‘The Theory of Light at Midnight’ by Elizabeth Ukrainetz
Posted: February 29, 2016
Book Reviews
Reviewed by David McGregor
The Theory of Light at Midnight, from Tightrope Books, is the second novel from Torontonian Elizabeth Ukrainetz. After a book of poetry called Baby I Love You in 1993, Ukrainetz quickly followed with the novel Minor Assumptions in 1994. The Theory of Light at Midnight brings Ukrainetz back into the world of Canadian fiction after a twenty-year hiatus.
The novel is a temporally and structurally fragmented look at the inner life of a woman named Magda, who in her preteens was abducted by a neighbour and held in captivity for a year. Ukrainetz deftly steps outside of time and linear structure in order to convey how the trauma Magda experienced resurfaces throughout her adult life, causing her to suffer again and again long after the initial ordeal is over. Just as Magda is often blindsided by surfacing memories or sensory connection to her trauma, the reader navigates a similarly unpredictable narrative landscape where the stability of traditional form is elusive, if at all present.
It is Ukrainetz’ skillful handling of time and ellipsis that are the most satisfying aspect of the novel. There are perfectly weighted ellipses sprinkled throughout the book that help to contrast the circularity of the prose. For example, in this quote she jumps through half of a year without any unnecessary padding: “His hand in my lap, on my hip as I wake, glowing orange in the middle of January. August.” That time can pass like this, indiscernibly and without comment, reflects Magda’s own disconnection from her family and friends and from society more generally. Magda’s observations of the world around her very quickly spread out into nature and beyond, beginning with an image that repeatedly unfolds, ever-broadening, to the point of dissolution: “The current of it drifts through the streets, around buildings, catches momentum and rolls into fields, the atmosphere.” Much of Ukrainetz’ prose succeeds in communicating how Magda is slipping away from the external world, but she is also increasingly separate from her own emotions and a conception of self—isolated from the world and from her own fragmented self.
The cascading approach to imagery keeps the reader connected to Magda’s central difficulty and her perpetual withdrawal. However, as the novel progresses this approach begins to feel repetitive and, as a result, staying with the drift of time and broadening focus becomes a challenge in itself. There are passages that threaten to meander too far from specificity to allow the reader to come along for the ride. It also becomes difficult to value and weigh each moment.
The cover art (by Siovhon Morgan) depicts a figure curled up with its knees held to the chest and the face turned away, not visible. It appears to be an act of self-protection or self-consolation. The harsh and primal lines of the painting suggest violation, fear and abuse. It is unclear if the act of abuse is happening, has happened or will continue to happen. The figure seems to hover on the horizon, halfway between the stars and the earth.
The image is suggestive of the ambition of the novel. Ukrainetz hopes to convey the intimate inner life of a figure that has sealed itself off and floats outside of time and space. The abused figure needs to be untouchable, to have some corner of themselves that is beyond the reach of the abuser, to separate themselves from reality. Magda’s inner life is dormant and unreachable even for herself. The expansive descriptions that Ukrainetz offers project out from inside Magda and dissolve into the ether. At some point it becomes questionable what we glean from these widening expanses. Certainly the void inside the character is wrapped up in all of this, but the scope of what Ukrainetz is exploring cries out for more specificity. The imagery feels like it plateaus midway through the novel and there is nowhere else to go that can tell us anything more.
Ukrainetz often paints the images and scenes in a way that suggests a two-dimensional view of the world, which is wonderfully complementary to Magda’s difficulty with engagement. Every scene feels like a fixed moment, motion feels like a disembodied or suggested part of each scene. It is very much like looking at a photograph or a painting: the longer your engagement, the richer your experience will be. But it is also a challenge. “If I looked up—and I would not look up, except in a startle—all surfaces glossed into planes of light and colour, brittle, un-shattered. Impenetrable.”
In a description of an approaching bus the language is also focused on the flattening of space: “The near-distance and the far-distance fuse into a solid plane. At its centre a red and yellow capsule appears and expands until it fills the field of vision. I step into the red plane, drop a ticket into a glass box, nod to images of people.” While these images are indicative of Magda’s inner life, there is a mounting feeling of anticipation to get beyond them.
Though the novel succeeds in conveying a strong sense of Magda’s central struggle, the contemplative observations begin to feel unconcerned with precision of detail or the challenge of pushing into new territory. While Ukrainetz shows us the edges of the frame, the details within her narrative are not always explored in a way that let us in on their mysteries. We are left with a strong suggestion of what the character has and is experiencing, but a specific connection to Magda remains beyond our grasp.
‘The Theory of Light at Midnight’ by Elizabeth Ukrainetz
Book Reviews
The Theory of Light at Midnight, from Tightrope Books, is the second novel from Torontonian Elizabeth Ukrainetz. After a book of poetry called Baby I Love You in 1993, Ukrainetz quickly followed with the novel Minor Assumptions in 1994. The Theory of Light at Midnight brings Ukrainetz back into the world of Canadian fiction after a twenty-year hiatus.
The novel is a temporally and structurally fragmented look at the inner life of a woman named Magda, who in her preteens was abducted by a neighbour and held in captivity for a year. Ukrainetz deftly steps outside of time and linear structure in order to convey how the trauma Magda experienced resurfaces throughout her adult life, causing her to suffer again and again long after the initial ordeal is over. Just as Magda is often blindsided by surfacing memories or sensory connection to her trauma, the reader navigates a similarly unpredictable narrative landscape where the stability of traditional form is elusive, if at all present.
It is Ukrainetz’ skillful handling of time and ellipsis that are the most satisfying aspect of the novel. There are perfectly weighted ellipses sprinkled throughout the book that help to contrast the circularity of the prose. For example, in this quote she jumps through half of a year without any unnecessary padding: “His hand in my lap, on my hip as I wake, glowing orange in the middle of January. August.” That time can pass like this, indiscernibly and without comment, reflects Magda’s own disconnection from her family and friends and from society more generally. Magda’s observations of the world around her very quickly spread out into nature and beyond, beginning with an image that repeatedly unfolds, ever-broadening, to the point of dissolution: “The current of it drifts through the streets, around buildings, catches momentum and rolls into fields, the atmosphere.” Much of Ukrainetz’ prose succeeds in communicating how Magda is slipping away from the external world, but she is also increasingly separate from her own emotions and a conception of self—isolated from the world and from her own fragmented self.
The cascading approach to imagery keeps the reader connected to Magda’s central difficulty and her perpetual withdrawal. However, as the novel progresses this approach begins to feel repetitive and, as a result, staying with the drift of time and broadening focus becomes a challenge in itself. There are passages that threaten to meander too far from specificity to allow the reader to come along for the ride. It also becomes difficult to value and weigh each moment.
The cover art (by Siovhon Morgan) depicts a figure curled up with its knees held to the chest and the face turned away, not visible. It appears to be an act of self-protection or self-consolation. The harsh and primal lines of the painting suggest violation, fear and abuse. It is unclear if the act of abuse is happening, has happened or will continue to happen. The figure seems to hover on the horizon, halfway between the stars and the earth.
The image is suggestive of the ambition of the novel. Ukrainetz hopes to convey the intimate inner life of a figure that has sealed itself off and floats outside of time and space. The abused figure needs to be untouchable, to have some corner of themselves that is beyond the reach of the abuser, to separate themselves from reality. Magda’s inner life is dormant and unreachable even for herself. The expansive descriptions that Ukrainetz offers project out from inside Magda and dissolve into the ether. At some point it becomes questionable what we glean from these widening expanses. Certainly the void inside the character is wrapped up in all of this, but the scope of what Ukrainetz is exploring cries out for more specificity. The imagery feels like it plateaus midway through the novel and there is nowhere else to go that can tell us anything more.
Ukrainetz often paints the images and scenes in a way that suggests a two-dimensional view of the world, which is wonderfully complementary to Magda’s difficulty with engagement. Every scene feels like a fixed moment, motion feels like a disembodied or suggested part of each scene. It is very much like looking at a photograph or a painting: the longer your engagement, the richer your experience will be. But it is also a challenge. “If I looked up—and I would not look up, except in a startle—all surfaces glossed into planes of light and colour, brittle, un-shattered. Impenetrable.”
In a description of an approaching bus the language is also focused on the flattening of space: “The near-distance and the far-distance fuse into a solid plane. At its centre a red and yellow capsule appears and expands until it fills the field of vision. I step into the red plane, drop a ticket into a glass box, nod to images of people.” While these images are indicative of Magda’s inner life, there is a mounting feeling of anticipation to get beyond them.
Though the novel succeeds in conveying a strong sense of Magda’s central struggle, the contemplative observations begin to feel unconcerned with precision of detail or the challenge of pushing into new territory. While Ukrainetz shows us the edges of the frame, the details within her narrative are not always explored in a way that let us in on their mysteries. We are left with a strong suggestion of what the character has and is experiencing, but a specific connection to Magda remains beyond our grasp.
Tightrope Books | 270 pages | $21.95 | paper | ISBN# 978-1926639864