Schaeffer, Susan Fromberg (Vol. 22)
Susan Fromberg Schaeffer 1941–
American novelist, poet, short story writer, and critic.
Upon publication of her first novel, Falling, Schaeffer was lauded by such critics as Wayne C. Booth. Anya, her next novel, established Schaeffer as an esteemed writer on the horrors of the Holocaust. Critical reception of her subsequent work, however, has been varied. Schaeffer won an O'Henry Award in 1977 for "The Exact Nature of the Plot."
(See also CLC, Vols. 6, 11, and Contemporary Authors, Vols. 49-52.)
Wayne C. Booth
I love this novel—first reading, second reading, browsing—but I can't make ["Falling"] sound as good as it is. If all plot summaries distort, and if all happy endings threaten corn, what can one do about a story that begins with Elizabeth, a fat, sloppy, unloving, miserable student who attempts suicide and that then turns her into a good poet, a superb teacher, a generous daughter and a happy wife? Well, what one can do with old-fashioned stuff like that is precisely what Susan Fromberg Schaeffer shows us in "Falling."
Since the material is in part made of suicide and despair, of mindless cruelties by lovers and parents, it would have been easier to follow Sylvia Plath, say, and show how a young, gifted, reasonably cheerful young lady can move from comfortable promise to suicide. But in all Bildungsromanen it is the journey and not the goal that mainly matters, and here the journey is marvelous indeed.
The journey is not only convincing, it is for the most part very funny. I can't think of any other treatment of "the way those young people live now" that has made me laugh so much. The males in Elizabeth's life, for example, are almost all splendidly awful. (p. 56)
A special intellectual energy is added to [Elizabeth's childhood] memories by weaving them with the sessions in her psychoanalyst's office and with confirming episodes from the present. I had though I would never again want to...
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Pearl K. Bell
The astonishing thing about Susan Fromberg Schaeffer's superb first novel, Falling …, is that she emerges in triumph from a risk that most young authors would not even consider worth taking. Stubbornly fixing her penetrating sights on material that anyone in his right mind knows has been done to death—Jewish life in Brooklyn, graduate school, attempted suicide, psychoanalysis, and scrabbling in the family dirt for the Holy Grail of the self—Mrs. Schaeffer has managed to establish a marvelously original claim to these tattered topics. She is a writer of uncommon talent and honesty, blessed with a natural command of humor and perception, and she has crafted one of the most engaging and genuinely funny books I've read in years. (p. 15)
Mrs. Schaeffer chronicles [the stumbling metamorphosis of her heroine Elizabeth] with an unerring grasp of the contradictory details necessary for the universal mosaic: families and individuals, parents and children, life and death. Falling is at once poignant, hilarious and luminous. Beneath its unassuming plainness, the obligato of Elizabeth's eccentric, realistic sensibility resonates strongly on every page. (p. 16)
Pearl K. Bell, "From Brooklyn and the Bronx," in The New Leader (© 1973 by the American Labor Conference on International Affairs, Inc.), Vol. LVI, No. 16, August 6, 1973, pp. 15-16.∗
The Holocaust, like the Devil, always seems to dominate the fiction in which it appears. It upstages the other characters, the human beings who lived through it. They are impersonalized by suffering the way characters in pornographic novels are impersonalized by sex—or else they are mystically redeemed by it—which is, too, a loss of identity.
This impersonalization never takes place in Anya. The compelling horror of the events does not distract us from the real business of the book—of any fiction—to create an awareness of character which grows, changes, and deepens. Anya's power as a novel is its extraordinary specificity. Its focus is the woman herself—who she was, what happened to her, and because of that, what she became.
I have read few books that are more tangible. The reality is solid—it bears the full weight of one's trust. The story is told in the first person, with a depth of vision that seems to be memory, that imitates memory, but is really something much less passive and more interesting: an author in possession of someone she has fully imagined. Anya is also one of the few "Holocaust" novels to begin long enough before the war to give us a full, material sense of what was lost. We are taken back to Anya's childhood in the upper-middle-class society of Vilno, Poland….
[When] the war comes, we have become so much a part of the order that we are real...
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Susan Fromberg Schaeffer is both a poet and the author of several novels, and her first collection of short fiction [The Queen of Egypt] … is further proof of her versatility. Nevertheless, the line between prose and poetry is often thin, and the connections in the best of these stories, as in the best poetry, are as often communicated by what is left unsaid as by what is said.
These pieces … range from the traditional to the surrealistic. Occasionally, as in the title novella, Schaeffer strains too hard, and the effect is irritating rather than innovative. But in "Destinies," the other novella, and in several of the stories, the author combines imagination and craft with memorable results. (pp. 39-40)
"Destinies," like most of the other stories here, is about the strange connections that make up our lives….
Schaeffer's use of the grotesque is somewhat reminiscent of the work of Jane Bowles, but the chill is generally mitigated by the author's fine sense of the absurd. Although uneven, the collection is worth reading for Schaeffer's rare and eclectic imagination. (p. 40)
Judith Gies, "Books in Short: 'The Queen of Egypt'," in Ms. (© 1980 Ms. Magazine Corp.), Vol. VIII, No. 8, February, 1980, pp. 39-40.
The Queen of Egypt [is] a work of narrative as pure as any I have ever read. By pure narrative I mean stories in which nothing happens, or which are about nothing; tales, parables, or vignettes which have no referent or resonance in the waking world. In that sense, this book is a series of dreams and uneventful dreams at that.
In "Destinies," for example, the central character nurses a hopeless love, drops out of graduate school and goes to work as an editor in a New York publishing house….
[The events of "Destinies"], we are told, stretch over the seven decades from 1939 until about 2009. They are narrated with a good deal of literary huffing and puffing: allusions to Kierkegaard, Kant, Shakespeare, Thomas Pynchon, Dostoevsky and Isak Dinesen, and sentences like "coincidence, the only deus ex machina we have, and which is undoubtedly a very small nasty animal covered with warts, is about to take a hand."
But the actual happenings … are roughly what would fill one decade of New York literary life; the story, which would take perhaps three minutes to tell over lunch, stretches to 50 labored pages. It is a bloodless, thoroughly artificial tale, skillfully told—the daydream of a writer who has nothing to say.
Dreams, and images from dreams, haunt all the characters in "The Queen of Egypt," and elsewhere this approach works much better, most notably in "Why the Castle," a...
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["The Queen of Egypt"] contains two novellas ("Destinies" and the title piece) and eight stories, some reasonably successful and others self-consciously brilliant.
"Destinies" follows the progress of one Marcel Donovan from the cradle, through a brilliant college career, thence into the worlds of homosexuality and publishing…. Susan Fromberg Schaeffer manipulates, in limited compass, great spans of narrative time (sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't), and her insights into the workings of the author-editor relationship, not often afforded us in fiction, are worth having.
"The Queen of Egypt" [is] written in a style somewhere between Thomas Hardy and Terry Southern…. [It is...
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Love, part folk tale, part generational saga, follows the lives of two Jewish immigrant families, the Lurias and the Romanoffs, from the turn of the century through 1978. (p. 70)
Love, as might be predicted from the title, contains an abundance of shameless sentiment. It is filled with flatulent imagery ("… deep in my own cells their genes shone like stars in the living sky of flesh …") and lifeless prose ("The engagement party was a beautiful one."). Schaeffer's rapid shifts in time and narrative voice often fail to give her characters' lives the intended kaleidoscopic effect. When she is at a loss for drama, she kills off another member of the family.
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["Love"] is unremitting in its bleakness. There is little of the biting folk humor found in the early works of Bernard Malamud, or even in Irving Howe's nonfictional "World of Our Fathers." Where are the small triumphs of life? There is not one truly happy person or event in the 390 pages of this book.
Why this novel is entitled "Love" is puzzling; little love is found here. In its place is an obsession with the past. Esheal's granddaughter Emily, the ostensible author of "Love," sees the lives of her family as a "dance of the genes" in which she is "only a new step in the continuing dance." Her dead ancestors speak to her "as living people who have refused to go until they have made themselves...
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The Bible of the Beasts of the Little Field is [Susan Fromberg Schaeffer's] fifth book of poetry, yet she still seems to have no particular poetic voice. The reader never knows who the speaker is, since she's willing to give almost nothing of herself. Thus, the result is hollow form—and even the form is sloppy: chopped up prose is set in regular stanzas, filled with cliche after cliche. She seems to have no conception of which images work well together….
For the most part, these poems begin with trivialities and attempt to make them crucial…. Her attempt at a high (biblical) language, most blatant in the long title poem, fails because of this same triviality of concerns. Her writing...
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