Bitters
by Mary Walters
NeWest Publishers, 1999
Review by Jason Millar
Perhaps the ever-encroaching list of reruns appearing in the daily
television listings is a sign that ours is a time of nostalgia. Rather,
our top-heavy population might be labouring under the misconception that
endless repetition is the best way to combat Alzheimer's-a theory that
may subsequently drive the rest of us soft in the brain. Whatever the
disease, one of the undeniable symptoms of cultural stagnation is the
release of books, in trade paperback format (as if to fool us all), like
Mary Walters' Bitters.
In it, Maggie Townsend, the wife of a small-town Alberta politician,
and employee at a local arts and crafts store, is unexpectedly reunited
with an old friend-ex-hippie and intellectual, Zeke Avery-who sweeps her
off her feet during a short rendezvous at a local coffee shop. But Maggie's
husband, Archie, is embroiled in a political scandal that threatens to
end his career, so she finds herself torn between a new love and loyalty
to her husband. Throughout the book, Maggie searches for guidance and
comfort from her ostensibly enigmatic, dead grandmother, while nursing
an annoying habit of slugging bitters as a short-term cure-all for her
problems.
Eccentric? Not quite. Characters are only somewhat developed by the
last page, confusing most of their motivations throughout the book, while
the style Walters uses to describe places, people, and events is under-developed
and somewhat cliché. Take the opening paragraph-the first impression a
novel makes on its reader-where it is "a chilly night in the middle of
March", and Maggie's husband has drawn "a heavy turnout" for his political
speech.
The language is poorly crafted, and draws the reader into the setting
on a very superficial level. Clichés abound, especially surrounding the
"intense" ex-hippie drifter and accomplished writer, Zeke Avery. A short
list: he lives in a rented cabin outside of town, writes books so deep
that only he understands them, and goes "off the edge" on a drinking binge
when his novel in progress gets "too big". That he keeps "a dog-eared
copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" on his stove (possibly
for quick reference) is troubling, though admittedly on a personal level.
It is the absence of creativity that marks this book, more than the content
itself.
Waiting for a moment of thoughtful insight or simply an original phrase,
to no end but the last page, is a frustrating process for any reader to
undergo. Reading is, however, a form of entertainment, a fact that provides
Bitters a place of refuge from too severe a criticism. It is not
akin to the myriad of Harlequin romances on the bookshelves of tobacco-store
newsstands (though the character of Zeke makes you suspect that Mary Walters
researched a few before diving into this book), but fails to convince
the reader like more carefully crafted works deserving of the tag 'literature'.
Consider it ultra low-fat fiction-a television sit-com's papery cousin.
Jason
Millar lived in Toronto when he wrote this review.
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