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White Oleander
Everywhere hailed as a novel of rare beauty and power, White Oleander tells the unforgettable story of Ingrid, a brilliant poet imprisoned for murder, and her daughter, Astrid, whose odyssey through a series of Los Angeles foster homes--each its own universe, with its own laws, its own dangers, its own hard lessons to be learned--becomes a redeeming and surprising journey of self-discovery.
446 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published July 1, 1999
About the author
Janet Fitch
19 books88.8k followersJanet Fitch was born in Los Angeles, a third-generation native, and grew up in a family of voracious readers. As an undergraduate at Reed College, Fitch had decided to become an historian, attracted to its powerful narratives, the scope of events, the colossal personalities, and the potency and breadth of its themes. But when she won a student exchange to Keele University in England, where her passion for Russian history led her, she awoke in the middle of the night on her twenty-first birthday with the revelation she wanted to write fiction. "I wanted to Live, not spend my life in a library. Of course, my conception of being a writer was to wear a cape and have Adventures." She has acquired a couple of capes since then, and a few adventures. And books.
Her current novels, THE REVOLUTION OF MARINA M. and CHIMES OF A LOST CATHEDRAL paint a portrait of a young poet coming of age during the Russian Revolution. Her last novel PAINT IT BLACK was made into a feature film, available on NETFLIX. Her novel WHITE OLEANDER was an Oprah Book Club pick and made into a motion picture.
Her current novels, THE REVOLUTION OF MARINA M. and CHIMES OF A LOST CATHEDRAL paint a portrait of a young poet coming of age during the Russian Revolution. Her last novel PAINT IT BLACK was made into a feature film, available on NETFLIX. Her novel WHITE OLEANDER was an Oprah Book Club pick and made into a motion picture.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 9,554 reviews
January 6, 2023
Well, what was I supposed to rate it?
I did work awfully hard on W.O.... still like it. Sad to think Oprah's book club is all over, it was quite an experience.
{n.b.--Oprah Book Club 2.0 is alive and well!]
I did work awfully hard on W.O.... still like it. Sad to think Oprah's book club is all over, it was quite an experience.
{n.b.--Oprah Book Club 2.0 is alive and well!]
January 16, 2008
If nothing else, read this book for the language. White Oleander reads like a poem. It's so beautifully crafted.
April 3, 2018
This was a masterful yarn about a complex relationship between mother and daughter. It was about the loss of self, the journey of finding oneself, and most importantly - the resilience of the human spirit. This wasn't a tale of any ordinary bond between mother and daughter, this was a story of the severe dysfunction that occurs when a mother, Ingrid, is imprisoned for murder and a daughter, Astrid, is passed around like garbage from one foster home to another. This novel explores the intricacies of their relationship. It explores the depth of emotion that Astrid feels toward Ingrid, ranging from obsessive love to all-encompassing hatred.
Janet Fitch is not just a storyteller. She is like Calliope, the Greek Muse of epic poetry. Fitch spins letters into gold; every word that she chooses is deliberate and precise. When you read a book by Fitch it is an experience to savor; letting the story wash over your soul in warm, gentle waves. Once complete, you will feel emotionally exhausted, yet wholly renewed. I urge you to experience this book in all of its glory; it is not just a book. It is every child that has been mistreated in a foster home. It is their voice. It is their tears. It is hope.
Janet Fitch is not just a storyteller. She is like Calliope, the Greek Muse of epic poetry. Fitch spins letters into gold; every word that she chooses is deliberate and precise. When you read a book by Fitch it is an experience to savor; letting the story wash over your soul in warm, gentle waves. Once complete, you will feel emotionally exhausted, yet wholly renewed. I urge you to experience this book in all of its glory; it is not just a book. It is every child that has been mistreated in a foster home. It is their voice. It is their tears. It is hope.
February 9, 2015
Dark, depressing, disturbing, and so beautiful! When the author described the August summer heat I felt it, like hot breath on my neck. I fell in love with Ingrid and her beauty and ideas of the world. Then I became Astrid, and I felt how much she loved her and how bad it hurt to also hate her, but hate Ingrid I did! I would walk away from long reading sessions feeling hardened and detached. It's not an easy read, but I find literature that can make me feel so strongly well deserving of praise. The words were like a sad song. I connected with them so much that they became the theme song of my life for days. "The phoenix must burn to emerge." I love that Astrid found love at the end and I loved seeing how her past formed her into who she was. I too have been burned by a lost childhood, and spent a lot of time while reading this crying for myself. Life makes you or breaks you. I too, am a survivor.
This book will rip your heart apart, and then put it back together again stronger than it was before.
_______________________________________________________________________
This book will rip your heart apart, and then put it back together again stronger than it was before.
_______________________________________________________________________
July 7, 2022
Magnificent.
Yes. Yes, I am about to pull a basic reader b move by starting off a book review with self-centered commentary on the movie version, but what can I say?
I'm a basic b.
But anyway.
I saw this movie when it came out it 2002. And I loved it. I was 19 or 20 years old at the time and I just absolutely adored this thing. Everything about it. Even Alison Lohman's atrocious wigs didn't get me down. It started my love affair with Cole Hauser. It made me want to name any future child I had "Astrid," regardless of their gender.
It made me want to sink inside of Michelle Pfeiffer's skin and experience what it's like to be that fucking beautiful for just one day.
I've always been captivated by her as an actress (and let's be honest, her flawless ethereal beauty); but, in this movie, I was also endlessly fascinated by her character. Her passion. Her complexity. Her viciousness. Her powers of manipulation.
Her relationship with and hold on Astrid was also captivating. The way she reacted to Astrid's relationship with Claire...So counter cultural from what one would expect from a "good" mother.
I just loved it. All of the female characters in the movie as a whole. Everything. Even Rena.
However, at that time in my life, I was in college. And pretty much still only read class material, romance novels, or the scoreboard of a sports field. So I never even thought about reading this book, I just watched and re-watched the movie on VHS.
Fast forward 19 years (which was accompanied by an evolution in my reading tastes) and add in me seeing this listed in another reviewer's top five ever books...which, as all us true readers know, is super high praise indeed. So, since the idea of reading this book was always niggling in the back of my mind anyway, I randomly decided to snag this last week and see how it panned out for me.
All I can say is, this is one of the most beautifully written books I've ever read. Fitch's prose was just mesmerizing. And from someone who doesn't usually like "purple prose" or poetry all that much, that's really saying something.
Also, being that I was raised and currently live on the outskirts of LA, I also really enjoyed the way Los Angeles and its white oleanders and Fairfax heat played a veritable character of its own here.
Mostly though, I think I just loved Ingrid. And Claire. Oddly enough, I related to both of them so much. Like two sides of the same coin. And as ruthless and seemingly heartless as Ingrid is, there is beauty in her brutal honesty, in her unwillingness to compromise. I think we can all remember a time where we thought some of the things she was willing to say out loud.
Everything I loved about the movie felt more distilled in the book - I mean, that's usually the case, right? And I loved it.
***spoilers***
I liked that Ingrid was a poet in the book, instead of an artist as she was in the movie. I loved the way her words and writing and letters accomplished their own goals.
I will say, however, that I actually prefer the way the movie ends to the way the book ends. The way in which Ingrid allows Astrid to opt out.
The way Astrid is seemingly happy wherever she is with Paul Trout.
The book is messier.
The book isn't a clear cut HEA.
The book isn't that perfect Claire on stage.
But then again, I guess that was kind of the point, wasn't it?
My goal wasn't to make this "review" the compare/contrast of the book and movie that it ended up being, so my apologies on that front; however, it would have been impossible for me to have read this book through any other lens, being that this is one of my all time favorite movies.
That said, it's now one of my all time favorite books.
Yes. Yes, I am about to pull a basic reader b move by starting off a book review with self-centered commentary on the movie version, but what can I say?
I'm a basic b.
But anyway.
I saw this movie when it came out it 2002. And I loved it. I was 19 or 20 years old at the time and I just absolutely adored this thing. Everything about it. Even Alison Lohman's atrocious wigs didn't get me down. It started my love affair with Cole Hauser. It made me want to name any future child I had "Astrid," regardless of their gender.
It made me want to sink inside of Michelle Pfeiffer's skin and experience what it's like to be that fucking beautiful for just one day.
I've always been captivated by her as an actress (and let's be honest, her flawless ethereal beauty); but, in this movie, I was also endlessly fascinated by her character. Her passion. Her complexity. Her viciousness. Her powers of manipulation.
Her relationship with and hold on Astrid was also captivating. The way she reacted to Astrid's relationship with Claire...So counter cultural from what one would expect from a "good" mother.
I just loved it. All of the female characters in the movie as a whole. Everything. Even Rena.
However, at that time in my life, I was in college. And pretty much still only read class material, romance novels, or the scoreboard of a sports field. So I never even thought about reading this book, I just watched and re-watched the movie on VHS.
Fast forward 19 years (which was accompanied by an evolution in my reading tastes) and add in me seeing this listed in another reviewer's top five ever books...which, as all us true readers know, is super high praise indeed. So, since the idea of reading this book was always niggling in the back of my mind anyway, I randomly decided to snag this last week and see how it panned out for me.
All I can say is, this is one of the most beautifully written books I've ever read. Fitch's prose was just mesmerizing. And from someone who doesn't usually like "purple prose" or poetry all that much, that's really saying something.
Also, being that I was raised and currently live on the outskirts of LA, I also really enjoyed the way Los Angeles and its white oleanders and Fairfax heat played a veritable character of its own here.
Mostly though, I think I just loved Ingrid. And Claire. Oddly enough, I related to both of them so much. Like two sides of the same coin. And as ruthless and seemingly heartless as Ingrid is, there is beauty in her brutal honesty, in her unwillingness to compromise. I think we can all remember a time where we thought some of the things she was willing to say out loud.
Everything I loved about the movie felt more distilled in the book - I mean, that's usually the case, right? And I loved it.
***spoilers***
I liked that Ingrid was a poet in the book, instead of an artist as she was in the movie. I loved the way her words and writing and letters accomplished their own goals.
I will say, however, that I actually prefer the way the movie ends to the way the book ends. The way in which Ingrid allows Astrid to opt out.
The way Astrid is seemingly happy wherever she is with Paul Trout.
The book is messier.
The book isn't a clear cut HEA.
The book isn't that perfect Claire on stage.
But then again, I guess that was kind of the point, wasn't it?
My goal wasn't to make this "review" the compare/contrast of the book and movie that it ended up being, so my apologies on that front; however, it would have been impossible for me to have read this book through any other lens, being that this is one of my all time favorite movies.
That said, it's now one of my all time favorite books.
January 15, 2008
this is a horrifying book, not necessarily for the story's content (which IS horrifying), but for it's plot, execution, characterization, and particularly its overcooked writing.
some observations:
1) astrid. the novel's protagonist, a fourteen year old girl, is a thoroughly contradictory character. some people have written that astrid is not your 'average' teenage girl and that she is 'gifted.' if she were such a girl, i would expect much more of her. i'm not a psychologist nor have i ever been shot, but i suspect any fourteen year old girl who's mother was sent to prison for murder, who offered herself sexually to a man three times her age, is shot by her first foster mother, performs oral sex on a boy in exchange for 1/2 bag of marijuana would be SEVERLY emotionally disturbed and troubled. astrid, however, seems to care less that she was nearly murdered. instead she focuses on and longs for her sexual encounters with ray. remember, this is a FOURTEEN year old girl. astrid blows her credibility as a narrator very early on because no one who's gone through her experiences would be in as good as shape as she is. it also discredits her as a character, and with a discredited character, the novel doesn't stand a chance. think about a fourteen year old girl you know. now imagine her beaten, shot, mother in prison for murder, sexually loose, and yearning for a lover three times her age. it simply wouldn't happen.
2) the plot: i have trouble with any novel where the plot is advanced by a series of tragedies or dire circumstances. more often than not, it's a gimmick (or crutch) inexperienced writers rely on when realistic ideas for authentic plots run thin. read joan didion or toni morrison (or steinbeck) and how see how they use tragedy--it's real, honest, and most importanly believable. most of the 'white oleander's' is simply too unrealistic.
3) the prose: borderline comical. i'm awe-struck to read how many people have praised fitch's prose. fitch's use of similie is so overdone and forced that it slows the narrative down to a snail's pace. similes should be used judiciously and flow naturally. fitch, on the other hand, find it's necessary to inject as many as four or five similies in just about every paragraph, and most of them just ring false. the 'white' metaphor is also an unfortunate victim. count the number of times fitch uses 'white' to describe astrid, ingrid, clothes, food, dishes, the sky. she beats the 'white' metaphor and never lets the reader decipher it for themselves. the majority of the book is over-described; the sex scenes, in particular, are dreadful. i don't want to read how a fourteen year old remembers every graphic detail of performing oral sex on a middle-aged man. it's too much. a 14 year old girl who's performed oral sex on a man is not going to long for it again. i can tell you that. furthermore: at one point astrid sees a shiny convertible, compares it to a man, and imagines herself climaxing while laying on its hood; during her encounter with ray, she describes the act as riding a horse through the surf. good grief.
4) the characters and uniformly cliched and poorly drawn. astrid's mother is the self-absorbed, feminist poet. her first foster mother is a bible-thumping floozy; her stepmother's boyfriend is the object of astrid's desires, even though he's more then three times her age; the second stepmother is demanding and her husband is quiet and reserved; and of course we have the 'hooker with a heart of gold' who takes astrid under her wing. in fact, the professional prostitute is the only emotionally stable and 'nice' character in the entire 150 pages that i read.
i'm sure that as most of the teenage girls grow up and mature, they'll see 'white oleander' for what is is: an immature novel masquerading as high literature. and i sincerely hope that no more young women identify with astrid in any way. that's the real tragedy.
some observations:
1) astrid. the novel's protagonist, a fourteen year old girl, is a thoroughly contradictory character. some people have written that astrid is not your 'average' teenage girl and that she is 'gifted.' if she were such a girl, i would expect much more of her. i'm not a psychologist nor have i ever been shot, but i suspect any fourteen year old girl who's mother was sent to prison for murder, who offered herself sexually to a man three times her age, is shot by her first foster mother, performs oral sex on a boy in exchange for 1/2 bag of marijuana would be SEVERLY emotionally disturbed and troubled. astrid, however, seems to care less that she was nearly murdered. instead she focuses on and longs for her sexual encounters with ray. remember, this is a FOURTEEN year old girl. astrid blows her credibility as a narrator very early on because no one who's gone through her experiences would be in as good as shape as she is. it also discredits her as a character, and with a discredited character, the novel doesn't stand a chance. think about a fourteen year old girl you know. now imagine her beaten, shot, mother in prison for murder, sexually loose, and yearning for a lover three times her age. it simply wouldn't happen.
2) the plot: i have trouble with any novel where the plot is advanced by a series of tragedies or dire circumstances. more often than not, it's a gimmick (or crutch) inexperienced writers rely on when realistic ideas for authentic plots run thin. read joan didion or toni morrison (or steinbeck) and how see how they use tragedy--it's real, honest, and most importanly believable. most of the 'white oleander's' is simply too unrealistic.
3) the prose: borderline comical. i'm awe-struck to read how many people have praised fitch's prose. fitch's use of similie is so overdone and forced that it slows the narrative down to a snail's pace. similes should be used judiciously and flow naturally. fitch, on the other hand, find it's necessary to inject as many as four or five similies in just about every paragraph, and most of them just ring false. the 'white' metaphor is also an unfortunate victim. count the number of times fitch uses 'white' to describe astrid, ingrid, clothes, food, dishes, the sky. she beats the 'white' metaphor and never lets the reader decipher it for themselves. the majority of the book is over-described; the sex scenes, in particular, are dreadful. i don't want to read how a fourteen year old remembers every graphic detail of performing oral sex on a middle-aged man. it's too much. a 14 year old girl who's performed oral sex on a man is not going to long for it again. i can tell you that. furthermore: at one point astrid sees a shiny convertible, compares it to a man, and imagines herself climaxing while laying on its hood; during her encounter with ray, she describes the act as riding a horse through the surf. good grief.
4) the characters and uniformly cliched and poorly drawn. astrid's mother is the self-absorbed, feminist poet. her first foster mother is a bible-thumping floozy; her stepmother's boyfriend is the object of astrid's desires, even though he's more then three times her age; the second stepmother is demanding and her husband is quiet and reserved; and of course we have the 'hooker with a heart of gold' who takes astrid under her wing. in fact, the professional prostitute is the only emotionally stable and 'nice' character in the entire 150 pages that i read.
i'm sure that as most of the teenage girls grow up and mature, they'll see 'white oleander' for what is is: an immature novel masquerading as high literature. and i sincerely hope that no more young women identify with astrid in any way. that's the real tragedy.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
October 8, 2017
This is Astrid’s story.
We meet her first when she is twelve and in Ingrid’s (her mother) care.
Ingrid is a woman of such rare, unearthly beauty as to be most likely found in dreams.
Fitch describes her through Astrid’s eyes, gradually, poetically, using very sparse language, as the story unfolds, with words that sing, the pages glistening with the image reflected from her eyes.
The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shrivelling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blossoms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I. I woke up at midnight to find her bed empty. I climbed to the roof and easily spotted her blonde hair like a white flame in the light of the three-quarter moon.
I sat next to her, and we stared out at the city that hummed and glittered like a computer chip deep in some unknowable machine, holding its secret like a poker hand. The edge of her white kimono flapped open in the wind and I could see her breast, low and full. Her beauty was like the edge of a very sharp knife.
Ingrid also covets beauty in all its many forms.
Beauty was my mother’s law, her religion. You could do anything you wanted as long as you were beautiful, as long as you did things beautifully. If you weren’t, you just didn’t exist. She had drummed it into my head since I was small.
She becomes so wrapped up in her own world, her own needs that Astrid’s no longer filter through.
We swam in the hot aquamarine of the pool, late at night, in the clatter of palms and the twinkle of the new-scoured sky. My mother floated on her back, humming to herself. “God, I love this." She splashed gently with her fingers, letting her body drift in a slow circle. "Isn't it funny. I am enjoying my hatred so much more than I ever enjoyed love. Love is tempermental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you. Changes its mind.” Her eyes were closed. Beads of water decorated her face, and her hair spread out from her head like jellyfish tendrils. “But hatred, now. That's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It's hard or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but hatred cradles you. It's so soothing."
When Ingrid is imprisoned Astrid is fostered out to a series of homes in Los Angeles, her mother, an ever present part of the baggage that she carries with her.
This is such a beautifully written story. So simple, the words arranged to please the ear, one after the other, melodic in their cadence and rhythm. But Astrid’s is not a pretty story.
I gave her to the quiet boy with short cropped hair and straggly beard, followed the fat boy back into the bushes behind the bathrooms. He unbuckled his pants, pushed them down over his hips. I knelt on a bed of pine needles, like a supplicant, like a sinner. Not like a lover. He leaned against the white stucco wall of the bathroom as I prayed with him in my mouth, his hands in my hair.
It is too real, too raw, to conform to anyone’s preconceived notion of beauty. And yet Fitch makes it sing, with her beautiful, simple words.
I left walking backwards so I wouldn’t miss a moment of her. I hated the idea of going back to Marvel’s, so I walked around the block, feeling Olivia's arms around me, my nose full of perfume and the smell of her skin, my head swirling with what I had seen and heard in the house, so much like ours, and yet not at all. And I realised as I walked through the neighborhood how each house could contain a completely different reality. In a single block, there could be fifty separate worlds. Nobody ever really knew what was going on just next door.
As I read this I became overwhelmed with the number of passages that I wanted to secrete away, to take out, and read again. Perhaps that explained the worn and tattered condition of the book I held within my hands, pages yellowing, stained and dog-eared or soiled in some other way by the fingers of less careful readers.
Truly (I have done it several times now) I can let this fall open to any page and find one of these passages.
That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific-chair, eye, stone- but when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were this and not that, they couldn't include all the meanings. In defining, they always left something out.
Don’t miss a word……..read this one for yourselves.
We meet her first when she is twelve and in Ingrid’s (her mother) care.
Ingrid is a woman of such rare, unearthly beauty as to be most likely found in dreams.
Fitch describes her through Astrid’s eyes, gradually, poetically, using very sparse language, as the story unfolds, with words that sing, the pages glistening with the image reflected from her eyes.
The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shrivelling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blossoms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I. I woke up at midnight to find her bed empty. I climbed to the roof and easily spotted her blonde hair like a white flame in the light of the three-quarter moon.
I sat next to her, and we stared out at the city that hummed and glittered like a computer chip deep in some unknowable machine, holding its secret like a poker hand. The edge of her white kimono flapped open in the wind and I could see her breast, low and full. Her beauty was like the edge of a very sharp knife.
Ingrid also covets beauty in all its many forms.
Beauty was my mother’s law, her religion. You could do anything you wanted as long as you were beautiful, as long as you did things beautifully. If you weren’t, you just didn’t exist. She had drummed it into my head since I was small.
She becomes so wrapped up in her own world, her own needs that Astrid’s no longer filter through.
We swam in the hot aquamarine of the pool, late at night, in the clatter of palms and the twinkle of the new-scoured sky. My mother floated on her back, humming to herself. “God, I love this." She splashed gently with her fingers, letting her body drift in a slow circle. "Isn't it funny. I am enjoying my hatred so much more than I ever enjoyed love. Love is tempermental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you. Changes its mind.” Her eyes were closed. Beads of water decorated her face, and her hair spread out from her head like jellyfish tendrils. “But hatred, now. That's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It's hard or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but hatred cradles you. It's so soothing."
When Ingrid is imprisoned Astrid is fostered out to a series of homes in Los Angeles, her mother, an ever present part of the baggage that she carries with her.
This is such a beautifully written story. So simple, the words arranged to please the ear, one after the other, melodic in their cadence and rhythm. But Astrid’s is not a pretty story.
I gave her to the quiet boy with short cropped hair and straggly beard, followed the fat boy back into the bushes behind the bathrooms. He unbuckled his pants, pushed them down over his hips. I knelt on a bed of pine needles, like a supplicant, like a sinner. Not like a lover. He leaned against the white stucco wall of the bathroom as I prayed with him in my mouth, his hands in my hair.
It is too real, too raw, to conform to anyone’s preconceived notion of beauty. And yet Fitch makes it sing, with her beautiful, simple words.
I left walking backwards so I wouldn’t miss a moment of her. I hated the idea of going back to Marvel’s, so I walked around the block, feeling Olivia's arms around me, my nose full of perfume and the smell of her skin, my head swirling with what I had seen and heard in the house, so much like ours, and yet not at all. And I realised as I walked through the neighborhood how each house could contain a completely different reality. In a single block, there could be fifty separate worlds. Nobody ever really knew what was going on just next door.
As I read this I became overwhelmed with the number of passages that I wanted to secrete away, to take out, and read again. Perhaps that explained the worn and tattered condition of the book I held within my hands, pages yellowing, stained and dog-eared or soiled in some other way by the fingers of less careful readers.
Truly (I have done it several times now) I can let this fall open to any page and find one of these passages.
That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific-chair, eye, stone- but when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were this and not that, they couldn't include all the meanings. In defining, they always left something out.
Don’t miss a word……..read this one for yourselves.
July 14, 2022
I’ve probably mentioned it here before, but I didn’t much care about movies in the early 2000s. I was too stunned trying to figure out how I went from being a fairly independent, somewhat financially secure young woman doing what I wanted with my free time to pulling my hair out over a baby that wouldn’t sleep more than an hour or two at a time for twenty-four hours straight. The baby eventually slept after a year but then grew into a very active toddler with a vivid imagination that needed constant entertainment. I said I’d never go through it again… until I did three years later. The second time around was much easier. Was it because I had things figured out? Or was it because each child is a different human being? Perhaps a combination of both is the most appropriate answer. In any case, movies and literature were not on my agenda at the time. Besides, this book, which I took to be a family drama of sorts, wasn’t my sort of thing anyway. Why did I want to read about other people’s trauma and dysfunction? What if it rubbed off on me?! These days, however, I’ll take all I can get of this stuff, please!
“I wanted to hear what she was saying. I wanted to smell that burnt midnight again, I wanted to feel that wind. It was a secret wanting, like a song I couldn’t stop humming, or loving someone I could never have.”
I’m not going to attempt to tell you about this novel. I will say it’s simply incredible – probably some of the most striking and potent writing I’ve read in a long time. So much is packed in here: the many facets of motherhood, the absence of father, coming-of-age, loneliness, desperation, strength, and true growth. I absolutely loved these characters – good, bad and everything in between. It’s all so remarkably well done. Following the pre-teen Astrid into her teenage years and young adulthood was a journey I’d make all over again if I had the time to start right over. I both loved and hated her mother, Ingrid, as passionately as Astrid did herself. That’s the mark of a gifted writer, I’m certain.
“If evil means to be self-motivated, to be the center of one’s own universe, to live on one’s own terms, then every artist, every thinker, every original mind, is evil. Because we dare to look through our own eyes rather than mouth clichés lent us from the so-called Fathers.”
If you, like me, have been remiss and ignored this book up until now, then don’t wait any longer! I’ve considered watching the film adaptation, but I think I’m going to leave it alone. I watched the trailer and I just don’t think it will do the novel justice. But I would kill to read another book with this wondrous prose! I see that the Revolution of Marina M. might be an option for me. I think I’ll go for it.
Oh, and that difficult child from the early 2000s? I wouldn’t trade him for the world. He’s a clever, stable, incredibly creative young man and I can’t wait for him to come home for a visit in a couple of weeks!
“Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you’ll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.”
“I wanted to hear what she was saying. I wanted to smell that burnt midnight again, I wanted to feel that wind. It was a secret wanting, like a song I couldn’t stop humming, or loving someone I could never have.”
I’m not going to attempt to tell you about this novel. I will say it’s simply incredible – probably some of the most striking and potent writing I’ve read in a long time. So much is packed in here: the many facets of motherhood, the absence of father, coming-of-age, loneliness, desperation, strength, and true growth. I absolutely loved these characters – good, bad and everything in between. It’s all so remarkably well done. Following the pre-teen Astrid into her teenage years and young adulthood was a journey I’d make all over again if I had the time to start right over. I both loved and hated her mother, Ingrid, as passionately as Astrid did herself. That’s the mark of a gifted writer, I’m certain.
“If evil means to be self-motivated, to be the center of one’s own universe, to live on one’s own terms, then every artist, every thinker, every original mind, is evil. Because we dare to look through our own eyes rather than mouth clichés lent us from the so-called Fathers.”
If you, like me, have been remiss and ignored this book up until now, then don’t wait any longer! I’ve considered watching the film adaptation, but I think I’m going to leave it alone. I watched the trailer and I just don’t think it will do the novel justice. But I would kill to read another book with this wondrous prose! I see that the Revolution of Marina M. might be an option for me. I think I’ll go for it.
Oh, and that difficult child from the early 2000s? I wouldn’t trade him for the world. He’s a clever, stable, incredibly creative young man and I can’t wait for him to come home for a visit in a couple of weeks!
“Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you’ll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.”
April 11, 2017
I have many thoughts that I'm having trouble putting into words. Before reading the final chapter of the book, I had to put it down, lean my head back against the couch and think about the experience I've had while reading this book. Astrid's journey, her development from girl to woman, is remarkably crafted. Fitch's writing paints the arid desert and mountain brush in such fine detail. Atmospherically, this story was superb. I was totally immersed in the story, in the physical spaces that Astrid inhabits through her 390 page life. My only qualm was that I wish there had been a bit more explanation from her mother's perspective. But that final interaction in the prison, wow. Just wow. It took my breath away. If you're struggling to get into this book for the first one or two hundred pages, just keep going. It's completely worth it.
August 25, 2022
“How many children had this happened to? How many children were like me, floating like plankton in the wide ocean? I thought how tenuous the links were between mother and children, between friends, family, things you think are eternal. Everything could be lost, more easily than anyone could imagine.”
Twelve-year-old Astrid Magnussen spends six years of her life in and out of foster homes (six foster homes and a state-funded home for those “returned”) after her selfish, manipulative mother, Ingrid, a free-spirited poet, is sent to jail for killing her lover.
Astrid’s feelings for her mother are conflicted. While her memories often take her back to happier times spent with her mother, Astrid cannot help but blame her mother for her present state and all the pain she has had to endure. In intermittent letters and the few visits with her mother in prison, Astrid recognizes her mother’s inability and unwillingness to comprehend the impact her actions have had on Astrid, to the extent that her cellmate wrote to Astrid telling her to only share happier moments in her letters as reading about Astrid’s difficulties makes her mother sad. Ingrid initially does not come across as repentant while sharing her accomplishments as a poet with her daughter, her poems being published and circulated while in jail, “a jail-house Plath“, also gaining a strong and sympathetic following in the outside world. Her response to her daughter’s hardships is for the most part devoid of compassion or concern and her biting wisdom borders on cruel , especially considering that she is writing her own child who has had her life and dreams taken away from her for no fault of her own.
“Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.”
“You are too nostalgic, you want memory to secure you, console you. The past is a bore. What matters is only oneself and what one creates from what one has learned. Imagination uses what it needs and discards the rest—where you want to erect a museum. Don’t hoard the past, Astrid. Don’t cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.”
Over the next six years, Astrid’s life is a kaleidoscope of loneliness, rejection, negligence, jealousy, violence and inappropriate sexual relationships tempered with a few moments of kindness and kinship– moments, relationships, and hopes that never seem to stick, only adding to her misery and her sense of abandonment and loss.
“How easy I was. Like a limpet I attached to anything, anyone who showed me the least attention. I promised myself that when she returned, I would stay away, I would learn to be alone, it was better than the disappointment when you found it out anyway. Loneliness was the human condition, I had to get used to it.”
As the narrative progresses, Astrid grows and learns from her experiences. In the process of understanding and interpreting the world around her she channels her energy and emotions into her own creative pursuits. Though she learns to harden her heart, she does not completely lose herself, as we see in how she interacts with fellow foster students and how in her own way, though not quite in the manner she had hoped, she tries to find her place in the world. In her journey of self-discovery she also comes to terms with how she truly feels about her mother.
“I hated my mother but I craved her.”
Janet Fitch’s White Oleander paints a heart-wrenching picture of a dysfunctional mother-daughter relationship. The white oleander flower, while of particular significance as a plot point in the beginning of the novel, is also symbolically woven into the narrative as it manifests-both in its beauty and its toxicity- in the human relationships so vividly described in this story. Written in 1999, this is the kind of novel that stands the test of time. Dark and depressing (some content might be disturbing for readers) but so beautifully written that it holds you in its thrall- the kind of story that stays with you. This is so much more than a coming-of-age story. With its brilliantly poetic and powerful writing, fluid narrative and memorable characters Janet Fitch’s "White Oleander" is a modern masterpiece. I hadn’t watched the movie because I wanted to read the book first. I might pass on the movie but will definitely revisit this book in the future.
“Nobody took me away, Mother. My hand never slipped from your grasp. That wasn’t how it went down. I was more like a car you’d parked while drunk, then couldn’t remember where you’d left it. You looked away for seventeen years and when you looked back, I was a woman you didn’t recognize. So now I was supposed to feel pity for you and those other women who’d lost their own children during a holdup, a murder, a fiesta of greed? Save your poet’s sympathy and find some better believer. Just because a poet said something didn’t mean it was true, only that it sounded good. Someday I’d read it all in a poem for the New Yorker.”
Twelve-year-old Astrid Magnussen spends six years of her life in and out of foster homes (six foster homes and a state-funded home for those “returned”) after her selfish, manipulative mother, Ingrid, a free-spirited poet, is sent to jail for killing her lover.
Astrid’s feelings for her mother are conflicted. While her memories often take her back to happier times spent with her mother, Astrid cannot help but blame her mother for her present state and all the pain she has had to endure. In intermittent letters and the few visits with her mother in prison, Astrid recognizes her mother’s inability and unwillingness to comprehend the impact her actions have had on Astrid, to the extent that her cellmate wrote to Astrid telling her to only share happier moments in her letters as reading about Astrid’s difficulties makes her mother sad. Ingrid initially does not come across as repentant while sharing her accomplishments as a poet with her daughter, her poems being published and circulated while in jail, “a jail-house Plath“, also gaining a strong and sympathetic following in the outside world. Her response to her daughter’s hardships is for the most part devoid of compassion or concern and her biting wisdom borders on cruel , especially considering that she is writing her own child who has had her life and dreams taken away from her for no fault of her own.
“Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.”
“You are too nostalgic, you want memory to secure you, console you. The past is a bore. What matters is only oneself and what one creates from what one has learned. Imagination uses what it needs and discards the rest—where you want to erect a museum. Don’t hoard the past, Astrid. Don’t cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.”
Over the next six years, Astrid’s life is a kaleidoscope of loneliness, rejection, negligence, jealousy, violence and inappropriate sexual relationships tempered with a few moments of kindness and kinship– moments, relationships, and hopes that never seem to stick, only adding to her misery and her sense of abandonment and loss.
“How easy I was. Like a limpet I attached to anything, anyone who showed me the least attention. I promised myself that when she returned, I would stay away, I would learn to be alone, it was better than the disappointment when you found it out anyway. Loneliness was the human condition, I had to get used to it.”
As the narrative progresses, Astrid grows and learns from her experiences. In the process of understanding and interpreting the world around her she channels her energy and emotions into her own creative pursuits. Though she learns to harden her heart, she does not completely lose herself, as we see in how she interacts with fellow foster students and how in her own way, though not quite in the manner she had hoped, she tries to find her place in the world. In her journey of self-discovery she also comes to terms with how she truly feels about her mother.
“I hated my mother but I craved her.”
Janet Fitch’s White Oleander paints a heart-wrenching picture of a dysfunctional mother-daughter relationship. The white oleander flower, while of particular significance as a plot point in the beginning of the novel, is also symbolically woven into the narrative as it manifests-both in its beauty and its toxicity- in the human relationships so vividly described in this story. Written in 1999, this is the kind of novel that stands the test of time. Dark and depressing (some content might be disturbing for readers) but so beautifully written that it holds you in its thrall- the kind of story that stays with you. This is so much more than a coming-of-age story. With its brilliantly poetic and powerful writing, fluid narrative and memorable characters Janet Fitch’s "White Oleander" is a modern masterpiece. I hadn’t watched the movie because I wanted to read the book first. I might pass on the movie but will definitely revisit this book in the future.
“Nobody took me away, Mother. My hand never slipped from your grasp. That wasn’t how it went down. I was more like a car you’d parked while drunk, then couldn’t remember where you’d left it. You looked away for seventeen years and when you looked back, I was a woman you didn’t recognize. So now I was supposed to feel pity for you and those other women who’d lost their own children during a holdup, a murder, a fiesta of greed? Save your poet’s sympathy and find some better believer. Just because a poet said something didn’t mean it was true, only that it sounded good. Someday I’d read it all in a poem for the New Yorker.”
February 10, 2023
The mesmerizing story of a young girl who gets tossed around the American foster care system after her mother is arrested for murdering a former lover. The writing is absolutely intoxicating. I can see why this one got so popular after its release.
Click here to hear more of my thoughts on this book over on my Booktube channel, abookolive!
Click here to hear more of my thoughts on this book over on my Booktube channel, abookolive!
July 23, 2019
In the early 2000’s I was reading lots of books from the public library. I read all kinds of fiction. I read a lot of crap. Books I can’t even mention, and so many I can’t remember. Ah, but I remembered White Oleander all these years. Fourteen, to be precise. How I thought about this book at the most random and crazy times. How I thought about that beautiful writing through the years. I knew I needed to read it again.
The time has come and gone and I’ve read White Oleander again.
I should have known better than just to think that perhaps I was too young and easily impressed (especially in the middle of that crap I was reading) and this book couldn’t be that good, could it?
I read it slowly. I savoured every word. I played every scene in my head. I realised it wasn’t that good, it was better than before!!
I’m not even going to attempt and write about the story. This was bigger than Life.
All these years and I didn’t know it was Love.
Now I know.
The time has come and gone and I’ve read White Oleander again.
I should have known better than just to think that perhaps I was too young and easily impressed (especially in the middle of that crap I was reading) and this book couldn’t be that good, could it?
I read it slowly. I savoured every word. I played every scene in my head. I realised it wasn’t that good, it was better than before!!
I’m not even going to attempt and write about the story. This was bigger than Life.
All these years and I didn’t know it was Love.
Now I know.
November 27, 2007
There must be a reason why I've been able to recall many of the books I've read over the years, but that it took me until one of my most restless and procrastibatory nights in front of the blank Word doc to dredge this one up from the recesses of memory, even though I read it within the past year or two.
I'm pretty sure I know what that reason is, too: it's because on some level I'm embarrassed that I read this book, and that I actually really liked it.
I'm pretty sure I know where that embarrassment comes from, too: it's rooted in some pretty deep-level misogyny and discomfort about my most womany womanliness, or something like that anyway....
This book is the most Oprahiest Book Clubby selection I've ever read in my life. It's also the most estrogened-out, hyper-womany fiction I can even begin to think of. All the criticisms and stereotypes I (and a lot of you) hold about lady lit are present here, by the bundle: poetic, even overwrought language; melodramatic plotting; over-the-top characters; vivid, sensual description; almost fetishistic focus on sex, sexuality, and relationships.... aw, crap, I don't even know what my dreadful vestigial stereotypes about women's fiction are, only I'm 10,000% sure this book fulfilled all of them. It's called WHITE FUKKIN OLEANDER, for PETE'S SAKE!!!
Here's where the internalized misogyny comes in, of course, because WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THAT??? This book was far from perfect, there are some valid and gender-neutral criticisms I have of it, but it was good, and I enjoyed it, and the fact is that I apparently find this somehow embarrassing, and on some level must think I should really be digging on Chuck Palahniuk or Ernest Hemingway or that guy who writes those series books about old-timey sailing ships that middle-aged men love so much.... Like that is way more respectable or something. ARGH!!! Have all these thousands of dollars and book-hours spent on feminist indoctrination been for naught??? I ENJOYED WHITE OLEANDER! Yes, of course it did get a bit too silly for me at times, but on the whole I THOUGHT IT WAS A PRETTY GOOD STORY!
Okay, it was melodramatic, but that's part of what made it good. It's about this blonde shorty with a crazy, really horrid white witch of a psycho blonde poet mother, who is scorned by this chumpy-seeming LA cheeseball in a Hawaiian shirt, and hell hath no fury like a psycho poet lady, the mom kills guy, goes to prison, blah blah blah.... So the kid, Astrid -- or maybe Ingrid? -- I forget -- winds up in foster care, and the book is her bouncing around from LA foster home to foster home and experiencing, as my own mother put it, all these different types of moms.
Like Push, another book I need to review, there are moments you cannot believe the author was able to type with a straight face. You're like, "NO, come ON, this is RIDICULOUS! You can't POSSIBLY make ANOTHER outlandishly bad thing happen to this poor defenseless character! Pull yourself together Janet, I CAN'T take this seriously." Like at one point the girl gets attacked by a dog, and I actually started laughing. BUT NONE OF IT IS MORE RIDICULOUS THAN JUDE THE OBSCURE, WHICH WAS NOT, LAST TIME I CHECKED, PART OF OPRAH'S BOOK CLUB. LADY WRITERS DO NOT HAVE A MONOPOLY ON THIS KIND OF PATHOS!
Anyway, I liked this book. I can't believe I'm so defensive about it! I must really have issues. But does anyone else on here know what I mean? I noticed that NONE of my friends have read this book, which makes me wonder whether there are others among us who have somehow "forgotten," as I had myself, until I sat down tonight to write a paper.
BTW, I tried reading part of this years ago, when the author visited my college writing class (she had gone to my school), and I couldn't choke it down that first time. BUT, Ms. Fitch did tell a good story about Oprah calling her personally to say she was in the book club, which I won't repeat here because... I have run out of characters.
I'm pretty sure I know what that reason is, too: it's because on some level I'm embarrassed that I read this book, and that I actually really liked it.
I'm pretty sure I know where that embarrassment comes from, too: it's rooted in some pretty deep-level misogyny and discomfort about my most womany womanliness, or something like that anyway....
This book is the most Oprahiest Book Clubby selection I've ever read in my life. It's also the most estrogened-out, hyper-womany fiction I can even begin to think of. All the criticisms and stereotypes I (and a lot of you) hold about lady lit are present here, by the bundle: poetic, even overwrought language; melodramatic plotting; over-the-top characters; vivid, sensual description; almost fetishistic focus on sex, sexuality, and relationships.... aw, crap, I don't even know what my dreadful vestigial stereotypes about women's fiction are, only I'm 10,000% sure this book fulfilled all of them. It's called WHITE FUKKIN OLEANDER, for PETE'S SAKE!!!
Here's where the internalized misogyny comes in, of course, because WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THAT??? This book was far from perfect, there are some valid and gender-neutral criticisms I have of it, but it was good, and I enjoyed it, and the fact is that I apparently find this somehow embarrassing, and on some level must think I should really be digging on Chuck Palahniuk or Ernest Hemingway or that guy who writes those series books about old-timey sailing ships that middle-aged men love so much.... Like that is way more respectable or something. ARGH!!! Have all these thousands of dollars and book-hours spent on feminist indoctrination been for naught??? I ENJOYED WHITE OLEANDER! Yes, of course it did get a bit too silly for me at times, but on the whole I THOUGHT IT WAS A PRETTY GOOD STORY!
Okay, it was melodramatic, but that's part of what made it good. It's about this blonde shorty with a crazy, really horrid white witch of a psycho blonde poet mother, who is scorned by this chumpy-seeming LA cheeseball in a Hawaiian shirt, and hell hath no fury like a psycho poet lady, the mom kills guy, goes to prison, blah blah blah.... So the kid, Astrid -- or maybe Ingrid? -- I forget -- winds up in foster care, and the book is her bouncing around from LA foster home to foster home and experiencing, as my own mother put it, all these different types of moms.
Like Push, another book I need to review, there are moments you cannot believe the author was able to type with a straight face. You're like, "NO, come ON, this is RIDICULOUS! You can't POSSIBLY make ANOTHER outlandishly bad thing happen to this poor defenseless character! Pull yourself together Janet, I CAN'T take this seriously." Like at one point the girl gets attacked by a dog, and I actually started laughing. BUT NONE OF IT IS MORE RIDICULOUS THAN JUDE THE OBSCURE, WHICH WAS NOT, LAST TIME I CHECKED, PART OF OPRAH'S BOOK CLUB. LADY WRITERS DO NOT HAVE A MONOPOLY ON THIS KIND OF PATHOS!
Anyway, I liked this book. I can't believe I'm so defensive about it! I must really have issues. But does anyone else on here know what I mean? I noticed that NONE of my friends have read this book, which makes me wonder whether there are others among us who have somehow "forgotten," as I had myself, until I sat down tonight to write a paper.
BTW, I tried reading part of this years ago, when the author visited my college writing class (she had gone to my school), and I couldn't choke it down that first time. BUT, Ms. Fitch did tell a good story about Oprah calling her personally to say she was in the book club, which I won't repeat here because... I have run out of characters.
May 4, 2023
After reading her scorching short story in Los Angeles Noir, I smoked a cigarette (I don't smoke), napped and reached for a novel by Janet Fitch. Round 2 is White Oleander, which Oprah's Book Club made a sweepstakes winner at the time of its publication in 1999 and for good reason. This is fiction at its most intoxicating, with boozy prose but also beautifully woven narrative, without a single lull in story or a character who fails to make a mark. Its vision and breadth reminded me of W. Somerset Maugham's Of Human Bondage, with a teenage girl in Los Angeles surviving a succession of mentors that mold her into an adult.
The novel is narrated by Astrid Magnussen, who introduces herself at the age of 12 living in a crummy Hollywood apartment with her mother Ingrid. Employed as a layout designer for a movie magazine when she's not hustling books of her poems, Ingrid is devoted to aesthetics. She's trucked Astrid from Paris to Amsterdam to Mexico and takes her to work as well, certain that her daughter's needs can be met in the audience of her mother. At her poetry reading, Ingrid is approached by Barry Kolker, a chubby, dark and slovenly dressed man who Ingrid rejects on sight, but whose self-confidence and persistence gradually wins her over.
Having never known her father, Astrid is encouraged that Barry might make them a family, as well as provide stability in her life. Outside of drawing, life revolves around her mother. This takes a turn for the worse when Barry breaks off contact with Ingrid, crushing her self-esteem and drawing Viking retribution. The police come for her and Astrid spends the next year in a fugue state, watching her zombie-eyed mother sentenced to thirty-five years to life. She's ultimately placed with her first foster family, adopted by a born-again stripper named Starr who lives in Tujunga with her four children in a trailer. On visiting day, a van transports Astrid to Chino to sit with her mother.
I looked into her determined face, cheekbones like razors, her eyes making me believe. "I was afraid you'd be mad at me."
She stretched me out at arm's length to look at me, her hands gripping my shoulders. "Why would you think that?"
Because I couldn't lie well enough. But I couldn't say it.
She hugged me again. Those arms around me made me want to stay there forever. I'd rob a bank and get convicted so we could always be together. I wanted to curl up in her lap, I wanted to disappear into her body, I wanted to be one of her eyelashes, or a blood vessel in her thigh, a mole on her neck.
"Is it terrible here? Do they hurt you?"
"Not as much as I hurt them," she said, and I knew she was smiling, though all I could see was the denim of her sleeve and her arm, still lightly tanned. I had to pull away a little to see her. Yes, she was smiling, her half-smile, the little comma-shaped curve at the corner of her mouth. I touched her mouth. She kissed my fingers.
"They assigned me to office work. I told them I'd rather clean toilets than type their bureaucratic vomit. Oh, they don't much care for me. I'm on grounds crew. I sweep, pull weeds, though of course only inside the wire. I'm considered a poor security risk. Imagine. I won't tutor their illiterates, teach writing classes, or otherwise feed the machine. I will not serve." She stuck her nose in my hair, she was smelling me. "Your hair smells of bread, Clover and nutmeg. I want to remember you just like this, in that sadly hopeful pink dress, and those bridesmaid, promise-of-prom-night pumps. Your foster mother's, no doubt. Pink being the ultimate cliché."
Left to survive on her own, Astrid accepts some of the messages she hears at the Truth Assembly of Christ and grows close to Starr's carpenter boyfriend, a Vietnam veteran named Ray. Starr grows suspicious of her adopted daughter but Astrid convinces her that not only is an affair preposterous, but sending her back would only push Ray away. Astrid soon consummates a relationship with him anyway and to cope with her doubts, Starr returns to booze. When it comes time for her to move on, Astrid has to be taken away in an ambulance. Recovering from her wounds, she's adopted by Marvel Turlock. Next stop: Van Nuys.
Marvel enlists Astrid as a servant but provides a kind of stability she's never known. Now fourteen, Astrid becomes fascinated by a debonair neighbor named Olivia Johnstone who Marvel has disparaged as a "whore." Earning Olivia's trust, Astrid learns that she was a loan officer who parlayed her beauty and charm to profit handsomely from a number of suitors. The friendship continues to mold and harden the girl and results in her being sent back. Considered a problem child, Astrid is placed with Amelia Ramos, an interior decorator who uses the adoption assistance checks for four girls to renovate her Hollywood home, starving her charges with only one meal per day.
Astrid endears herself to a new case worker, a screenwriter gathering material, to find placement with her dream foster mother, a childless young actress named Claire Richards. Astrid even gets along with her new foster father, who travels often producing a paranormal TV series. Astrid learns her role here is to watch over Claire, clinically depressed and possibly suicidal from lack of love from her husband. She does her best but with a year left of high school, is on the move again, this time to a hovel in Sunland, where her new foster mother Rena Gruschenka strips Astrid of her pride but replaces it with something more valuable.
Rena turned her head to the side, shaded her eyes with her hand, glanced at me, then went back to sunny-side up. "You are Russian I think. A Russian always ask, what is meaning of life." She pulled a long, depressed face. "What is meaning of life, maya liubov? Is our bad weather. Here is California, Astrid darling. You don't ask meaning. Too bad Akhmatova, but we got beach volleyball, sports car, tummy tuck. Don't worry, be happy. Buy something."
She smiled to herself, arms down at her sides, eyes closed, glistening on her chaise lounge like bacon frying in a pan. Small beads of water clung to the tiny hairs of her upper lip, pooled between her breasts. Maybe she was the lucky one, I thought, a woman who had divested herself of both future and past. No dreams, no standards, a woman who smoked and drank and slept with men like Sergei, men who were spiritually what came up out of the sewers when it rained. I could learn from her. Rena Gruschenka didn't worry about her teeth, didn't take vitamin C. She ate salt on everything and was always drunk by three. She certainly didn't feel sick because she wasn't going to college and making something of her life. She lay in the sun and gave the workmen hard-ons while she could.
"You get a boyfriend, you stop worry," she said.
I didn't want to tell her I had a boyfriend. Hers.
There are novels that seem like they were written just for you. "Compelling female characters? Electric prose? Acidic wit? Fantastic dialogue? You like master-pupil stories, don't you? What about the ultimate L.A. novel? How about detail that's so sharp you draw blood? You'll have it. Read White Oleander." Janet Fitch does all of this in more ways than I have the space to describe, but her characters, particularly the incarcerated Viking mother Ingrid Magnussen (who could skin a Mama Grizzly for brunch) and the fatally weak Claire Richards will be with me for as long as any tragic character in Dickens or Maugham. I mean ...
By April, the desert had already sucked spring from the air like blotting paper. The Hollywood Hills rose unnaturally clear, as if we were looking at them through binoculars. The new leaves were wilting in the heat that left us sweating and dispirited in the house with the blinds down.
Claire brought out the jewelry she kept in the freezer and dumped it onto the bed, a pirate's treasure, deliciously icy. Freezing strands of green jade beads with jeweled clasps, a pendant of amber enclosing a fossilized fern. I pressed it, cold, to my cheek. I draped an antique crystal bracelet down the part in my hair, let it lap on my forehead like a cool tongue.
"That was my great-aunt Priscilla's," Claire said. "She wore it to her presentation ball at the Waldorf-Astoria, just before the Great War." She lay on her back in her underwear, her hair dark with sweat, a smoky topaz bracelet across her forehead intersected by an intricate gold chain that came to rest on the tip of her nose. She was painfully thin, with sharp hipbones and ribs stark as a carved wooden Christ. I could see her beauty mark above the line of her panties. "She was a field nurse at Ypres. A very brave woman."
Every bracelet, every bead, had a story. I plucked an onyx ring from the pile between us on the bed, rectangular, its black slick surface pierced by a tiny diamond. I slipped it on, but it was tiny, only fit my smallest finger, above the knuckle. "Whose was this?" I held it out so she could see it without moving her head.
"Great-grandmother Matilde. A quintessential Parisienne."
Its owner dead a hundred years, perhaps, but still she made me feel large and ill bred. I imagined jet-black hair, curls, a sharp tongue. Her black eyes would have caught my least awkwardness. She would have disapproved of me, my gawky arms and legs, I would have been too large for her little chairs and tiny gold-rimmed porcelain cups, a moose among antelope. I gave it to Claire, who slipped it right on.
The garnet choker, icy around my neck, was a wedding present from her mill-owning Manchester great-grandfather to his wife, Beatrice. The gold jaguar with emerald eyes I balanced on my knee was brought back from Brazil in the twenties by her father's aunt Geraldine Woods, who danced with Isadora Duncan. I was wearing Claire's family album. Maternal grandmothers and paternal great-aunts, women in emerald taffeta, velvet and garnets. Time, place, and personality locked into stone and silver filigree.
In comparison to this, my past was smoke, a story my mother once told me and later denied. No onyxes for me, no aquamarines memorializing the lives of my ancestors. I had only their eyes, their hands, the shape of a nose, a nostalgia for snowfall and carved wood.
Claire dripped a gold necklace over one closed eye socket, jade beads in the other. She spoke carefully, nothing slid off.
"They used to bury people like this. Mouths full of jewels and a gold coin over each eye. Fare for the ferryman." She drizzled her coral necklace into the well of her navel, and her pearl double strand, between her breasts. After a minute, she picked up the pearls, opened her mouth and let the strand drop in, closed her lips over the shiny eggs. Her mother had given her the pearls when she married, though she didn't want her to marry a Jew. When Claire told me, she expected me to be horrified, but I'd lived with Marvel Turlock, Amelia Ramos. Prejudice was hardly a surprise. The only thing I wondered was why would she give her pearls.
Claire lay still, pretending to be dead. A jeweled corpse in her pink lace lingerie, covered with a fine drizzle of sweat. I wasn't sure I liked this new game. Through the French doors, in the foot of space showing under the blinds, I could see the garden, left wild this spring. Claire didn't garden anymore, no pruning and weeding under her Chinese peaked hat. She didn't stake the flowers, and now they bloomed ragged, the second-year glads tilting to one side, Mexican evening primroses annexing the unmowed lawn.
Ron was away again, twice in one month, this time in Andalusia taping a piece about Gypises. Out combing the world for what was most bizarre, racking up frequent flier miles. If he wanted to see something weird and uncanny, he should have just walked into his own bedroom and seen his wife lying on the bed in her pink lace panties and bra, covered in jade and pearls, pretending she was dead.
I could keep typing because White Oleander stays at that pitched level of character, black wit and psychological complexity for 446 pages, with the pulse of a mother-daughter relationship underneath and in climax, a memorable confrontation between them. Fitch is dialed in to the human condition, depicting how those we come into intimate contact with will hurt us, inspire us and chisel away at us to expose whoever we were destined to be. It's harrowing, it's real, it's rock 'n roll, it's one of the best novels I've read. In contrast to a lot of the others, this is also storytelling, constantly moving forward, never devolving into Writing while Astrid is on her journey.
Length: 138,086 words
The novel is narrated by Astrid Magnussen, who introduces herself at the age of 12 living in a crummy Hollywood apartment with her mother Ingrid. Employed as a layout designer for a movie magazine when she's not hustling books of her poems, Ingrid is devoted to aesthetics. She's trucked Astrid from Paris to Amsterdam to Mexico and takes her to work as well, certain that her daughter's needs can be met in the audience of her mother. At her poetry reading, Ingrid is approached by Barry Kolker, a chubby, dark and slovenly dressed man who Ingrid rejects on sight, but whose self-confidence and persistence gradually wins her over.
Having never known her father, Astrid is encouraged that Barry might make them a family, as well as provide stability in her life. Outside of drawing, life revolves around her mother. This takes a turn for the worse when Barry breaks off contact with Ingrid, crushing her self-esteem and drawing Viking retribution. The police come for her and Astrid spends the next year in a fugue state, watching her zombie-eyed mother sentenced to thirty-five years to life. She's ultimately placed with her first foster family, adopted by a born-again stripper named Starr who lives in Tujunga with her four children in a trailer. On visiting day, a van transports Astrid to Chino to sit with her mother.
I looked into her determined face, cheekbones like razors, her eyes making me believe. "I was afraid you'd be mad at me."
She stretched me out at arm's length to look at me, her hands gripping my shoulders. "Why would you think that?"
Because I couldn't lie well enough. But I couldn't say it.
She hugged me again. Those arms around me made me want to stay there forever. I'd rob a bank and get convicted so we could always be together. I wanted to curl up in her lap, I wanted to disappear into her body, I wanted to be one of her eyelashes, or a blood vessel in her thigh, a mole on her neck.
"Is it terrible here? Do they hurt you?"
"Not as much as I hurt them," she said, and I knew she was smiling, though all I could see was the denim of her sleeve and her arm, still lightly tanned. I had to pull away a little to see her. Yes, she was smiling, her half-smile, the little comma-shaped curve at the corner of her mouth. I touched her mouth. She kissed my fingers.
"They assigned me to office work. I told them I'd rather clean toilets than type their bureaucratic vomit. Oh, they don't much care for me. I'm on grounds crew. I sweep, pull weeds, though of course only inside the wire. I'm considered a poor security risk. Imagine. I won't tutor their illiterates, teach writing classes, or otherwise feed the machine. I will not serve." She stuck her nose in my hair, she was smelling me. "Your hair smells of bread, Clover and nutmeg. I want to remember you just like this, in that sadly hopeful pink dress, and those bridesmaid, promise-of-prom-night pumps. Your foster mother's, no doubt. Pink being the ultimate cliché."
Left to survive on her own, Astrid accepts some of the messages she hears at the Truth Assembly of Christ and grows close to Starr's carpenter boyfriend, a Vietnam veteran named Ray. Starr grows suspicious of her adopted daughter but Astrid convinces her that not only is an affair preposterous, but sending her back would only push Ray away. Astrid soon consummates a relationship with him anyway and to cope with her doubts, Starr returns to booze. When it comes time for her to move on, Astrid has to be taken away in an ambulance. Recovering from her wounds, she's adopted by Marvel Turlock. Next stop: Van Nuys.
Marvel enlists Astrid as a servant but provides a kind of stability she's never known. Now fourteen, Astrid becomes fascinated by a debonair neighbor named Olivia Johnstone who Marvel has disparaged as a "whore." Earning Olivia's trust, Astrid learns that she was a loan officer who parlayed her beauty and charm to profit handsomely from a number of suitors. The friendship continues to mold and harden the girl and results in her being sent back. Considered a problem child, Astrid is placed with Amelia Ramos, an interior decorator who uses the adoption assistance checks for four girls to renovate her Hollywood home, starving her charges with only one meal per day.
Astrid endears herself to a new case worker, a screenwriter gathering material, to find placement with her dream foster mother, a childless young actress named Claire Richards. Astrid even gets along with her new foster father, who travels often producing a paranormal TV series. Astrid learns her role here is to watch over Claire, clinically depressed and possibly suicidal from lack of love from her husband. She does her best but with a year left of high school, is on the move again, this time to a hovel in Sunland, where her new foster mother Rena Gruschenka strips Astrid of her pride but replaces it with something more valuable.
Rena turned her head to the side, shaded her eyes with her hand, glanced at me, then went back to sunny-side up. "You are Russian I think. A Russian always ask, what is meaning of life." She pulled a long, depressed face. "What is meaning of life, maya liubov? Is our bad weather. Here is California, Astrid darling. You don't ask meaning. Too bad Akhmatova, but we got beach volleyball, sports car, tummy tuck. Don't worry, be happy. Buy something."
She smiled to herself, arms down at her sides, eyes closed, glistening on her chaise lounge like bacon frying in a pan. Small beads of water clung to the tiny hairs of her upper lip, pooled between her breasts. Maybe she was the lucky one, I thought, a woman who had divested herself of both future and past. No dreams, no standards, a woman who smoked and drank and slept with men like Sergei, men who were spiritually what came up out of the sewers when it rained. I could learn from her. Rena Gruschenka didn't worry about her teeth, didn't take vitamin C. She ate salt on everything and was always drunk by three. She certainly didn't feel sick because she wasn't going to college and making something of her life. She lay in the sun and gave the workmen hard-ons while she could.
"You get a boyfriend, you stop worry," she said.
I didn't want to tell her I had a boyfriend. Hers.
There are novels that seem like they were written just for you. "Compelling female characters? Electric prose? Acidic wit? Fantastic dialogue? You like master-pupil stories, don't you? What about the ultimate L.A. novel? How about detail that's so sharp you draw blood? You'll have it. Read White Oleander." Janet Fitch does all of this in more ways than I have the space to describe, but her characters, particularly the incarcerated Viking mother Ingrid Magnussen (who could skin a Mama Grizzly for brunch) and the fatally weak Claire Richards will be with me for as long as any tragic character in Dickens or Maugham. I mean ...
By April, the desert had already sucked spring from the air like blotting paper. The Hollywood Hills rose unnaturally clear, as if we were looking at them through binoculars. The new leaves were wilting in the heat that left us sweating and dispirited in the house with the blinds down.
Claire brought out the jewelry she kept in the freezer and dumped it onto the bed, a pirate's treasure, deliciously icy. Freezing strands of green jade beads with jeweled clasps, a pendant of amber enclosing a fossilized fern. I pressed it, cold, to my cheek. I draped an antique crystal bracelet down the part in my hair, let it lap on my forehead like a cool tongue.
"That was my great-aunt Priscilla's," Claire said. "She wore it to her presentation ball at the Waldorf-Astoria, just before the Great War." She lay on her back in her underwear, her hair dark with sweat, a smoky topaz bracelet across her forehead intersected by an intricate gold chain that came to rest on the tip of her nose. She was painfully thin, with sharp hipbones and ribs stark as a carved wooden Christ. I could see her beauty mark above the line of her panties. "She was a field nurse at Ypres. A very brave woman."
Every bracelet, every bead, had a story. I plucked an onyx ring from the pile between us on the bed, rectangular, its black slick surface pierced by a tiny diamond. I slipped it on, but it was tiny, only fit my smallest finger, above the knuckle. "Whose was this?" I held it out so she could see it without moving her head.
"Great-grandmother Matilde. A quintessential Parisienne."
Its owner dead a hundred years, perhaps, but still she made me feel large and ill bred. I imagined jet-black hair, curls, a sharp tongue. Her black eyes would have caught my least awkwardness. She would have disapproved of me, my gawky arms and legs, I would have been too large for her little chairs and tiny gold-rimmed porcelain cups, a moose among antelope. I gave it to Claire, who slipped it right on.
The garnet choker, icy around my neck, was a wedding present from her mill-owning Manchester great-grandfather to his wife, Beatrice. The gold jaguar with emerald eyes I balanced on my knee was brought back from Brazil in the twenties by her father's aunt Geraldine Woods, who danced with Isadora Duncan. I was wearing Claire's family album. Maternal grandmothers and paternal great-aunts, women in emerald taffeta, velvet and garnets. Time, place, and personality locked into stone and silver filigree.
In comparison to this, my past was smoke, a story my mother once told me and later denied. No onyxes for me, no aquamarines memorializing the lives of my ancestors. I had only their eyes, their hands, the shape of a nose, a nostalgia for snowfall and carved wood.
Claire dripped a gold necklace over one closed eye socket, jade beads in the other. She spoke carefully, nothing slid off.
"They used to bury people like this. Mouths full of jewels and a gold coin over each eye. Fare for the ferryman." She drizzled her coral necklace into the well of her navel, and her pearl double strand, between her breasts. After a minute, she picked up the pearls, opened her mouth and let the strand drop in, closed her lips over the shiny eggs. Her mother had given her the pearls when she married, though she didn't want her to marry a Jew. When Claire told me, she expected me to be horrified, but I'd lived with Marvel Turlock, Amelia Ramos. Prejudice was hardly a surprise. The only thing I wondered was why would she give her pearls.
Claire lay still, pretending to be dead. A jeweled corpse in her pink lace lingerie, covered with a fine drizzle of sweat. I wasn't sure I liked this new game. Through the French doors, in the foot of space showing under the blinds, I could see the garden, left wild this spring. Claire didn't garden anymore, no pruning and weeding under her Chinese peaked hat. She didn't stake the flowers, and now they bloomed ragged, the second-year glads tilting to one side, Mexican evening primroses annexing the unmowed lawn.
Ron was away again, twice in one month, this time in Andalusia taping a piece about Gypises. Out combing the world for what was most bizarre, racking up frequent flier miles. If he wanted to see something weird and uncanny, he should have just walked into his own bedroom and seen his wife lying on the bed in her pink lace panties and bra, covered in jade and pearls, pretending she was dead.
I could keep typing because White Oleander stays at that pitched level of character, black wit and psychological complexity for 446 pages, with the pulse of a mother-daughter relationship underneath and in climax, a memorable confrontation between them. Fitch is dialed in to the human condition, depicting how those we come into intimate contact with will hurt us, inspire us and chisel away at us to expose whoever we were destined to be. It's harrowing, it's real, it's rock 'n roll, it's one of the best novels I've read. In contrast to a lot of the others, this is also storytelling, constantly moving forward, never devolving into Writing while Astrid is on her journey.
Length: 138,086 words
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
September 29, 2020
3.5 stars
This book was interesting and easy to pick up, but I felt it was building toward a huge revelation or change in character that never got there. Maybe it's a more realistic book than I'd been expecting, but I don't love how the resolution measured up to the building tension. But the writing was fantastic.
This book was interesting and easy to pick up, but I felt it was building toward a huge revelation or change in character that never got there. Maybe it's a more realistic book than I'd been expecting, but I don't love how the resolution measured up to the building tension. But the writing was fantastic.
April 25, 2020
Gritted my teeth to get through this and see what happened. The story itself is interesting, but the writing was so fussy and melodramatically overwrought that I wanted to toss the book away. Kept going only because I wanted to understand people's strong response to it.
February 22, 2017
What exquisite writing, never have I read a book that speaks so beautifully but also describes pain so acutely. Astrid becomes a ward of the state after her mother commits a crime of passion and is imprisoned. Although her mother is behind bars, Astrid cannot shake her mother's deep hold on her. Her mother, beautiful Nordic Ingrid Magnussen. A true seductress a woman who can weave a web of destruction with her beauty, poetry and words, people fall in love with her, men in particular, she is dangerous and nobody knows this better than Astrid. This book delves into that most treacherous of relationships the mother/daughter dynamic. A relationship that is deeply destructive and insidious. Along the way Astrid meets many "mothers" foster mothers who have their own lessons to teach Astrid, although she goes through some horrific foster placements, she really tries to belong but always finds that her mother keeps a firm grasp on her and is able to manipulate her and those around her even though she is in jail and can't physically reach her, it's the mental scars and trauma that keep affecting Astrid and making it hard to move on however hard she tries to. A book that really exposes the complexities of women, how they shape and influence us, in good and bad ways. I loved this book but it was heavy going at times, it's a book I needed to take breaks from as if could become all consuming and depressing. The theme of this book touched a nerve so it affected me personally which is why I rated this 5 stars
August 24, 2019
“If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you'll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.”
Ingrid Magnusson is sent to jail for the murder of her ex-boyfriend, leaving her daughter, Astrid, to enter the foster care system.
White Oleander is pure poetry. The writing is absolutely exquisite - it’s one of those books where you keep pausing just to inhale really moving and poignant prose. I would happily read anything else Janet Fitch has written/will write, as she has blown me away!
The mother/daughter relationship between Ingrid and Astrid is complex, flawed and difficult. The influence that one person can hold over you is quite scary - even though Ingrid is in prison, she still exerts this weird control over Astrid from afar. Her relationship with her mother is something that Astrid struggles with, as well as the lack of a father during her youth. Fitch handles these themes and topics with a deft hand, I really didn’t want this one to end.
Following Astrid through a sequence of different foster homes is really heartbreaking, but each new home brings vibrant and strong characters, each with their own issues. Claire in particular was a standout for me, I loved the relationship that formed between her and Astrid, even though Claire herself was also a fragile soul.
I would 100% recommend this to anyone who loves reading about complicated family dynamics, in particular the frayed relationship that can exist between mothers and daughters. This book was fantastic!
I’m also still fangirling over the fact that Fitch messaged me personally on goodreads to say she enjoyed reading my reviews and was looking forward to reading more! I’ll mark that down as one of my greatest bookish moments! 4.5 stars.
Ingrid Magnusson is sent to jail for the murder of her ex-boyfriend, leaving her daughter, Astrid, to enter the foster care system.
White Oleander is pure poetry. The writing is absolutely exquisite - it’s one of those books where you keep pausing just to inhale really moving and poignant prose. I would happily read anything else Janet Fitch has written/will write, as she has blown me away!
The mother/daughter relationship between Ingrid and Astrid is complex, flawed and difficult. The influence that one person can hold over you is quite scary - even though Ingrid is in prison, she still exerts this weird control over Astrid from afar. Her relationship with her mother is something that Astrid struggles with, as well as the lack of a father during her youth. Fitch handles these themes and topics with a deft hand, I really didn’t want this one to end.
Following Astrid through a sequence of different foster homes is really heartbreaking, but each new home brings vibrant and strong characters, each with their own issues. Claire in particular was a standout for me, I loved the relationship that formed between her and Astrid, even though Claire herself was also a fragile soul.
I would 100% recommend this to anyone who loves reading about complicated family dynamics, in particular the frayed relationship that can exist between mothers and daughters. This book was fantastic!
I’m also still fangirling over the fact that Fitch messaged me personally on goodreads to say she enjoyed reading my reviews and was looking forward to reading more! I’ll mark that down as one of my greatest bookish moments! 4.5 stars.
February 11, 2021
I love the movie and love the book!!
Mel 🖤🐶🐺🐾
Mel 🖤🐶🐺🐾
November 15, 2018
White Oleander follows the story of Astrid, a young girl who is shuttled from one foster home to another while her mother serves a life sentence in prison.
I'm reading this for the second time, and it remains one of my favourite books ever. It is as beautiful and dreamy as it is bleak and raw. The Los Angeles setting is gorgeous, blissful, and yet terribly unforgiving. I was so totally immersed in this story from start to finish, and I would think about it longingly when I was off doing other things - which is what I love most about reading; it's such a wonderful feeling when you can't wait to dive back into the world between the pages.
The characters in this novel are ones you won't forget; terribly flawed, and yet I remained sympathetic towards all of them. Janet Fitch has a talent for writing in a way which allows you to thoroughly comprehend what each character is going through, regardless of how different your own life may be.
I highly, highly recommend this novel, especially for those who love character driven stories, or if you're looking for something different. White Oleander is truly remarkable.
I'm reading this for the second time, and it remains one of my favourite books ever. It is as beautiful and dreamy as it is bleak and raw. The Los Angeles setting is gorgeous, blissful, and yet terribly unforgiving. I was so totally immersed in this story from start to finish, and I would think about it longingly when I was off doing other things - which is what I love most about reading; it's such a wonderful feeling when you can't wait to dive back into the world between the pages.
The characters in this novel are ones you won't forget; terribly flawed, and yet I remained sympathetic towards all of them. Janet Fitch has a talent for writing in a way which allows you to thoroughly comprehend what each character is going through, regardless of how different your own life may be.
I highly, highly recommend this novel, especially for those who love character driven stories, or if you're looking for something different. White Oleander is truly remarkable.
January 23, 2015
Wow, this is a BEAUTIFUL MASTERPIECE and an intelligent and heartbreaking, true and honest story.
When I was about 100 pages into the book, I already knew that this was going to be a new favourite of mine. Now that I've finished it, I can honestly say that this is one of the most raw books I've ever read.
What strikes me the most about this story is the impeccable writing style. The main character, Astrid, tells the story in a very impressionistic way and it was beautiful! Janet Fitch has a way of comparing life to ordinary things and creating metaphors that are spot on, and it was so easy to follow Astrid's train of thoughts and feel for her through her struggles.
The impeccable writing style was then paired to a beautiful and - as I said - raw story about doubt, loneliness, love, insecurity and so many other things. Name a feeling and this book has it. I still can't believe how Janet Fitch manages to convey Astrid's feelings and doubt so beautifully; even though I've never been in Astrid's situation, I completely understood the feelings she was going through.
I loved every page of this book! It broke my heart, and it has left a great impact on me. That's eaxctly why it made it straight to my favourites list :) This is a must-read!
When I was about 100 pages into the book, I already knew that this was going to be a new favourite of mine. Now that I've finished it, I can honestly say that this is one of the most raw books I've ever read.
What strikes me the most about this story is the impeccable writing style. The main character, Astrid, tells the story in a very impressionistic way and it was beautiful! Janet Fitch has a way of comparing life to ordinary things and creating metaphors that are spot on, and it was so easy to follow Astrid's train of thoughts and feel for her through her struggles.
The impeccable writing style was then paired to a beautiful and - as I said - raw story about doubt, loneliness, love, insecurity and so many other things. Name a feeling and this book has it. I still can't believe how Janet Fitch manages to convey Astrid's feelings and doubt so beautifully; even though I've never been in Astrid's situation, I completely understood the feelings she was going through.
I loved every page of this book! It broke my heart, and it has left a great impact on me. That's eaxctly why it made it straight to my favourites list :) This is a must-read!
Read
March 17, 2024Thoughts on the DANG TUBE!
April 2, 2017
It took me forever to sit down and write this review. I never wait this long after finishing a book to post some sort of review. I’ve just given up and realized it’s impossible for me to do justice to the book. It’s a full 5 star rating from me, though not (yet?) on my favorites shelf, maybe because the ending seemed a bit truncated/rushed to me; I wanted to know a bit more.
This one wrecked me, it wiped me out, it was gut wrenching. I loved it. It’s my kind of book. Thanks to GR friend Caroline for periodically recommending that I read it. I’m glad that it’s finally off my too long to-read shelf and I’m glad I read it now, even though I had to temporarily put aside a few books I have commitments to read soon, some too soon to accomplish in time. It’s the second book I’ve read in 2017 that has helped me get out of my readers’ slump. I hope the next books I read are anywhere as close to engaging. It was a page-turner for me. The only parts I sometimes found dull were Ingrid’s letters to Astrid, but because of why I thought that was also smart writing.
The writing is gorgeous. I mostly appreciate the many complicated, realistic, interesting, and memorable characters, especially Astrid. Some of the circumstances seemed almost extreme (though still believable) but nothing about the characters rang false to me.
I loved reading how Astrid adapted to her many different circumstances. I think she’s a brilliantly drawn character. I worried needlessly that I wouldn’t be as interested in her as she ages, 12 to almost 18 and then beyond a bit to an unknown age but I think not much older, but it actually got harder and harder to put down the book the farther in I read. Each move turned into a whole other world. I rooted for and worried about Astrid all the way through.
The book is deeply melancholy. I found myself getting more and more depressed as Astrid goes through some of her placements. The main character has a highly unconventional upbringing even until age 12 and then experiences chaos and disruption from ages 12-18. Every placement I found interesting, only one would I consider more than barely tolerable. I was impressed and saddened by how she adapted to each place/group of people. I appreciated how she could often be so tender and generous with some of the other people she lived with in almost all her foster homes. Even for a foster child, some of the placements were notable for being unusual.
This is a great Los Angeles story. I have a San Francisco shelf and a NYC shelf. If I had a Los Angeles shelf, this book would go on it. I loved taking a tour through L.A. and the surrounding areas, including the rural areas.
At the end of my edition there is an interview with the author (with a link to the full interview which I’ve yet to read) and a list of discussion questions.
This would be a great book club book because there is a lot to think about and discuss.
Highly recommended for readers who like beautifully crafted novels, those interested in foster children, those who enjoy atypical coming of age stories, readers who like reading about dysfunctional families and family relationships, those who appreciate how art can be healing, and people who are familiar with L.A. and southern California.
Two of the quotes that I loved:
“The pearls weren't really white, they were a warm oyster beige, with little knots in between so if they broke, you only lost one. I wished my life could be like that, knotted up so that even if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart.”
“How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.”
This one wrecked me, it wiped me out, it was gut wrenching. I loved it. It’s my kind of book. Thanks to GR friend Caroline for periodically recommending that I read it. I’m glad that it’s finally off my too long to-read shelf and I’m glad I read it now, even though I had to temporarily put aside a few books I have commitments to read soon, some too soon to accomplish in time. It’s the second book I’ve read in 2017 that has helped me get out of my readers’ slump. I hope the next books I read are anywhere as close to engaging. It was a page-turner for me. The only parts I sometimes found dull were Ingrid’s letters to Astrid, but because of why I thought that was also smart writing.
The writing is gorgeous. I mostly appreciate the many complicated, realistic, interesting, and memorable characters, especially Astrid. Some of the circumstances seemed almost extreme (though still believable) but nothing about the characters rang false to me.
I loved reading how Astrid adapted to her many different circumstances. I think she’s a brilliantly drawn character. I worried needlessly that I wouldn’t be as interested in her as she ages, 12 to almost 18 and then beyond a bit to an unknown age but I think not much older, but it actually got harder and harder to put down the book the farther in I read. Each move turned into a whole other world. I rooted for and worried about Astrid all the way through.
The book is deeply melancholy. I found myself getting more and more depressed as Astrid goes through some of her placements. The main character has a highly unconventional upbringing even until age 12 and then experiences chaos and disruption from ages 12-18. Every placement I found interesting, only one would I consider more than barely tolerable. I was impressed and saddened by how she adapted to each place/group of people. I appreciated how she could often be so tender and generous with some of the other people she lived with in almost all her foster homes. Even for a foster child, some of the placements were notable for being unusual.
This is a great Los Angeles story. I have a San Francisco shelf and a NYC shelf. If I had a Los Angeles shelf, this book would go on it. I loved taking a tour through L.A. and the surrounding areas, including the rural areas.
At the end of my edition there is an interview with the author (with a link to the full interview which I’ve yet to read) and a list of discussion questions.
This would be a great book club book because there is a lot to think about and discuss.
Highly recommended for readers who like beautifully crafted novels, those interested in foster children, those who enjoy atypical coming of age stories, readers who like reading about dysfunctional families and family relationships, those who appreciate how art can be healing, and people who are familiar with L.A. and southern California.
Two of the quotes that I loved:
“The pearls weren't really white, they were a warm oyster beige, with little knots in between so if they broke, you only lost one. I wished my life could be like that, knotted up so that even if something broke, the whole thing wouldn't come apart.”
“How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.”
May 16, 2016
This is some of the most beautiful writing I've ever encountered. It reminds me a little bit of Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype. It's language is deep and satisfying. The mother daughter relationship told in an almost mythical way. Loved it!
August 26, 2008
I only wish there were a star less than one. I wish I could remove stars. I wish there were a star deficit rating.
This book almost made me give up reading all together. It is definitely the last book I trusted from Oprah. I still think she owes me money and those days of my life back.
It was page after page of the most depressing writing I've ever read with absolutely no pay off.
This book almost made me give up reading all together. It is definitely the last book I trusted from Oprah. I still think she owes me money and those days of my life back.
It was page after page of the most depressing writing I've ever read with absolutely no pay off.
July 10, 2008
Due in part, perhaps, to the influx of "unfortunate teenage girl" novels in the mid-to-late nineties (I think here of books like _She's Come Undone_ and _The Virgin Suicides_), I avoided Fitch's book for a while (the Oprah's Book Club stigma also contributed). And while the story line did manage to keep me up and at it until 2 am last night, I must say: I'm unconvinced.
Also, spoilers. I don't review books to keep them a secret from people who haven't read them; I review them to share my opinions with people who have.
The heroine is a supposedly precocious 12?-year-old girl whose mother, jilted, murders her old lover using some pretty romantic and home-remedy style poisons. Astrid, the daughter, worships her mother based (as we find out later in a kind of tangental and almost unnecessary addition to the denouement) on some major abandonment issues. Her mother, Ingrid, a "poet", is wildly self-absorbed and disregards her daughter except when convenient. Fitch's job at the beginning was to show us Ingrid through Astrid's eyes, and while she does a decent job of alluding to some of the disillusionment that begins to blossom when we hit pre-adolescence, she never lays a real foundation for understanding or feeling of Astrid's desperate, almost hysterical attachment to her mother -- Astrid worships her mother's physicality (enormously sensual), her appreciation of aesthetics (somewhat Cali and cliche) and her poetry (just bad, actually).
After the murder, trial and subsequent imprisonment, Astrid is carted off to -- wait for it -- foster care! As the reader of any late 20th century novel knows well, this bodes the beginning of the "real" story. Because foster parents are all just terrible, messed-up people, either in it for the money or to fulfill some other need. Astrid trails destruction and debris through three or four various foster homes, developing complicated and doomed relationships along the way that only serve to reaffirm her abandonment complex. The only sympathetic person of color in the whole story -- a high-priced call girl named Olivia Johnstone who lives an impossibly rich life laced with jazz, jewelery and jet-setting -- establishes one of Astrid's oft-returned-to realities: "It's a man's world". And yet, Fitch riddles the female characters with so many intensely tragic flaws that halfway through the book one can't help but wonder if she's implying that women are too fucked up to make it a woman's world themselves. Each of the female role-models Astrid finds is almost a caricature of some fatal flaw: gluttony, hypocrisy, despair, lust, while the men remain either sensitive and helpless, or are acquitted of their manly appetites simply because they serve as a backdrop to the relationship between Astrid and the female...but if it's a man's world, and women act the way they do because of men, then why is it okay for the men remain unexamined?
Astrid learns the ropes, as the reader might expect, and in the end bargains with her mother to exchange her tweaked testimony (and potentially her mother's freedom) for tidbits about the past. By this time, so much has happened and Astrid has made so many streetwise decisions that it's difficult to see how the plumbing of the depths of her past (especially the whole thing about Annie...like, who cares? Whether Ingrid was there or not, Astrid was emotionally abandoned the whole time) will really resolve any of her conflict. The final result is simply that Astrid should probably see a therapist or five.
Final Pet Peeve: what's all this about California being a palpable presence in the novel? I won't deny that it was, but I've grown more and more conscious of the fact that there are two separate Californias and I have a hard time with LA authors who behave as though the only California is the California south of San Francisco. It just seems very short-sighted to me.
Also, spoilers. I don't review books to keep them a secret from people who haven't read them; I review them to share my opinions with people who have.
The heroine is a supposedly precocious 12?-year-old girl whose mother, jilted, murders her old lover using some pretty romantic and home-remedy style poisons. Astrid, the daughter, worships her mother based (as we find out later in a kind of tangental and almost unnecessary addition to the denouement) on some major abandonment issues. Her mother, Ingrid, a "poet", is wildly self-absorbed and disregards her daughter except when convenient. Fitch's job at the beginning was to show us Ingrid through Astrid's eyes, and while she does a decent job of alluding to some of the disillusionment that begins to blossom when we hit pre-adolescence, she never lays a real foundation for understanding or feeling of Astrid's desperate, almost hysterical attachment to her mother -- Astrid worships her mother's physicality (enormously sensual), her appreciation of aesthetics (somewhat Cali and cliche) and her poetry (just bad, actually).
After the murder, trial and subsequent imprisonment, Astrid is carted off to -- wait for it -- foster care! As the reader of any late 20th century novel knows well, this bodes the beginning of the "real" story. Because foster parents are all just terrible, messed-up people, either in it for the money or to fulfill some other need. Astrid trails destruction and debris through three or four various foster homes, developing complicated and doomed relationships along the way that only serve to reaffirm her abandonment complex. The only sympathetic person of color in the whole story -- a high-priced call girl named Olivia Johnstone who lives an impossibly rich life laced with jazz, jewelery and jet-setting -- establishes one of Astrid's oft-returned-to realities: "It's a man's world". And yet, Fitch riddles the female characters with so many intensely tragic flaws that halfway through the book one can't help but wonder if she's implying that women are too fucked up to make it a woman's world themselves. Each of the female role-models Astrid finds is almost a caricature of some fatal flaw: gluttony, hypocrisy, despair, lust, while the men remain either sensitive and helpless, or are acquitted of their manly appetites simply because they serve as a backdrop to the relationship between Astrid and the female...but if it's a man's world, and women act the way they do because of men, then why is it okay for the men remain unexamined?
Astrid learns the ropes, as the reader might expect, and in the end bargains with her mother to exchange her tweaked testimony (and potentially her mother's freedom) for tidbits about the past. By this time, so much has happened and Astrid has made so many streetwise decisions that it's difficult to see how the plumbing of the depths of her past (especially the whole thing about Annie...like, who cares? Whether Ingrid was there or not, Astrid was emotionally abandoned the whole time) will really resolve any of her conflict. The final result is simply that Astrid should probably see a therapist or five.
Final Pet Peeve: what's all this about California being a palpable presence in the novel? I won't deny that it was, but I've grown more and more conscious of the fact that there are two separate Californias and I have a hard time with LA authors who behave as though the only California is the California south of San Francisco. It just seems very short-sighted to me.
October 22, 2023
Poster za filmsku adaptaciju prikazuje četiri prelepe žene. Nežne plavuše prodornih očiju, mnogima simbol idealne lepote. Takva slika je savršena metafora jedne od centralnih tema "Belog oleandera": odnos spoljne lepote i unutrašnjeg razdora. Postoje one stare: "Bar si lepa." i "Lepa si, šta ti fali?". Lepa, ali nesigurna; lepa, ali tužna; lepa, ali sama; lepa, ali poput imenovanog cveta, toksična i sposobna da ubije.
Sav kalifornijski hedonizam plasiran u filmovima i muzici stavljen je u peti plan kroz roman Dženet Fič. Zlo postoji svuda pod suncem, čak tamo gde ono blještvo sija preko tri stotine dana godišnje.
Gde mi počinjemo da postojimo kao zasebne ličnosti? Kada naša stvarnost prestaje da pozajmljuje scenarije onih koji su nas stvorili? Takva ameboidna separacija teško da je ostvariva, većina dobrim delom nastavlja da nosi svoje reditelje duboko u sebi; jednima je legat osnova za dalji razvoj, drugima protetički ud bez kojeg kao da ne postoje.
"Beli oleander" je vrhunska psihološka studija. Izjedajuća patologija između majke, pesnikinje robijašice, ona nosi ruho namučenog/uzvišenog poete kao ekscentrični veo preko svoje mizantropije, i ćerke u boju sa nizom staratelja i željom za otegnućem od roditelja koji, čak iza rešetaka, upravlja događajima.
Prelomne tačke unutarnjeg sveta, promene percepcije devojčice, kasnije devojke, prema majci savršeno se ogledaju u ritmu teksta- od mimike roditeljske sintakse do nalaženja sopstvenog "ja". Taj pesnički jezik o kojem često slušamo, poezija u prozi, momenat objedinjavanja tekstualnog i emocionalnog, dok u mnogim delima guši narativnu strukturu, ovde, gladak kao svila, stvara dvojaku dinamiku- želja za raspletom biva ukroćena dubljom potrebom za lepotom jezika; čitalac zastaje, vraća se na pasuse, čak i zapisuje. Istinska umetnost, reklo bi se.
Treba se ponekad distancirati od paušalnih prideva( dobar, bolji, bolji od, itd.), voditi se mnogo pouzdanijom koncepcijom uspelosti. Magična linija na relaciji autor-urednik-čitalac, ovaj u sredini- delom tihi partner, delom agent provokator- igra presudnu ulogu u obuzdvanju piščeve bujice kao umetnika kako bi pred čitalačku publiku dospeo uravnotežen tekst. Pisanje kao umetnost naspram pisanja kao zanata, sklad ta dva rezultira delom poput ovog- uspelom na svakom planu.
"Beli oleander" je remek-delo moderne književnosti, zaslužno svih superlativa i statusa koji uživa. Nekada se Rubikova kocka baš sklopi, a rezultat je maestralan.
Sav kalifornijski hedonizam plasiran u filmovima i muzici stavljen je u peti plan kroz roman Dženet Fič. Zlo postoji svuda pod suncem, čak tamo gde ono blještvo sija preko tri stotine dana godišnje.
Gde mi počinjemo da postojimo kao zasebne ličnosti? Kada naša stvarnost prestaje da pozajmljuje scenarije onih koji su nas stvorili? Takva ameboidna separacija teško da je ostvariva, većina dobrim delom nastavlja da nosi svoje reditelje duboko u sebi; jednima je legat osnova za dalji razvoj, drugima protetički ud bez kojeg kao da ne postoje.
"Beli oleander" je vrhunska psihološka studija. Izjedajuća patologija između majke, pesnikinje robijašice, ona nosi ruho namučenog/uzvišenog poete kao ekscentrični veo preko svoje mizantropije, i ćerke u boju sa nizom staratelja i željom za otegnućem od roditelja koji, čak iza rešetaka, upravlja događajima.
Prelomne tačke unutarnjeg sveta, promene percepcije devojčice, kasnije devojke, prema majci savršeno se ogledaju u ritmu teksta- od mimike roditeljske sintakse do nalaženja sopstvenog "ja". Taj pesnički jezik o kojem često slušamo, poezija u prozi, momenat objedinjavanja tekstualnog i emocionalnog, dok u mnogim delima guši narativnu strukturu, ovde, gladak kao svila, stvara dvojaku dinamiku- želja za raspletom biva ukroćena dubljom potrebom za lepotom jezika; čitalac zastaje, vraća se na pasuse, čak i zapisuje. Istinska umetnost, reklo bi se.
Treba se ponekad distancirati od paušalnih prideva( dobar, bolji, bolji od, itd.), voditi se mnogo pouzdanijom koncepcijom uspelosti. Magična linija na relaciji autor-urednik-čitalac, ovaj u sredini- delom tihi partner, delom agent provokator- igra presudnu ulogu u obuzdvanju piščeve bujice kao umetnika kako bi pred čitalačku publiku dospeo uravnotežen tekst. Pisanje kao umetnost naspram pisanja kao zanata, sklad ta dva rezultira delom poput ovog- uspelom na svakom planu.
"Beli oleander" je remek-delo moderne književnosti, zaslužno svih superlativa i statusa koji uživa. Nekada se Rubikova kocka baš sklopi, a rezultat je maestralan.
August 16, 2021
My aunt bought me this book for Christmas one year and at first I was really disappointed. I thought "Oh, that's nice... because I like to read you just got me the Oprah book club book of the month... thanks." But then I read it, and I'm now convinced that my aunt knows me better than maybe many of my close friends or better than I know myself. Not to be all cheesy and over-identify with something that isn't about me; but this book REALLY hit home for me in describing my relationship with my mother. This story is emotionally harrowing and beautifully told. The climax is gut-wrenching though subtle, and honestly made me cry. The movie didn't come close to doing any of this justice. This is one of those books that even if you had great parents, you can probably identify with, just because of how excellently the characters and story are rendered, and it's hard to believe that this author didn't live through anything like this herself. She makes a special point of noting in the preface (or back cover or something) that her and her mother get along great and are very close; to me that just makes this book more amazing because, well, damn. That's some powerful and realistic fiction.
September 11, 2022
White Oleander is the story of love, life, pain, pain, and more pain. Young Astrid is left to fend for herself after her mother is imprisoned for murder. Astrid jumps from foster home to foster home. Forced to fall in and out of love, desperate for a place to call her own.
Ingrid, Astrid's mother is a talented poet. Because of this, sometimes the writing was fraught with flowery prose that felt heavy. I hated Ingrid's character, and felt she should not be allowed to have an ounce of redemption. She was selfish at her core--she didn't deserve to have even the gift to write. She would have been better as a crackhead--fitting of her character.
It's gut-wrenching to imagine the pain that foster children endure. There were times Astrid was desperate to be someone's anything. Again, the awful mother, a wicked stepmother more than a real mother, selfish and sex starved, ignored her daughters most basic needs in the name of art. This made me thing of ego-driven, self-proclaimed intellectuals, too self-centered to care for anyone but themselves.
Overall, a tough read, with attention to extravagant, romantic writing. It may have been better as a poem.
3.5/5 stars.
Ingrid, Astrid's mother is a talented poet. Because of this, sometimes the writing was fraught with flowery prose that felt heavy. I hated Ingrid's character, and felt she should not be allowed to have an ounce of redemption. She was selfish at her core--she didn't deserve to have even the gift to write. She would have been better as a crackhead--fitting of her character.
It's gut-wrenching to imagine the pain that foster children endure. There were times Astrid was desperate to be someone's anything. Again, the awful mother, a wicked stepmother more than a real mother, selfish and sex starved, ignored her daughters most basic needs in the name of art. This made me thing of ego-driven, self-proclaimed intellectuals, too self-centered to care for anyone but themselves.
Overall, a tough read, with attention to extravagant, romantic writing. It may have been better as a poem.
3.5/5 stars.
April 25, 2010
I had heard previously how good/bad this book is. Most people have been powerfully affected by it. They either really liked it or really disliked it. After reading it, I could see how it could sway you in either ways. You could either take the story at face value and be swayed by it, as I did, or you could critically analyze it and call upon its credibility.
My opinion
Janet Fitch writes White Oleander in a very eloquent style. Poetic writing is not some thing I enjoy usually (since I'm pathetic in poetry). But I didn't have to strain myself here. The writing flowed easily, in fact, I couldn't wait to turn page after page to know what happens next.
White Oleander is told from Astrid's perspective. She sketches a very vivid portrait of her mother, Ingrid - someone who scorns on anyone "beneath" her, someone who is highly appreciative of beauty and condemning of who/what doesn't possess it, someone who believes she has to be in control and jealously frowns on anyone Astrid gets attached to.
Astrid's mother, Ingrid, did not give herself to men. Men came to her, but she frowned on them. Until Barry Kolker came along and proved to be her weakness. When Barry leaves her for another woman, Ingrid's methodical jealousy has her murdering him by poison. Ingrid's sentence to jail starts a six-year transformation in Astrid from the girl who worships her mother to someone who tries to stay away from her.
Astrid's years in foster care are almost gut-wrenching to read about. That a 12-year old girl goes through so much makes it an even more poignant reading. Astrid happens to be very mature for her age. Her initial confusion over what her mother did soon gives way to an acceptance of what she will have to go through. All her foster parents have shades of gray. Every house she stays in, she learns something formidable about human life in general. She slowly comes to learn how to manipulate human wants and desires. In so many instances, I could see quite a bit of her mother, in herself.
White Oleander is very powerfully written. It describes a very harrowing picture of the foster care in LA, where Astrid grew up. A foster parent who suspects her of sleeping in with her boyfriend, another one who suspects her of being lesbian and having a relationship with the prostitute next door, yet another who encourages pot and alcohol in the house. What was saddening was Astrid's belief that she deserved it. Which child deserves any of this? Sometimes I wanted to shake the people around her for being blind to her - A 13-year-old aware of the manipulative power of sex, the lifting effect of drugs and being attracted to old or married men.
However dire these situations, White Oleander also strongly advocates that human companionship can be found in the least expected places. In the geeky studious child who is very knowledgeable about nature, in a woman who sleeps with men for money, in the childless mother, who adores Astrid but who is highly suspicious about her husband's fidelity, in the pregnant foster-child who looks to Astrid for support during her pregnancy. These little tales of love moved me just as much as the harsh tales did. What made the sorrows more unbearable is that the good events didn't last. Much as Astrid was being doomed to a life of hardships, she learned from these situations to get the upper-hand.
I did get bugged initially by the fact that hardships follow Astrid. I would not have liked White Oleander if Astrid never grew to love and feel loved. The one foster-home that gives her that moves me more than the shady foster-homes she has been in. I loved Astrid's coming of age in this book, and how she adapted to different situations, but I liked Ingrid's character-sketch more. Janet Fitch has painted a sharp picture of Astrid's mom, with all her staunchly held beliefs and her conviction that Astrid could only "belong" to her. It was a portrait that one would hate instantly and yet be enamored by its sharp colors and strong inward pulls.
I would strongly recommend White Oleander to you. It is very hard to do justice to this book, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn't quite get it right. So I'll just say, go ahead and read it!
Title Demystified
Did you know that white oleanders are poisonous? My knowledge of botany is at the very bottom, so this particular fact was quite new to me. White Oleander is all about the poisons in the human spirit. There is the frequent mention of "sin virus", when someone yearns for something wrong - sex, drugs, or anything that is frowned upon. There is the reference to Ingrid's poisonous tentacles that sweetly lures everyone and then jumps in for the kill. White Oleander is a strong tale of how the many poisons in a person can overcome the good feelings and undermine a relationship.
Cover Art Demystified
I was initially captivated by the cover of this book, way before reading its synopsis. The beautiful woman slowly unzipping herself, gives me the image of human temptations and manipulations. Human poisons, in other words, that much laces and interleaves the whole story of Astrid and Ingrid.
My opinion
Janet Fitch writes White Oleander in a very eloquent style. Poetic writing is not some thing I enjoy usually (since I'm pathetic in poetry). But I didn't have to strain myself here. The writing flowed easily, in fact, I couldn't wait to turn page after page to know what happens next.
White Oleander is told from Astrid's perspective. She sketches a very vivid portrait of her mother, Ingrid - someone who scorns on anyone "beneath" her, someone who is highly appreciative of beauty and condemning of who/what doesn't possess it, someone who believes she has to be in control and jealously frowns on anyone Astrid gets attached to.
Beauty was my mother's law, her religion. You could do anything you wanted, as long as you were beautiful, as long as you did things beautifully. If you weren't, you just didn't exist. She had drummed it into my head since I was small. Although I had noticed by now that reality didn't always conform to my mother's ideas.
Astrid's mother, Ingrid, did not give herself to men. Men came to her, but she frowned on them. Until Barry Kolker came along and proved to be her weakness. When Barry leaves her for another woman, Ingrid's methodical jealousy has her murdering him by poison. Ingrid's sentence to jail starts a six-year transformation in Astrid from the girl who worships her mother to someone who tries to stay away from her.
Astrid's years in foster care are almost gut-wrenching to read about. That a 12-year old girl goes through so much makes it an even more poignant reading. Astrid happens to be very mature for her age. Her initial confusion over what her mother did soon gives way to an acceptance of what she will have to go through. All her foster parents have shades of gray. Every house she stays in, she learns something formidable about human life in general. She slowly comes to learn how to manipulate human wants and desires. In so many instances, I could see quite a bit of her mother, in herself.
White Oleander is very powerfully written. It describes a very harrowing picture of the foster care in LA, where Astrid grew up. A foster parent who suspects her of sleeping in with her boyfriend, another one who suspects her of being lesbian and having a relationship with the prostitute next door, yet another who encourages pot and alcohol in the house. What was saddening was Astrid's belief that she deserved it. Which child deserves any of this? Sometimes I wanted to shake the people around her for being blind to her - A 13-year-old aware of the manipulative power of sex, the lifting effect of drugs and being attracted to old or married men.
However dire these situations, White Oleander also strongly advocates that human companionship can be found in the least expected places. In the geeky studious child who is very knowledgeable about nature, in a woman who sleeps with men for money, in the childless mother, who adores Astrid but who is highly suspicious about her husband's fidelity, in the pregnant foster-child who looks to Astrid for support during her pregnancy. These little tales of love moved me just as much as the harsh tales did. What made the sorrows more unbearable is that the good events didn't last. Much as Astrid was being doomed to a life of hardships, she learned from these situations to get the upper-hand.
I did get bugged initially by the fact that hardships follow Astrid. I would not have liked White Oleander if Astrid never grew to love and feel loved. The one foster-home that gives her that moves me more than the shady foster-homes she has been in. I loved Astrid's coming of age in this book, and how she adapted to different situations, but I liked Ingrid's character-sketch more. Janet Fitch has painted a sharp picture of Astrid's mom, with all her staunchly held beliefs and her conviction that Astrid could only "belong" to her. It was a portrait that one would hate instantly and yet be enamored by its sharp colors and strong inward pulls.
I would strongly recommend White Oleander to you. It is very hard to do justice to this book, and no matter how much I tried, I couldn't quite get it right. So I'll just say, go ahead and read it!
Title Demystified
Did you know that white oleanders are poisonous? My knowledge of botany is at the very bottom, so this particular fact was quite new to me. White Oleander is all about the poisons in the human spirit. There is the frequent mention of "sin virus", when someone yearns for something wrong - sex, drugs, or anything that is frowned upon. There is the reference to Ingrid's poisonous tentacles that sweetly lures everyone and then jumps in for the kill. White Oleander is a strong tale of how the many poisons in a person can overcome the good feelings and undermine a relationship.
Cover Art Demystified
I was initially captivated by the cover of this book, way before reading its synopsis. The beautiful woman slowly unzipping herself, gives me the image of human temptations and manipulations. Human poisons, in other words, that much laces and interleaves the whole story of Astrid and Ingrid.
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