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A review by aleawrites
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
5.0
I’ve spent the past two days mulling over how I would “advocate” for this book to someone who hasn’t read it, yet. Typed a few words in the notes app on my phone. Deleted them. Typed again. Nothing sounded right. I shared the same sentiment as Francie Nolan when she attempted to write one of her essays for class, unsatisfied with the results, she thought, “They sounded like words that came in a can; the freshness was cooked out of them.”
Even now my efforts seem moot because this isn’t the kind of book that made me want to squeal out of love for it, shaking my fist at the next poor stranger who enters the bookshop I work at about how this is “A MUST READ!!!” That feels like a disservice for some reason, even though that’s exactly what I’m trying to get you to do.
In my copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Anna Quindlen pens a foreword that’s probably the closest to accurate as one could describe the book:
“When it first appeared, in 1943, it was called, by those critics who liked it, an honest book, and that is accurate as far as it goes. But it is more than that: It is deeply, indelibly true. Honesty is casting a bright light on your experience; truth is casting it on the experiences of all.”
And later adds, “It is not a showy book from a literary point of view. Its pages are not larded with metaphor or simile or the sound of the writer’s voice in love with its own music. Its glory is in the clear-eyed descriptions of its scenes and people.”
I can feel Francie’s story sitting heavy on my chest, because it’s mine. And probably yours, too. Which goes without saying, if you won’t take my word for it, take hers.
Even now my efforts seem moot because this isn’t the kind of book that made me want to squeal out of love for it, shaking my fist at the next poor stranger who enters the bookshop I work at about how this is “A MUST READ!!!” That feels like a disservice for some reason, even though that’s exactly what I’m trying to get you to do.
In my copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Anna Quindlen pens a foreword that’s probably the closest to accurate as one could describe the book:
“When it first appeared, in 1943, it was called, by those critics who liked it, an honest book, and that is accurate as far as it goes. But it is more than that: It is deeply, indelibly true. Honesty is casting a bright light on your experience; truth is casting it on the experiences of all.”
And later adds, “It is not a showy book from a literary point of view. Its pages are not larded with metaphor or simile or the sound of the writer’s voice in love with its own music. Its glory is in the clear-eyed descriptions of its scenes and people.”
I can feel Francie’s story sitting heavy on my chest, because it’s mine. And probably yours, too. Which goes without saying, if you won’t take my word for it, take hers.