Do you think that a reader is more invested in a character he/she knows is real?
I have been trying to answer this question since reading Julie and Julia recently. I am overwhelmed at my reaction to Julie Powell. Actually, I am just plain surprised how much I dislike her. I wonder if I would feel so strongly if I didn't know she is out there on her book tours and walking the streets of Manhattan, congratulating herself on slogging her way through a masterful cookbook.
I knew from the beginning of the book that I would not enjoy Julie Powell in person. We are so different - I am just not comfortable with the amount of angst she seems to thrive upon. But that's not my complaint. I didn't have to like her. I was interested in her project and I enjoy her style of writing. She is conversational, easy to read, and clearly loves food. Food is a very sensual thing for her - not always sexual - just a full body experience that is easy to relate to. The friends she introduces are quirky without being annoying and her mother has a universal mom-ness that comes through best at Julie's worst times: when she has a nightmare move in to a dump of an apartment or when she goes home to visit and her mother forbids her to cook. I was on board with this whole book, even if I didn't want to have coffee with Julie Powell.
Then it happened. I learned some information about Julie Powell that soured the whole experience. Apparently, she discusses some personal difficulties/indiscretions in great detail in her second book. Now, we all make mistakes, but for some reason this information galled me. I was half-way through the book and spent the second half fuming about her hypocrisy.
Then, my sister gave me a way out. She was the one who told me about the sordid details left out of the first book, by the way, but she also threw me a life line. I was on vacation, still ranting via text about Julie, when my sister said "Go get Julia Child's My Life in France. It'll make you feel better." I wasn't sure I could stand another real-life disappointment, but I trust my sister, so I tried it out.
I am pleased to report that my sister, like so many times before, was right. This book was written with her grandnephew Alex Prud'homme and is such a beauty of a book that you should all run out and read it. It is a wonderful window into the life of a very interesting woman and a great view of post-WWII France. Julia Child was not a simple woman - she was well-travelled, she had already had an interesting career in foreign service, she was particular, even obsessive about her recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, she was picky about the kind of person she wanted to spend her time with. She was devoted to her husband but had very little contact with her father. Now here is a woman with whom I would like to have a cup of coffee. Actually, I'd like to have a good bottle of wine and some fancy french meal with her. Knowing that Julia Child actually lived but is already gone from this earth makes me sad.
One other note: I am not sure what percentage of this book was actually written by Alex Prud'homme, but it is a real lesson in voice. It is so true to the voice of Julia Child, both literary voice and her distinctive physical voice, that you can hear her in the pages. Whatever Alex Prud'homme did write was done so seamlessly and affectionately for Julia Child.
