Kelly's Reviews > The Housekeeper and the Professor

A highly polished, smooth, shining surface of a novel that was exquisitely crafted from start to finish. The voice was so understated and matter-of-fact that I would have had little trouble believing that this was an actual account of a real housekeeper remembering her experiences. There were very few authorial flourishes and all of them were appropriately put into the mouth of the strange, afflicted Professor, a math genius whose short-term memory only lasts 80 minutes.

A premise like that can be in danger of becoming a gimmick, a crutch for the plot to rely on to provide tension, as reliable as a countdown clock in an apocalyptic film. However, that did not happen here. If anything, sometimes Ogawa blurred time together- she only used the premise when needed. The time-bomb ticking mattered less than Ogawa's use of it to demonstrate the selfless care and devotion of a housekeeper and her son to this debilitated, nervous old man. The other quirk of the Professor's memory is that he can remember everything that happened to him before 1975. This means it will always be that year in his mind. This was interesting as well because it allowed Ogawa to explore, with a very light touch, what "time" is made up of- her answer seems to be a combination of objects, people, and the sort of pop culture that connects you with a wider world, the famous figures that help you see time passing in your own life.

The housekeeper's tale is self-effacing and modest, with only the barest of facts given to let the reader know why her relationship with the Professor is possible, and why it means so much to her. The rare moments where she breaks down and tells a story about her emotions mean that much more because of it. Her life is one of work, hardship, frequent disrespect and degradation, and she has no opportunity to really escape it. Thus her interactions with the Professor, who only remembers the last 80 minutes, and will therefore explain things again and again and still feel just as excited about doing so, allow her a share in beauty and kindness and higher understanding that has never been within the possibilities of her experience. The 80 minutes is about exploring and re-exploring, having the freedom to try again and be secure that there will be no judgement of your failures. What would that be like? What sort of gift would it be for a woman whose whole life has been judgment and avoiding judgment and getting by with her head down?

Her joy is quiet and contained and hidden, subject to the permission of authority figures for its existence, not to be depended on, as likely to quickly disappear as not. But for some little time, this woman is able to look into "God's notebook," with a patient teacher and precious privacy:

"In my imagination, I saw the creator of the universe sitting in some distant corner of the sky, weaving a pattern of delicate lace so fine that even the faintest light would shine through it. The lace stretches out infinitely in every direction, billowing gently in the cosmic breeze. You want desperately to touch it, hold it up to the light, rub it against your cheek. And all we ask is to be able to re-create the pattern, weave it again with numbers, somehow, in our own language; to make even the tiniest fragment on our own, to bring it back to earth."

This ethereal daydream represents the height of the emotion that this book reaches. It is a whispering sort of book, a calm and nostalgic Sunday with nowhere to be sort of book. It is the sort of book I actually think would benefit from being read aloud by a woman with a wise old voice and a solid, but sometimes somewhat fragile demeanor.

The major fault I found with this book was that... there were no faults. The author seemed perfectly separated from her subject, at her observational best, understanding, but uninvolved. I liked that, in a sense, after reading so many books where authors are clearly working out their own issues on the page. I liked that this seemed like a genuine attempt to understand something outside of the Self. I also liked that this never bowed to our modern, confessional needs to know everything- she always left the mystery, always respected the limits of what her tale would reasonably know or respectfully want to know, and left it to us to guess the rest or to be discreet enough to leave the characters' secrets alone.

However, her skill was such that the story was told so smoothly. So smoothly, too smoothly for my taste. You could almost miss the bumps in the road- the language almost never changed, the tone didn't alter, nor, I think most importantly, did your sense of being well taken care of by the author. I felt so safe in Ogawa's hands that I never feared for the characters, nor was able to consequently work up a great passion about any of them in any way. I knew that each of them would be given a fitting, lovely conclusion that wrapped up the tale with dignity, ending it not with a bang, but a whisper. It made me respect Ogawa's skill so much. It made me pay attention, and I understood that certain scenes had more power because of this almost never changing tone, and her plain, even language, even in moments of stress or crisis for the characters.

I confess that I was looking for ragged edges by the end- looking to find fault with her for not keeping to her 80 minutes, looking for some outbursts or ill-chosen words. She receded so much from me that I wanted some of the author back- and she refused to appear.

I will say that it has been a long time since I've wished for that. I've not often had the need.

Ultimately, I think that when I see this book on my shelves I will remember a sense of quiet, smile a little bit remembering the unique passion for mathematics, and I will think of the word "polished", but that will be all. It shone softly, not a hair out of place, and I can already feel it fading from my mind. That's why I can't rate it higher, even though, as I've stated, I can't find a single flaw with the writing.

Oh well book. As a favorite character of mine almost said- perhaps it is your perfections that make us imperfect for one another.