Title: White Oleander Author: Janet Fitch
Published: September 1, 1999
Genre(s): Literary Fiction
Page Count: 446
Rating:
Summary from Goodreads:Everywhere hailed as a novel of rare beauty and power, White Oleander tells the unforgettable story of Ingrid, a brilliant poet imprisoned for murder, and her daughter, Astrid, whose odyssey through a series of Los Angeles foster homes—each its own universe, with its own laws, its own dangers, its own hard lessons to be learned--becomes a redeeming and surprising journey of self-discovery.
In a rather conflicting turn of events, I found White Oleander to be an amazing, beautifully lyrical novel—I’m just not sure I actually liked it. I mean, I did like it. A lot. I think? Either way, Janet Fitch has most definitely written a gorgeous, if pretentious, piece of literature here. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I enjoyed reading it 100% of the time, but it’s well-written and unique.
Firstly, though our protagonist Astrid spends the entirety of the book in the LA foster care system, this is not an “issue book” dealing with foster care. Not at all. Fitch’s portrayal of foster care is a tragic fairytale; there is little realism or raw honesty in Astrid’s experiences. She moves from bad situation to bad situation, each home more far-fetched in how horrible it is. Astrid wears her misfortunes like a badge of honor, wallows in her hardships, and treasures her pain. There is angst, and then there is White Oleander.
Astrid is not a character I should have liked. She grew up in the mold created for her by her mother, a dreamy, sociopathic feminist poet. In various foster homes, Astrid is constantly made out to be “special” or “gifted”. She reads Anaïs Nin and listens to Leonard Cohen and The Beatles, watches Greta Garbo and Katharine Hepburn films, visits art galleries and operas. Astrid is the most cultured foster child you’ve ever heard of. She’s not like the other kids; she’s different. She is pompous and pretentious and has no emotion or depth on the page.
And yet I do not hate Astrid. I do not hate White Oleander.
Fitch’s prose is the sort that makes it all work. No, this is not a realistic portrayal of foster care. Yes, Astrid is a special snowflake Mary Sue. But it works, because the dreamlike, contemplative quality of the author’s writing helps the reader step back from reality and allow this book to exist separately. White Oleander takes place in its own world—It reminded me very much of Madapple, actually, another surreal, Scandinavian-tinged novel about coming of age without a mother. Janet Fitch’s writing is lyrical and elegiac, and while I could perhaps agree that it’s self-indulgent or overdone, I rather loved it. Without that image-heavy, introspective qualities, that penchant to include a metaphor in every other sentence, I think White Oleander would have failed, and failed spectacularly. But it doesn’t, because Astrid’s life is given this backdrop of simile to color it.
On an intellectual level, no, of course I don’t think Astrid is a great character. Yet in the context of the story and considering the author’s prose, I think she fits very well. This book, at times, can feel as if it borders on the bizarre, the absurd, and Astrid is not as annoying as she might have been when you consider her surroundings. Had she been anything other than a special snowflake, the story would have failed.
And at the end of the day, I suppose I am enamored with Janet Fitch’s prose in White Oleander. It’s lovely and atmospheric and memorable. That’s okay with me. I can pick apart this book all I want and always find things I don’t like, but my overall impression is that this book is well-written and skillfully put together by an author who takes great care with how her words fit together. It might not work in every case or all the time, but those things work here.
