Blythe's Book 1: Cleaving by Julie Powell

Every once in a while I come across a book that I can’t put down, even though I desperately want to. Cleaving, by Julie Powell, is one of those books. I first fell in love, or at least deep like, with Julie in her memoir, Julie and Julia. I loved her dry wit, her spazzy panic attacks when things didn’t go as expected, her casual use of profanity—as you may guess, I felt like I’d found a kindred spirit. Perhaps what really won me over, though, was the relationship she and her husband, Eric, had built. They’d been together since high school and just seemed so in sync. Two sides to the same coin. When she broke down, he made her laugh; when she was stressed, he opened a bottle (or two) of wine; when she pulled some bullshit crybaby fit, he told her to buck up and get over it. He didn’t take her crap, but he loved her for it. In other words, if I fell in love with Julie, I fell in love with Eric as well.

So. Imagine how painful a follow-up would be if said favorite couple went from being cozy in a rundown NY loft, cooking and slumming together to living in separate apartments, leading separate lives, as Julie has both meaningful and meaningless sexual encounters with men as she tries to figure out what she wants. Don’t worry—I’m not giving away anything you wouldn’t pick up on in, oh say, the first chapter. Julie runs into an old college “friend,” begins a torrid affair (complete with graphic descriptions), and when it fizzles out, finds herself making some painfully destructive decisions as she navigates what comes after. Never does she let Eric go, though, nor does he choose to leave, which makes it all the harder to continue reading.

It’s not that I’m so prudish or conventional that I can’t stand the thought of reading about infidelity. Heck, there have been plenty of times a kinky little affair in a novel has intrigued me, kept me interested in the plot. And, as many of you know, I am a closet-addict of “General Hospital”… so I can handle fictional indiscretions just fine. The problem lies in the fact that this was not fictional—not a plot device, or a silly fantasy. This was Julie and Eric, struggling, unwilling or unable to call it quits, and so, instead, torturing and healing each other in turns.

I will admit, from a literary standpoint, the butcher analogy does work. As Julie tears her life apart and then tries to transform the bits of gristle and bone into something beautiful, I did see that taking shape. Although I started out HATING this book, and wanting to find Julie and punch her in the face, I was left a bit more conflicted; maybe it’s not her job to get it all right, or to be Eric’s perfect match. Maybe all she, and we, can do is try to learn, and grow, and face our mistakes with honesty. (And I should confess that although I say this, and ended the book on a high note emotionally, overall I’m still a little pissed!)

On a side note, if you’re squeamish, this aint the book for you. I found the butchery sections (which are at least half the book) fascinating, but there is a whole lot of blood ‘n’ guts being described. And, if nothing else, Jules is candid.