all times have been modern

The other day I finished this novel by Canadian author, Elisabeth Harvor.
all times have been modern.
Since the title is always presented in lower-case, from the cover to inner pages, I too, will refer to it in this cummings-ish way. The phrase itself is lifted from Nadia Boulanger’s pithy saying, “In art, there are no generations, only individuals; all times have been modern.”

In many ways, this novel stays thematically joined to that quotation, which the author places up front as an epigram.
We meet Kay.
Raised by fairly bohemian, artsy parents, Kay meets Polish émigré Alexander Oleski at a young and tender age. The entire courtship takes place by mail. [A process no less dangerous in real life, than in novels…]
Their marriage isn’t really horrible, but neither is it able to build anything that will sit well upon its shaky foundation. It ends.
Kay moves on with her two young boys, and her dreams of becoming an established writer. She’s appeared in The New Yorker, and written a novel.
Kay lands a job, and begins a relationship with one of the handsome architects there.
Pretty much the perfect guy. Galbraith. Even his name is perfect, no?
Will this relationship now prove to be all that Kay wants and needs?
I won’t say a word more about it, except to say that the Boulanger quote plays into all that happens between Kay and Galbraith.

In art [and what is more artful than good love?] should problems regarding age and history, in a word, generational-distance, hinder the true recipient of art, namely, the individual?
Further, if one person genuinely appreciates the art [the love] and the other person also genuinely appreciates the art [the love] does it follow that the two of them together will appreciate it [the love, the art] twice as much as they would if they consider it [the love, the art] separately?
Also, if it is true, [in art, and in things artful] that “all times have been modern,” shouldn’t the most important consideration always involve what is being experienced right now, in the present tense, rather than in what will or may be experienced in the future, by the recipient[s]….. of art? Of love?
These are the kind of questions that our protagonist asks herself in this story, even if she is not aware that she is asking them in this way.
It’s dang good, and as a whole, this book reminds me of the idea that love and power displace each other.
That is to say that love has very little to do with control. Much more to do with the loss of it. Even as one of the greatest poets of our current day and age [yours truly] put it, “love is weakness.” And “the one wielding / the most power, loves the least.”

To me it is a story of emotional perseverance and resilience.
Kay’s.
Adjustment to disappointment, as well. It speaks to the idea that no life is lived perfectly, and that while our own may seem as though it is lived in sort of a matte finish way, there are flecks of technicolor in it, all over the place.
Also, that good sex is among the greatest privileges of a well-lived life.
Also, that good sex may mean different things to different people, often very different things even between the very two people that are enjoying “it” with each other.
Also, that to be in love is to be caught in a web or cycle of freedom and dependence. Not that these words are necessarily antonyms of each other, but, rather, the coupling of them points toward the fact that there is no such thing as real “love” that doesn’t involve possible rejection. No such thing as real love that does not include a measure of vulnerability to the partner’s whims and and caprices. In love there exists the constant interplay and exchange of dependence and independence. Love itself threatens the balance of these things.

This is a mature novel, fully gestated. Brought to term. It’s not one of these love-story-type novels, written by authors that seem compelled to birth preemie after preemie every six months or so. In fact, if I am understanding the Acknowledgments page correctly at all, this book was twelve years in the making. It’s fully cooked. Good stuff.
Good because it provides no easy escape from the complexities of love.
Good because there aren’t any.

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