The circumstances of the Collyer Brothers is a study in
human behavior—it is stunning. I’ve wanted to read this one since it first came
out, and found a copy at a used book store back in May, so I adopted it as the
pile of books in my arms kept growing. I’m slowly making my way through this
pile of books…
The one thing that made my brain itch was Doctorow’s
breaking from the known facts of the Collyer Brothers—it is understood that
writers are allowed liberties while writing about historical events, but when
writing about real people—even in a fictionalized retelling—can be a bit touchy
if the facts are tweaked off kilter. (Of course, I did research on the Collyer
Brothers to satisfy my curiosity about the real them. The photographs of the
Collyer house on 5th Avenue are very haunting.) The thing about people
like them, there’s the “legend” or the mythology associated with their story—in
every legend there’s a grain of truth—in
a good portion of fiction, there are always grains of truth that have been
harvested, but there is also the bending of truth—anything from the names have
been changed to protect the innocent sort of stuff to extravagant exaggeration. With that said, it wasn’t a deal breaker for
it was written from a fascinating point of view, so my brain itch got over
itself and I enjoyed the reading journey as it prattled on at a decent clip,
the immersion was complete and seductive. The story as Doctorow tells it is
creepy and yet tender—an odd sensation—sensational, yet respectful, sympathetic.
The plethora of hoarding stories, such as crazy cat ladies
and rat infested homes piled to the ceiling with bales of old newspapers, a
maze through stacks of things like books or Cool Whip containers, and the assorted
junk that might be useful in some way yet to be thought of has become a media fascination.
There’s always that one eccentric in the town, the neighbor on the street, or
the one person in the family that does that “something outside of normal” that
causes everyone to perk up and take notice. The one’s who try to intervene
often hit a brick wall of indignant noncompliance with a resolute “fuck off,
it’s my house, my life.” For some of them it’s a lifestyle that’s gone awry or
life just becoming overwhelming after a crisis of loss or the decline of
health—there are many reasons why things like this happen, the psychology is
interesting—what went wrong to have things get so far out of hand? We are all
fragile in that way—it really doesn’t take much to topple the most normal of
us—the us who should “know better”—and then there are people who just don’t
“know better” and behave according to their experience. The Collyer’s knew
better—then things changed.
For years, I’ve passed by a house on my way to work and have
noticed the changes that have taken place there—the garage door that is left
open just enough to allow the family cat to come and go seems to have a great
deal of clutter formed just inside that opening. I’ve seen the cat sitting in
the driveway, contemplating the gap as if it is 1) listening for a mouse; or 2)
Kitty is thinking, “I can’t find my food
dish, this place sucks.”
There are other stories that I can tell, but I will save
them for another time…
The “how come” part is puzzling at best, but yet
understandable as one accumulates things during one’s lifetime and then must
find a “home” for these things after a trip to the bookstore or the antique
shop or the beach if one enjoys collecting pretty stones. I am a collector of
things. Lately, I feel sad when going into antique shops and used bookstores—looking
over the former contents of other people’s homes—I have felt the urge to call
my acquisitions “adoptions” as I empathize with the history of an
object—thinking of the person who once, received it, held it in their hands,
dusted it, and revered it. One will especially understand this after clearing
out the home of deceased parents, now that I’m absorbing the heirlooms and
family related ephemera that should be kept in the family, I am personally
feeling overwhelmed by things and the associated memories of those things and
then the creation of new meanings for those things. Incorporating these things
into my own accumulation has been challenging—I’m contemplating new storage
options and the eventual renovation of our attic space to take on the overflow
of dimensional memories. I light-heartedly joke with our son—“Someday all of this will be yours—the
pretty stones, just throw them out into the garden. Beyond that, you’re going
to have one hell of an auction someday.”
From pages 207-208:
There are moments when
I cannot bear this unremitting consciousness. It knows only itself. The images
of things are not the things in themselves. Awake, I am in a continuum with my
dreams…My memories are pale I prevail upon them again and again. They become
more and more ghostly. I fear nothing so much as losing them altogether and
having only my blank endless mind to live in. If I could go crazy, if I could
will that on myself, I might not know how badly off I am, how awful is this
awareness that is irremediably aware of itself. With only the touch of my
brother’s hand to know that I am not alone.
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