her guilt burned away… all she has to do is lie still, and let him bring it to her,” as proof of Lilah’s consent. However, another equally viable interpretation is that Lilah is simply justifying, to herself, the abuse of her partner, the classic action of a battered woman. Other examples point to this conclusion: Lilah lies about her relationship with Israel to friends; she hides her bruises with scarves. Lilah and Israel’s relationship seems obviously abusive.
So, the novel seems to posit the idea that Lilah needs Israel’s abuse—needs him to take her to this place of pain where she can finally meet God, and transform herself into the new person she will become. This idea, that Lilah will be improved by living through an abusive relationship, is not only anti-feminist, it makes the book an apologia for abusive men.
Of course, I don’t seriously think Leduc wants to condone domestic violence. I admit that my interpretation is an uncharitable one. However, I present it as a way of underlining the logical muddle that Lilah and Israel’s relationship presents to the reader, and the mental contortions one must undertake to make any sense of it whatsoever, as evidence of the tenuous grasp Leduc has on the core themes of her novel.
Assuming a reader is able to set aside the major thematic (and ideological) issues raised by Lilah and Israel’s interactions, their relationship is narratively problematic, as well. Beyond the admittedly well-rendered shock of the initial violence, Lilah and Israel’s relationship just isn’t very interesting. Leduc establishes a dynamic during their first encounter that she never veers from in any later scene. Though the violence increases in intensity, their relationship never develops—every scene is essentially a repetition of a previous one.
In fact, after the reveal of the two stories’ intersection, which occurs approximately two-thirds of the way through, all of the novel’s scenes begin to feel like repetitions of previous ones. Sam and Father Jim have the same conversation over and over, as they simply wait for something to happen, and the tension and momentum that Leduc has built drains away. The novel’s climax feels inevitable, but it arrives without the weighty, implacable air of fate. By novel’s end, the narrative currents propelling the characters have weakened to a dribble, and Sam and Lilah allow themselves to be passively carried along. Considering they appear in a novel focused on transformation, Leduc’s protagonists are distressingly static, both narratively and psychologically.
In an interview, British novelist Pat Barker said, “if you write a novel about characters sitting around a table discussing free will, it is not a novel about free will but about sitting around a table… the only ideas that matter in a novel are the ideas which find expression in the choices characters make under pressure and the actions they take as a result of those choices.” The Miracles of Ordinary Men, despite containing a character growing wings out of his back and many (many) scenes of sexy violence, is nonetheless essentially a novel about characters sitting around a table, or on a park bench, or in a church pew. They talk about God and faith, but they make no choices of their own that might further explore these themes. Like her characters, Leduc talks around and around profound topics, but never reaches any meaningful conclusions.
ECW | 328 pages | $18.95 | paper | ISBN # 9978-1770411111
‘The Miracles of Ordinary Men’ by Amanda Leduc
Book Reviews
Timed to coincide with the release of her debut novel The Miracles of Ordinary Men, Hamilton writer Amanda Leduc published an article in the National Post entitled “Writing sex in the age of Fifty Shades of Grey” on May 9. Despite my admiration for Leduc’s snagging a promo article in a national paper, I feel I must begin by being unequivocal: Miracles is not a sexy book. In fact, the sex constitutes one of the novel’s most problematic elements.
Miracles does not suffer from a lack of ambition, taking on themes of God, faith, guilt, destiny, duty, family, and, yes, sex. The novel falls within the genre confines of magical realism, or, as one of Leduc’s jacket blurbers puts it, “fantastic realism,” and alternates between two third-person perspectives: Sam, a school teacher, who has suddenly sprouted wings that are visible only to some, and Lilah, a young woman consumed by guilt, blaming herself for her younger brother’s homelessness on the streets of Vancouver.
On the level of crafting sentences, Leduc is certainly accomplished. The novel moves quickly, Leduc’s sentences light and spry, her descriptions keen and economical: “Stacy was fond of low-cut blouses. The skin above her breasts was freckled, as though someone had flicked a brush of light brown paint against her flesh, one final flourish.”
Of the two perspectives, insofar as they can be independently considered, Sam’s is the more successful. The novel begins in medias res as Sam resurrects his dead pet cat, this being one of the powers that apparently accompany his newly grown set of wings. Soon after, Sam contacts his childhood priest, Father Jim, looking for guidance. The bulk of Sam’s half of the book has the pair discussing God, as Sam attempts to discern what the wings could possibly mean for his future.
The novel begins with chapter 10 (Lilah’s chapters are numbered similarly, but with Roman numerals) and counts down, a simple yet surprisingly effective gambit to emphasize the fact that the entire book is building towards a single scene. As Sam’s physical body transforms, Leduc builds tension, a not inconsiderable feat considering the lack of incident in most of Sam’s chapters.
Lilah, the novel’s other protagonist, works as an assistant in an office, “administrative sludge,” as she puts it, an excellent turn of phrase whose power is unfortunately dulled by its continual redeployment. Lilah’s half of the novel is mainly concerned with interactions with her brother, the homeless lost soul Timothy, and her mother, who is dying of cancer. As in Sam’s chapters, God pops up everywhere: Timothy ponders his own place in the universe, claiming “No one can help me but God,” and Lilah’s mother laments the fact that Lilah has strayed so far from the church.
Perhaps inevitably, the stories of Sam and Lilah intersect, and the way Leduc connects the two stories works extremely well—the connection is surprising, but, once revealed, seems as though it should have been obvious to an attentive reader.
Early in the novel, Lilah enters into a romantic relationship with her boss, Israel. Yes, dear reader, here comes the sex—I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. The book’s jacket describes Lilah and Israel’s relationship as Lilah “seeking penance under the harsh hand of her boss.” Harsh hand, indeed—most encounters between Lilah and Israel proceed thusly: they go on a traditional date (dinner at a restaurant, etc.), they return to Israel’s house, Israel physically assaults Lilah, and then they have sex. At least, I assume they have sex—in the majority of cases, Leduc elides the actual act. (In fact, I wasn’t certain their relationship was indeed a sexual one until, 100-plus pages into the novel, Lilah thinks back on one of their encounters and remembers “Israel, above her. Israel, around her, inside of her, everywhere.”)
In the Post article, Leduc admits the book has “only a few sex scenes.” However, by my count, Miracles contains but a single scene of sex, and it lasts all of a sentence: “They fuck quickly, on Roberta’s bed, with the breeze coming in from the window.” What the book has, in spades, is scenes of violence, such as the one that precedes the sex quoted above: “he backhands her, casually, but with enough force to send her reeling over the bed … he hits her in the stomach, a fist down into her solar plexus. She moans and crumples into a ball on the bed.”
So, the sex itself exists as a bit of a bait and switch. What really interests Leduc is the violence—more, specifically, the pain Israel inflicts upon Lilah. Leduc attempts to connect this pain to the very Catholic idea of the value of suffering: “Teresa of Avila beat herself and saw God; so too might Lilah’s own penance bring with it visions of something else. A better world? A life where she is stronger, more than equal to her sins?” Obviously, Leduc wants the reader to compare Sam’s transformation with the transformation that Lilah herself is undergoing with Israel: “perhaps Israel is making her into a different person altogether now, with every slap of his hand.”
On the fantastic side of the fantastic realism equation, this comparison may work fine: God is visiting suffering upon Lilah that will enable her to transcend her guilt. When viewed realistically, however, a major problem reveals itself. The crucial difference between Lilah and Teresa of Avila, or Christina of Retter, a mystic who “burned her vagina with a glowing piece of wood, and called the pain her doorway to God,” is that these historical figures chose their pain. But Lilah’s pain is being forced upon her by Israel. Lilah does not consent.
It is possible for one to interpret certain passages, such as Lilah thinking that “Perhaps she will emerge from his hands like a newborn, her guilt burned away… all she has to do is lie still, and let him bring it to her,” as proof of Lilah’s consent. However, another equally viable interpretation is that Lilah is simply justifying, to herself, the abuse of her partner, the classic action of a battered woman. Other examples point to this conclusion: Lilah lies about her relationship with Israel to friends; she hides her bruises with scarves. Lilah and Israel’s relationship seems obviously abusive.
So, the novel seems to posit the idea that Lilah needs Israel’s abuse—needs him to take her to this place of pain where she can finally meet God, and transform herself into the new person she will become. This idea, that Lilah will be improved by living through an abusive relationship, is not only anti-feminist, it makes the book an apologia for abusive men.
Of course, I don’t seriously think Leduc wants to condone domestic violence. I admit that my interpretation is an uncharitable one. However, I present it as a way of underlining the logical muddle that Lilah and Israel’s relationship presents to the reader, and the mental contortions one must undertake to make any sense of it whatsoever, as evidence of the tenuous grasp Leduc has on the core themes of her novel.
Assuming a reader is able to set aside the major thematic (and ideological) issues raised by Lilah and Israel’s interactions, their relationship is narratively problematic, as well. Beyond the admittedly well-rendered shock of the initial violence, Lilah and Israel’s relationship just isn’t very interesting. Leduc establishes a dynamic during their first encounter that she never veers from in any later scene. Though the violence increases in intensity, their relationship never develops—every scene is essentially a repetition of a previous one.
In fact, after the reveal of the two stories’ intersection, which occurs approximately two-thirds of the way through, all of the novel’s scenes begin to feel like repetitions of previous ones. Sam and Father Jim have the same conversation over and over, as they simply wait for something to happen, and the tension and momentum that Leduc has built drains away. The novel’s climax feels inevitable, but it arrives without the weighty, implacable air of fate. By novel’s end, the narrative currents propelling the characters have weakened to a dribble, and Sam and Lilah allow themselves to be passively carried along. Considering they appear in a novel focused on transformation, Leduc’s protagonists are distressingly static, both narratively and psychologically.
In an interview, British novelist Pat Barker said, “if you write a novel about characters sitting around a table discussing free will, it is not a novel about free will but about sitting around a table… the only ideas that matter in a novel are the ideas which find expression in the choices characters make under pressure and the actions they take as a result of those choices.” The Miracles of Ordinary Men, despite containing a character growing wings out of his back and many (many) scenes of sexy violence, is nonetheless essentially a novel about characters sitting around a table, or on a park bench, or in a church pew. They talk about God and faith, but they make no choices of their own that might further explore these themes. Like her characters, Leduc talks around and around profound topics, but never reaches any meaningful conclusions.
ECW | 328 pages | $18.95 | paper | ISBN # 9978-1770411111