So often with a memoir, or a seeming memoir, you will hear
that it is “intensely personal,” as when a strong emotion affects one’s
thoughts and behavior. Such does not apply to Mary Olivier: A Life. The novel evokes restrained Victorian mores,
and deals with religious doubt, and propounds a variety of philosophical and
scientific thought. Its treatment of these themes gives one a brush with some
fairly recondite concepts, but when the potentially true shining insight
finally cracks through (in the book’s last handful of paragraphs), I was worn
out waiting for it.
Mary Olivier the character displays cleverness and a certain
stubborn rebelliousness in matters of conscience and religion. She worries her
mother when, just starting her teen years, she reads Spinoza and Kant, and
annoys her by concluding that the Christian God is only a small example, and
not a very good one, of the divine. Mary follows her own compass through her
life, but does not behave in any outrageous way, when it comes right down to
it. She stays home to care for her mother, living with her into her forties.
The events of Mary’s life are relayed in fits and starts, always with the
backdrop of the philosophical strands of her thought. Mary is certainly a
spirited creature, and ultimately I admire her courage in facing so many people
and societal strictures that worked so assiduously to shut her up.
As a reading experience I found Mary unrewarding. The philosophic milieu into which Mary thrusts
herself and the reader held promise, but in the end there was precious little
of it discussed. If it had been more prominent, the book would have difficulty
qualifying as fiction, I guess. Mary’s ultimate insights are what set her apart
as a fictional heroine: if there is happiness to be had, you will find it
within yourself, not in people or objects that are outside of you. I suggest
you pass.
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