Review of The Correspondent by Virginia Evans – a delightful return to the epistolary novel | Books

EGun books were all the rage, from Clarissa to Dracula games. They don’t come often now, maybe because they can be tricky to do well: all these spaces and omissions, the need for a flawless rule of tone and voice, the difficulty of creating movements within a surprisingly hermetic format. But every now and then a book seems to win. In the 2000s there were two epistolary smash hits We need to talk about Kevin and The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (boy, and various reading experiences), while in the 2010s there was Where did you go, Bernadette?

Now we have Virginia Evans’s The Correspondent. It has been one of those word-of-mouth rumors that put a spring in the steps of publishers, bestsellers on both sides of the Atlantic, which have now been chosen for success. The Mother’s Prize for Fiction. It’s easy to see why, because it’s such a fun read.

Three times a week, 73-year-old Sybil Van Antwerp sits down at her desk in her home in Maryland to write her letters. His letters have been, as he says, “the most important part of my life”. The recipients are her best friend Rosalie, her brother Felix, the unhappy son of an old friend, and an unnamed journalist to whom Sybil writes very emotional letters, which remain unsent and fulfill a function similar to the literary sections that are often included in old epistolary books.

Sybil’s words are direct, unwavering, always at odds with the world around her: “Dear Rosalie,” another letter begins quickly, “I have never heard of you. She is a delightfully contradictory character: prickly and stubborn, but equally capable of generosity and wisdom.

Most importantly, the book is not static, despite its features. Spanning several years, the story comes to Sybil’s two different suitors, glimpses of her legal career, DNA testing equipment, and the tragic death of her son, Gilbert, at an early age. Another thing that worries him is that Sybil is losing her sight, and the letters that make her a “lifestyle” will soon end.

Answers are added from time to time, which provides variety and form. Felix is ​​a special joy, similar to Sybil directly but with an added charm (“It’s not good to say such things about his marriage to your daughter and things are already difficult,” advises Sybil – “your marriage was a dirty sewer”).

Evans also has Sybil writing for real people, including Ann Patchett, George Lucas and Joan Didion. Several fictional responses from Didion are included, as well as her uncertain responses in Sybil’s letters, and I didn’t like this little bit of action, because the subject is the death of a child. Perhaps Evans’ opinion is appropriate because the real Didion wrote so deeply about her daughter’s death, however, those words were Didion’s own.

But, as a character study, the book is brilliant and moving. Evans is best known for his correspondence on Sybil’s life. Towards the end, Sybil remembers: “When I was young, I found a way to write letters that made life easier, and it hasn’t changed.” However, I wonder if by keeping the most intimate relationships of my life in letters, I have distanced myself from others since childhood. The reader feels how this works correctly for Sybil, and we can see the distance that has been created within the syntax itself. It’s satisfying to find the look, feel and style come together like this.

This book is, of course, a paean to the art of letters. When I finished, I found myself writing letters in my head to all my friends and acquaintances, God help them. Long live the epistolary revival.