Book Club Recap: The Dutch House by Ann Patchett

The Dutch House by Ann Patchett is a masterpiece, no question about it.

But that didn’t stop us from nitpicking.

I dare say, discussing this book was one of our most lively discussions to date—and this is a tall order.

Let’s dive in!

• Structure

The Dutch House is one of those books that makes it relatively easy to see the difference between the story and its container; a differentiation every writer should learn to make. Most readers—and writers who are just starting out—can’t tell one from the other. For them, the story is its container (the novel, the structure that conveys it); there’s an equation mark between the two.

But once you’ve jumped into the world of different POVs, multiple vs. single storylines, multiple vs. single narrators, the place where the narrator stands in time, the place where the novel opens or ends, etc., you learn that story is one thing, but the way you decide to tell it is another thing altogether. Or better said, the story is one, but ways of telling that story are almost countless.

And the way you tell a story is decided by making various (hopefully conscious) choices: about who will narrate the story, and where they’ll stand in time in respect to the story they’re telling; which aspects of the story you’ll bring to light and which ones you’ll let fall into the background; if you’ll use a longer timeline, or let the story play out in as little time as possible.

With The Dutch House, it’s easy to see the difference between the story and its container (i.e. the way Patchett decided to tell the story; the choices she made to bring the story to life).

The story itself is a family saga, with the following (rough) synopsis:

A poor woman and man marry and through the husband’s business acumen and happenstance, he buys the most glorious house—one that makes him feel accomplished, but that makes her feel overindulgent, undeserving, and miserable. They move in, but the woman can’t stand living in the extravagant house, so she goes to India to help the poor, leaving behind not only her husband but her ten-year-old daughter, and three-year-old son. The daughter takes her mother’s leaving hard, and falls ill of diabetes, simultaneously doing what she can to spare her brother of the heartbreak and substituting their mother’s love to him. A few years later, their father brings another woman to the house—one who, like him, admires it. This is, in fact, the only thing they have in common.

After awhile he marries that woman; but after his untimely death, she throws the boy (the girl is already an adult) out. The boy and the girl mourn the loss of their mother (and to an extent their father) through the loss of the house. They occasionally drive over and watch the house from the street—weaving an unbreakable sibling bond between them in the process. As a tiny way of getting back to their stepmother, they decide the boy will enroll in the longest education path possible to drain the trust fund their father had left for their education. Over time, the boy marries, the girl doesn’t, but neither of them is capable of deeper relationships with anyone other than each other. After a long time—thirty years—they finally give up on their occasional surveillance of the house and decide it’s time to come to terms with their loss. When the girl almost dies of a heart attack, their mother reappears. The girl, who has better memory of her mother, and who missed her the most, forgives her on the spot, but the boy doesn’t—not so much because he cares about his mother, but because she seems to be taking his sister away from him. When the three of them finally work up the courage to visit the Dutch House and find their stepmother had gone insane, their mother decides to take care of her, which ends up killing the girl. The boy, after a long time of recovering from the girl’s death, ends up forgiving his mother, and the Dutch house returns to their family.

So this is—roughly—the story. And here are the choices Patchett made to tell the story:

• The story is told in Danny’s (the boy’s) POV—first person POV.

  Not Maeve’s; not multiple POVs; not an omniscient narrator.

  There are upsides and downsides to this choice. A POV character can only relate what they know/see/feel/experience—or what they learn from others. So there were parts of this story that Danny didn’t tell from his own experience but someone else’s; Sandy the housekeeper, Jocelyn the cook, his sister Maeve, his father, ... The downside of this approach is that, even though the story is told in first person POV, there wasn’t immediacy—as Danny didn’t live through some of those events himself. This caused that, especially in the opening, we weren’t emotionally very engrossed in the story. Since his mother left when he was three and he didn’t remember her or miss her for that matter, we didn’t really get that emotional overwhelm we could from a child being left by a mother.

  Had the author, for example, decided to tell this story in multiple POVs, we could have heard this part of story (mother’s leaving) through Maeve; or Jocelyn, or even Cyril.

• The narrator (Danny) stands in time AFTER the story happens.

  He relates the events from the point in time after the story events have already transpired (see this article to learn more about where the narrator can stand in time in relation to the protagonist). Again, this choice has positive and negative sides. The positive is that, this way, Danny-the-narrator is able to slip in bits and pieces of the information that happens in the future, which serves to raise curiosity or concern in the reader—thus maintaining and creating narrative drive. For instance, he mentions early on he and Celeste later got divorced. So the reader is constantly waiting to see why, how, and when they got divorced.

  The negative is that this approach takes some of the immediacy out of the narrative. We know the story ended and he’s still there to tell it. And he is not telling any given event from the standing point of that moment happening in real time—but with a knowledge of a person who knows how that event transpired. That makes the events—and his emotions—less immediate in any given moment.

• The novel opens with Andrea (the stepmother) coming to the house for the first time (inciting event). Everything in the story before that moment is backstory. This is also a conscious choice. The story could’ve opened with their mom leaving, or Andrea and Cyril’s wedding, perhaps. But this allowed us just the right amount of that ‘uh-oh, something’s about to go wrong’ feeling, while not plunging us straight into action—thus allowing the author some time for exposition: on the house, the family history, backstory etc.

• The story is told in a non-chronologic order—jumps a bit around in time (especially in the first act), although it mostly does progress linearly.

  There were times when this approach confused us: times when we didn’t know when we are, or what age Danny and his sister were in a particular sense. Though, these instances were few and far enough in-between not to disrupt our reading experience.

• The novel is divided into three parts that roughly follow the classical three-act-structure.

  The first act of the novel starts when Andrea shows up and slowly starts infiltrating into their life—foreshadowing problems to come, and giving information on backstory—their mother leaving (the first 25% of the novel).

  The second act opens with Andrea kicking Danny out and cutting their ties to the house—thus kicking off their mourning process for what they’ve lost. The act ends with their decision to stop visiting the house thirty years later (50%).

  The third act begins with Maeve’s heart attack and the reappearance of their mother—which sets in motion their re-acquisition of the house (the last 25%).

  Many of us agreed that the second act could’ve been shortened a bit. The author may have gone into too many details of their respective lives and careers, which not all were necessary. Although the writing was phenomenal, many of us still felt this act could’ve ended sooner. Having recently read the author’s essay These Precious Days, I have to say that this was my impression there as well: beautiful, detailed, specific writing, but the story-middle lagged a bit.

• Characterization

• Danny and Maeve

There were many aspects of characterization that were extremely well done. We all agreed that Danny and Maeve were fantastically portrayed, as was their relationship, which was a focal point of this story.

One thing that really makes this book stand out among so many others, is that the author didn’t tell us who the characters were. We would all describe Danny as reserved, calm, restrained; or Maeve as warm and loving, intelligent, but also stubborn and bossy, and fiercly independent. Yet, you won’t see any of these adjectives used in their descriptions. That’s because they were never described at all; they were shown—or better said built—through the surrounding context. There are scenes upon scenes that layer these characters into a full portrait of who they are (Maeve’s reaction when she comes home for Thanksgiving only to realize Andrea had given her room to Norma; Maeve not wanting to show affection to Norma and Bright in front of their parents, but showing that affection when they’re alone; Danny keeping his calm when his mother returns; Danny’s willingness to learn chemistry; Danny’s love life. We are shown how these characters think and behave in real-life situations, and for this reason, their characterization is understood not so much on a mental level as it is on a visceral one.

• Celeste

Celeste’s characterization was a point of contention. Some thought she was a weak, underdeveloped, superficial character. Others claimed she was a superficial person—and this is why Danny chose to marry her in the first place. He didn’t love her; he chose to marry her as the least poor choice among other women; women who demanded things of him, who wanted to connect with him on a level he wasn’t able to connect on with anyone except Maeve.

Celeste’s superficiality is shown additionally through her unwillingness to accept Danny’s choice of not pursuing a career in medicine. This is where it’s clear she doesn’t really care for him either—she just cares to have the type of husband she imagined him to be.

• Jocelyn, Sandy, Fluffy

A member said, what with the fantastical house element, birth mother leaving, and an evil stepmother who kicks them out, there was a definite fairy-tale quality to this story. The effect was complete with the trio of house-help who were always positive, loving, and available. So much so, that they reminded us of Cinderella’s mice helpers.

• Elna

Oh, loathed Elna! We all had so much to say about her. Most of us are mothers, and the mere fact that she had abandoned her children sealed our dislike. Yet, we hoped to find a good enough reason behind her decision, something to redeem her.

For most of us, finding out WHY she had left in the first place was a major element in creating narrative drive (curiosity in particular), and we didn’t feel we got a satisfactory answer. Maybe we expected she would’ve suffered a breakdown, or something else, but ultimately, she just wanted to help the poor. And, apparently, she misguidedly thought poor people only resided in India. Sure, she was stifled by the enormous, glamorous house her husband had bought her, so unlike what she wanted for herself. But to leave children over it?

However, there are two points the author herself raises when explaining Elna’s choice—that we found compelling to discuss:

— Many saints are resented by their families, who feel abandoned in their wake. Yet, the world still celebrates them as self-sacrificing good-doers.

(Maybe this is just the thing—it doesn’t feel like Elna sacrificed much of anything. She never showed remorse for leaving, her apology was weak—she said she was sorry, but that she couldn’t have done anything else; and most of us felt that she didn’t show real love for her kids—which was again sealed when she chose to take care of Andrea against her children’s wishes and needs. So it doesn’t seem like Elna really gave up her love for her children in order to help the poor. It seems more like she didn’t particularly care about those kids in the first place, and just went to help the poor to fulfill her own wishes. True sacrifice, for her, would’ve been staying).

Still, the discussion about the saints was something most of us didn’t think about until now. When Peter started following Jesus—he left his family to do so; as did many other apostles. We become so engrossed in their journeys from that point on, but give little consideration to the families they’d left behind.

— When Danny, in a fierce discussion with Maeve over forgiving their mother, asks: ”Who does that? Who leaves their kids?” Maeve shoots back: “Men!” We agreed that this is true—a man can abandon his family for career options or just a new family, and if Elna were a man, we wouldn’t be reading this book. There are double standards for men and women in this aspect, and for one, I’m grateful for this realization.

• Writing with specificity

I already touched on how Patchett used specific scenes to paint a full portrait of her characters and their infinitely intricate relationships. But her use of specific language doesn’t end there.

She is specific with descriptions, physical sensations, gestures, body language, intonation… everything.

Her writing is completely cliché free. Here are some examples of how deep this specificity goes.

(When his father takes him to Brooklyn for the first time): she could have written, The streets in Brooklyn were crowded.” but instead, she wrote: “There was just more of everything in Brooklyn, a feeling of density that stretched in every direction.”

(When talking about his mother with his father) she could have written: ‘I wanted to be brave, more courageous, like Maeve. “Why did she leave?”’ but instead, she wrote: ‘I reached down deep to find something in myself I wasn’t sure was there, the part of me that was like my sister. “Why did she leave?”’

(When someone calls him to the principal’s office and he knows someone’s died, but prays it’s not Maeve) she could have written: “I saw Maeve standing at the desk, with her back to me (…) My knees went weak, and I yelped, relieved that she was fine.” but instead she wrote: ”I saw Maeve standing at the desk, with her back to me (…) I made a sound, something high and sharp that seemed to have come up from my knees.”

This type of specificity is what many writers struggle with—or plainly ignore. It’s SO hard to keep yourself inside your character’s head and body and surroundings, and convey everything with razor-sharp precision instead of falling into the familiar patterns of shruggings, sighings, stomachs clenching, knees buckling… stop me anytime.

What it requires from the writer is not just to write down a scene with all the elements a scene should have, but also be mindful as they go about writing it—not taking any sentence for granted, being fully present with every single word, sifting through word choices, metaphors, similes that would best describe the situation. This type of writing, though, is what resonates with the readers most:

The level of writer’s mindfulness when writing, relates directly to the level of the reader’s mindfulness when reading.

• Evoking emotions

One thing that many of us agreed on is that Patchett’s writing in this book (at least in the first half) isn’t very emotional. To an extent, we already touched on the reasons behind this: in the very beginning of the book, Danny as the POV character is conveying events and emotions and memories that aren’t his own. Secondly, he has a restrained and reserved personality: he’s internalized calmness as a coping mechanism.

Thirdly, the author doesn’t use deep POV—which is all the rage these days, and many of us are used to books where you feel like you’re literally inside your protagonist’s head all the time.

Another reason why the book doesn’t feel as emotional as it could, is because a large portion of it is told by Danny (as opposed to shown). Mind you, not all telling is bad, as many writers are persuaded to think. There are artful ways of telling and this book is certainly a shiny example. To cover longer periods of time (required by a family saga genre) the author had to use a lot of summaries. Which means, the average of summaries vs. scenes is much higher in this book then it would be in a book that covers a three-month period.

Even though the telling was done flawlessly (thanks, again, to artful specificity) its effect is some distance between the reader and the narrator.

That distance and the lack of immediacy is further accentuated by the fact that the narrator stands behind the story, not in the story in real time.

All that said, this ‘lack of emotions’ was mostly felt in the first part of the novel, as we were getting to know who these people are and what the context of their circumstances is. Later on, the emotions are evoked in the reader through context. Once you’ve gotten a hang of who these people are and what they mean to each other, it doesn’t take much more than a sentence to evoke huge emotions.

For instance, Danny tells us that Maeve died almost as an aside. But the context of this fact that is so carelessly revealed (what she means to him, their mutual understanding and closeness—and lack of ability to connect with anyone else) hits you in the gut with such ferocity that I dare you not to cry.

• Differentiating character’s lack of emotions with lack of emotions evoked in a reader

An interesting topic surfaced when we discussed the emotional impact of this story: how much this lack of emotions was induced by Danny being a bit reserved, and how much it was because the author failed to evoke emotions in the reader. Many of us agreed that, especially in the first part of the story, before the context had a chance to kick in, we would’ve liked to be emotionally engaged a little more—even if Danny was a reserved character.

• Audio vs. the book

The audiobook for The Dutch House was recorded by Tom Hanks, and many of us opted to listen to the audiobook—or at least listen and read at the same time. Those of us who’ve heard the audiobook had less problems feeling the emotions in the first half of the manuscript, which can be attributed to Tom Hank’s fantastic narration. Many of us could listen to Tom narrate a phonebook and would find it compelling! Those who were just reading the book, had a bit harder time getting emotionally attached, though.

• Planting the story question early on

Apart from the beginning of the story not entirely gripping us emotionally, there was another element which kept (some of) us from investing in the story early on.

From the very first page, the reader is (consciously or sub-consciously) trying to sniff out one thing: what is this story about? What is the main story question?

The author’s job is to plant the seed of an answer in the opening pages so that the reader can pick up on them as soon as possible.

In this story, we were reading for quite some time trying to figure out what that main story question is. Later on, it becomes clear that this is a story about how these two kids will overcome the loss of their mother, and how it will affect their lives. Better said, can one ever fully recover from being abandoned?

However, even though the author didn’t plant this question for us from the get-go, we were all eagerly reading/listening on. Some, because the writing was exquisite; others, because there were so many smaller, intermittent questions in need of answering (Why did the mom leave? What will happen with the kids? Will Dad marry Andrea? What’s the deal with this house?); and others, because of Tom Hanks :)

• The Dutch House — and its metaphoric meaning

For bulk of the story is the second act—when Maeve and Danny go through life, occasionally driving up to the house and looking at it from afar. This becomes their ritual, a way to hold on to their family, to their long-gone mother.

The Dutch house is the focal element of the story—one that gives this story cohesion and originality. Had this element not been in the story; had Danny and Maeve had nowhere to go to grieve over their loss, the story might not have been strong enough to last through the entire book—the second act would’ve fallen apart.

It also added a dash of something atmospheric—a dash of secrecy, mystery to the whole narrative.

• Sibling love

There are many books out there on romantic love, parental love, or even sisterly love. But not that many that focus on sibling love (brother and sister, in particular). Without dipping into melancholy or drama, the author gave us such a full and weighty presentation of sibling love: one that transcended all the adversities, their respective love lives, other relationships. Bound in their loss, for both Danny and Maeve, this relationship is the only thing worth living for.

More than a book about forgiveness, the consequences of parental abandonment, loss and grief, or a peculiar, extravagant house, this is a story about a sibling love that runs deeper than anything else.

With that, I’ll wrap up this month’s book club recap—otherwise I’ll just be writing indefinitely! The Dutch House isn’t a book we’ll easily forget, and is certainly one we’ll take a lot from.

To all the members of the Writers’ Book Club, THANK you for participating with your honest and intelligent insights—and for all the fun you bring!

Hope you enjoyed reading! Until next time—keep safe and keep writing!

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Have you read this book? Did you like it? Let me know your thoughts in the comments!

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