Chris S. (AmateurHistorian) reviewed on + 48 more book reviews
Helpful Score: 1
Maybe I'm the wrong person to review this book. It was obviously written for people like its protagonist: young, married, suburban, upper-class, emotionally stifled, stay-at-home white/Jewish mothers who feel trapped in loveless marriages. I, on the other hand, am male, 48, lower-middle-class but content with that, and with no ambitions of "social status," and reasonably healthy emotionally and in my relationships. I may also be reviewing this book in the wrong time. Wifey was published in 1978, and in its day maybe it was seen as potent social commentary, even enlightening and liberating for some people. Certianly its language and sexual prose must have been much more shocking then than now.
But to quote an old philosopher, I yam what I yam, and from my point of view, Wifey is an astonishingly bad book. I've never read anything else by Blume, but she has a glowing reputation with teenage girls and their parents. Based on that, I was expecting at least competent writing. But Wifey reads more like a 16-year-old's first effort at telling stories, using language effectively, and exploring adult feelings and sexual fantasies. That would be fine if the author *was* a 16-year-old, but this is Judy Blume, the acclaimed author.
Wifey almost completely lacks tension, foreshadowing, and the other literary qualities that turn narrative into drama. Little plot devices are introduced -- the motorcycle-helmeted visitor and the anonymous phone caller -- but never resolved or woven into the story so as to advance it in any way; they dangle loose in the void. Blume keeps reminding us that most of her characters are Jewish, but as with her plot devices, that fact just hangs in void, irrelevant to the story. Wifey's characters are so flatly drawn, so devoid of any real love or caring for anything but their own tiny concerns, that I had a hard time caring what happened to any of them. And perhaps worst of all for a writer, Blume's command of language is weak: she uses "phlegmatic" as a slur strong enough to induce tears, when as far as I know it is merely descriptive or at worst unflattering; and her attempt at introducing an artificial word (ductla) just doesn't work.
If Wifey is a fair sample of Blume's work, then I am mystified as to how she achieved such high regard as a writer.
But to quote an old philosopher, I yam what I yam, and from my point of view, Wifey is an astonishingly bad book. I've never read anything else by Blume, but she has a glowing reputation with teenage girls and their parents. Based on that, I was expecting at least competent writing. But Wifey reads more like a 16-year-old's first effort at telling stories, using language effectively, and exploring adult feelings and sexual fantasies. That would be fine if the author *was* a 16-year-old, but this is Judy Blume, the acclaimed author.
Wifey almost completely lacks tension, foreshadowing, and the other literary qualities that turn narrative into drama. Little plot devices are introduced -- the motorcycle-helmeted visitor and the anonymous phone caller -- but never resolved or woven into the story so as to advance it in any way; they dangle loose in the void. Blume keeps reminding us that most of her characters are Jewish, but as with her plot devices, that fact just hangs in void, irrelevant to the story. Wifey's characters are so flatly drawn, so devoid of any real love or caring for anything but their own tiny concerns, that I had a hard time caring what happened to any of them. And perhaps worst of all for a writer, Blume's command of language is weak: she uses "phlegmatic" as a slur strong enough to induce tears, when as far as I know it is merely descriptive or at worst unflattering; and her attempt at introducing an artificial word (ductla) just doesn't work.
If Wifey is a fair sample of Blume's work, then I am mystified as to how she achieved such high regard as a writer.
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