The book categories Amazon has assigned to the bestselling novel Lessons in Chemistry are “Mothers & Children Fiction,” “Humorous Fiction,” and “Literary Fiction.” All are apt, up to a point. It’s about an unwed mother who is raising an only female child. The plot is suffused with humor and oddball antics. And, yes, the prose in this first novel from Bonnie Garmus is masterful.
Lessons in Chemistry. A frivolous entertainment it’s not.
But the most fitting category, I think, would be something like, “Bitterly Satiric Feminist Fiction.” Main character Elizabeth Zott is a research scientist in the 1950s who is misunderstood and maligned in every conceivable way. When her career in molecular research is blunted and blocked by arrogant males, she steps into the role of daytime TV star, almost by chance. She hosts an afternoon live cooking show – and she decides to use every one of her recipes as a lesson in chemistry – both physical (as in, elements and reagents) and political (advice to housewives who lack self-confidence).
As to comedy, many situations are indeed humorous, but most have a sardonic edge. And some readers may be surprised that Elizabeth’s misfortunes include rape, sudden death of her beloved partner (one of only a few men in the book who act nobly), abusive employment, emotional battering, vicious gossip and character assassination, theft of her scholarly work, and multiple instances of deception and fraud.
Ultimately, funny it’s not meant to be.
Setting the plot in the past – in the consumer-crazed postwar era in America – serves to heighten contrast – in fact, the lack of significant differences – with today’s state of affairs.
Zott’s daughter Madeleine – Mad, for short – is a precocious kid who could read adult-themed novels before she started elementary school.
This book might be an answer to such a child’s question today, “Mommy, who was Gloria Steinem?”
Mick & Moira & Brad – A post-#MeToo story. Is it’s comedy too polite?
This is a literary novel, in the best sense, and I was surprised to read some critics cramming it into the diminutive genre “campus novel.” That would be like classifying Pride and Prejudice as a rom-com, which is not as irrelevant as it sounds. The marriage plot, you see, is the genre form of which that work is representative. Eugenides wants to know whether the marriage plot is dead as a meaningful literary form, now that marriage seems hardly worthy as the ultimate goal of youthful aspirations.
