Reading Diane Setterfield’s The Thirteenth Tale, I feel quite suddenly inspired to comment. I think of Louise Erdrich because Setterfield’s prose shares poetry, though not the same strain of poetic style and inflection, with Erdrich. A writer—perhaps any artist—depends very much on what comes to him or her.
What marbles are in the stone yard? A sculptor may choose among them as a writer may choose to type or to write by hand—paper or screen then printer? But the real stuff the content, the composition, the language itself, these come from within. Often—arguably always—they evolve from some previous writer’s words or images. So, one might say, a writer can control her production by choosing carefully what to take in. Still, the first word to appear in a new session must spring by parthenogenesis to the page. This is the book that came to Setterfield compressed by her brain from influence, education, predilection and experience.
So I can’t criticize Setterfield for writing as she writes and emphasizing what strikes her, in short for not being Erdrich. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that Erdrich is among her influences, but I can’t help but prefer the latter, at least thus far. (I’ve read only 1/3 or this book whereas I’ve delved through Erdrich for 15 years, reading The Beet Queen at least three times and following the protacted saga of Nanapush, Margaret, Lulu, Fleur, Eli, Pauline and so forth as well as the German transplant folk of Argus, though they tend to have only one book to themselves while the clans of the Anishinabe appear and reappear at the centers and the periphery, almost never wholly absent from any book.
They are both fine storytellers, though Setterfield spends way too much time admiring her yarn spinning. One particularly annoying ploy is that she imagines the outlines of stories by a character, outlines that are her own, and then has another character gush over them. It’s almost masturbatory.
It may be unfair of me to judge Setterfield. Still since it’s my blog, I will. She strikes me first off as wise in some ways but too self-important about her wisdom. In The Antelope Wife, Erdrich gives us such rich interplay of the contemporary and quotidian against the marvelous and antique. Ancient wildness lies down by urban Minneapolis (I can’t rembember its Anisinabe name) and from that coupling come the ongoing generations of latterday first peoples. In that book, Erdrich plays with the notion of twins and weaving. At some point, no doubt, she elaborated on the significance to herself. Throughout she returns to a pair of twins weaving what is clearly the tapestry of the tale, the interlocking, mutually influential lives and impulses of the characters, the repeating patterns, the inescapable destinies. Setterfield comes up with the excellent metaphor (quite similar) of a spider’s web. Then, she explains it, showing off her mastery of literary analysis, taking the pleasure of discovery from her reader and elongating a passage, that like many, could have been curtailed with no great loss to plot of sensibility.
In the end, Setterfield’s compulsion to show off her understandings leaves them vulnerable to the reader’s evaluation. For me, they often come up short. I don’t agree about marriage, for instance, at least not with the sweeping generalizations here. I don’t agree about reading, quite. Etc. If she could leave aside the exposition and focus on the tale, which is a good one and not unlike Erdrich in its fabulous ordinariness, the book would be much improved.