The suggestion of familiarity – deja vu – is all author Jennifer Egan needs to animate this contemporary novel with gothic vibes. Without that human connection, the obligatory set pieces of moldering castle, remote eastern European woodland and demented baroness would feel like the trappings of a carnival fun house. The castle has been purchased by Howie, Danny's estranged cousin. Howie hopes to renovate it. Danny approaches: “He'd never been to a castle before or even this part of the world, but something about it all was familiar to Danny. He seemed to remember the place from a long time ago, not like he'd been here exactly but from a dream or a book.” (p.3). Toward the climactic ending, a different character expresses similar feelings: “A big iron gate, two towers, a slide door leading inside. All of it so familiar it's like I'm coming back for the second time.” (p.234)
Two stories intertwine here. We wonder who Danny is, really. Why has Howie invited him after all these years? Egan glides back and forth seamlessly between this dark gothic gloom and the prison where Ray is incarcerated. To sever the monotony and gain some relief from his cellmate Davis, Ray has enrolled in a creative writing class. Their teacher is enigmatic. She has taken great pains to create an opaque personality, one that Ray is drawn to by both curiosity and a sense of the painful secrets she is hiding.
How does Egan prevent a loss of tension between the two stories? The intensity of her characters captures our emotions. There is a thin line between passion and obsession, and Howard seems to have crossed it. His top assistant, Mick, is a brooding presence at times both a devotee and an enabler. At the prison Ray is constantly on high alert. Every prisoner is a hair's breadth away from psychotic meltdown.
The imagery shape-shifts through different contexts. Danny, like Ray, is highly attuned to the social pecking order. His wariness, combined with the uncertainties of his role spill into paranoia. Ray's wariness flows in the opposite direction, an obsession to connect with the persona Holly is concealing. Mick's arm is scarred with needle track marks; Tom-Tom, another inmate in the class, is described as a “meth freak”. (p.53) Davis, Ray's cellmate, “invents” a radio. It's really a painted shoebox which he contends with infectious conviction captures the voices of the dead: “All that love, all that pain, all the stuff people feel – not just me and you, brother, but everyone, everyone who's ever walked this beautiful green planet – how can all that disappear when somebody dies? It can't disappear, it's too big. Too strong, too ...permanent. So it moves to another frequency, where the human ear can't pick it up. (p.97-98) For us, he echoes the baroness in Danny's story, who declares she is the sum of generations of ancestors, all of whom live inside of her, literally.
Egan transfigures the idea of twins. The castle's tragic history recounts the drowning of two children. The intertwined bodies of the twins were discovered when the murky waters of a large pool were finally drained. Davis shares his “radio” after reading the hidden pages of Ray's creative writing manuscript. Impressed with Ray's breach of the boundary between the real and the imaginative, he declares they are like twins. Egan briefly merges the two stories in a startling conversation between Danny and Ray: “'Where the fuck did you come from?'....'We're twins. There's no separating us.'....And then he started to talk, whispering in my ear. Underneath me, Davis lay on his tray with the orange radio pushed up against his head. His eyes were shut. He turned the knobs, listening.” (p.209)
Bit by bit, Egan dissolves reality's boundaries. Blurred figures seen through Ray's prison window clarify. The illusion of the baroness as a young girl changes: “With every step Danny took, the lady aged – her blond hair whitened out, her skin kind of liquified and the dress paunched and drooped like a time-lapse picture of a flower dying.” (p.79)
The novel teases us. We become obsessed with the relationship between Ray the author, and the story he is writing. He claims its just a story someone told him, but the details and psychological intensity suggest this is in some way autobiographical.
Egan's novel juxtaposes the 24/7 connectivity technology has given us with an insurmountable anomie. Through her characters she presents technology as a binary straight-jacket offering only a menu of choices like a series of on/off switches. It's a simple thesis argued in a compelling and creative intertwining of stories.