Edith's Diary

by Patricia Highsmith is the last book I've finished reading. Highsmith is the author of the Ripley (as in The Talented Mr.) series, and many think this is one of her very best. Although there may or may not be a murder committed in the course of events (in this way it is perhaps a very contemporary story), the novel doesn’t concern plotting or intrigue so much as it chronicles the decline of a suburban housewife over the course of two decades in a Pennsylvania town. Edith and Brett Howland have one son, Cliffie, and a cat, Mildew. Staying with them is an increasingly infirm uncle of Brett’s named George, and they receive occasional visits from a beloved Aunt Melanie. Brett is a newspaperman, and Edith is a politically conscious writer of articles with a distinctly leftist bent. They tend to drink a lot, whether alone with each other or with friends and neighbors like the Zylstra’s, the Johnson’s, and the Quickman’s.

Things go from bad to worse in the Howland household in fairly routine way: the marriage goes bad and Cliffie grows out of being problem child by becoming a troubled teen and then the town drunk. Through it all Edith keeps a diary. She’s a survivor, and the diary seems to help her fill that roll. Unfortunately she begins to write about Cliffie in a way that he very much isn’t, and perhaps because of this begins to feel herself ‘slipping.’ Later she describes her condition as ‘cracked.’ Or Highsmith will, and this permeates much of the novel in such a way that I was always waiting for something to crack it all wide open. I won’t give away more than that, but I will say that the strength of the novel lies in the more finely drawn characters: Edith, Brett and Cliffie in particular, but most everybody else as well.

Some scenes struck me as difficult, if not impossible to imagine taking place in real life. Brett bringing his girlfriend home to meet Edith, and a few other episodes between the three of them. Other scenes seemed to recur with monotonous regularity; how many times did neighbors actually come over for drinks? I wish I’d kept count. Perhaps this was part of the author’s plan: to really impress upon the reader a sense of oppressive monotony. At times this worked rather too well.

Highsmith also seems to enjoy striking the unseemly note from time to time.

Mechanically, Edith began folding sweaters, closing drawers, then she made the bed. Beside the bed, one damp sock. Did Cliffie have sweaty feet? Nerves? Was that why he washed his own socks so often? He’d squirm if she asked, Edith thought, so maybe it was better not to ask. She put away slightly muddy tennis shoes, gathered from among the shoes on the floor of his closet five or six more socks, obviously dirty, some even stiff.

Ick.

The diary doesn’t appear as much as I’d expected from the title, but it does raise the interesting questions that diaries generally do. As I've asked before in another context, Is one’s closest relationship always with one’s self, or can it be the most distant? How does one maintain honesty in a diary? What about those things that are left out? Have they been left out for reasons that are self-serving, or to protect others? Who, in fact, does one keep a diary for? If for one’s self, does the diary actually reflect this intention? If for others, when is it best to disclose this intention? For posterity? For posterity it might be better to write novels; which is perhaps why Highsmith, a keeper of diaries herself, has given us Edith’s Diary.