"Marigold was absorbed in her book; she had gotten as far as the
V." So begins Marigold and Rose, Louise Gluck's astonishing
chronicle of the first year in the life of twin girls. Imagine a
fairy tale that is also a multigenerational saga; a piece for two
hands that is also a symphony; a poem that is also, in the spirit
of Kafka's The Metamorphosis, an incandescent act of autobiography.
Here are the elements you'd expect to find in a story of infant
twins: Father and Mother, Grandmother and Other Grandmother, bath
time and naptime-but more than that, Marigold and Rose is an
investigation of the great mystery of language and of time itself,
of what is and what has been and what will be. "Outside the playpen
there were day and night. What did they add up to? Time was what
they added up to. Rain arrived, then snow." The twins learn to
climb stairs, they regard each other like criminals through the
bars of their cribs, they begin to speak. "It was evening. Rose was
smiling placidly in the bathtub playing with the squirting
elephant, which, according to Mother, represented patience,
strength, loyalty and wisdom. How does she do it, Marigold thought,
knowing what we know." Simultaneously sad and funny, and shot
through with a sense of stoic wonder, this small miracle of a book,
following thirteen books of poetry and two collections of essays,
is unlike anything Gluck has written, while at the same time it is
inevitable, transcendent.
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