Exploring Choices and Consequences: A Review of Lionel Shriver's 'The Post-Birthday World'

Do you know what happens when you go and organize your computer’s unorganized files — a book review you forgot to publish in 2012. But I really do love Lionel Shriver — so here’s to her fantastic novel — The Post-Birthday World.

Lionel Shriver’s novel, ‘The Post-Birthday World’, introduces readers to the life of Irina McGovern, a children’s book author, and illustrator residing in London. An expatriate from America, Irina lives with her intelligent and considerate husband, Lawrence Trainer, who is employed at a prominent think tank. The novel portrays Irina’s seemingly blissful existence with Lawrence and delves into two intriguing yet diverging narratives.

Irina remains steadfastly committed to her marriage in one narrative, while the other embarks on a path filled with illicit romance with Ramsey Acton, a celebrated snooker player. The novel's structure is ingeniously designed, oscillating between two parallel plotlines after the first chapter. Shriver ingeniously uses this technique to depict the duality of choices and their subsequent consequences, a feat that adds a captivating layer to the narrative.

A key incident serves as the catalyst for this dual narrative structure. During an annual dinner with Jude, Irina’s friend, and Ramsey’s former wife, an opportunity presents itself as a possible kiss with Ramsey. What transpires afterward is determined by two possible reactions - either she succumbs to the temptation while her husband Lawrence is away, or she resists it. The narrative splits here, henceforth offering two separate chapters for each version of the events.

Photograph Of A Summer Evening Sky in South Brooklyn

"Bedroom at sundown" 

(Sunset Park, Brooklyn)

When I wake up I am up. I do not dawdle. When I shared a hotel room with two friends on a recent holiday, I woke up with a start, dashed out of the bed in our shared room and jumped in the shower. "What the hell?" my friend Michelle said. "How do you wake up like that?" I said that I do not have a transition time. I am up. And I have a distaste for morning routines.

At sundown I enjoy the transition. It is a different time of day and the ending of the day demands a slow-down that easily lends itself to ritual. Sitting on the stoop. Writing emails. Reading the next chapter in the novel I am leisurely poring over.  "Want to come to bed?" one of my boyfriends asked me. "No. Not yet," I told him. I waited on the couch. Finishing a crossword puzzle. Watching another episode of some treacly television show.  

See other pictures in this series.

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Setting Up The Scene: A Fight

Misè-en-scene of a too comfortable relationship:

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At Baltimore's Enoch Pratt Library, beneath the colored dome, we fought; because we were tired and travel-weary, more comfortable with our ordinary looks and automobiles, than here, in this constant going and coming.

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Essay: On Feeling Unrequited Love

So does this story ring true for you? So, he has not called in a week nor does he answer calls. Voicemail messages are never recorded (the phone rings and rings).

     Nor does he respond to text messages, e-mails, Myspace messages, or mental vibes sent through psychic airwaves. The last time we spoke was at a party, but even then the conversation was limited. He was drinking a beer and gave lots of non-verbal clues that he was not going to engage in conversation other than, "Hey, wassup?" When trying to establish a day or time to "hang out" his response is non-committal: a simple shrug of the shoulder. He says, looking everywhere except in your eyes, "We'll get together, yeah". When questioned why he had not answered any calls or responded to texts, he explains he always gets them too late to respond. Feeling the need to be annoyed, the words "Yeah, I don't think you're an asshole, though" spill out. At that moment there is a tension there that was not there in the past. When the truth emerges that he is not that important in your world, you think, "Move on" but it is hard to completely remove someone from your life. So you make adjustments. The relationship is akin to a liberated son promising his mom he will visit on weekends. Not likely to happen. Abandoning ship does seem to be the best option, but at the same time, you do not sense the relationship is going to suddenly take on wings and fly to new unexplored heights.
   It is a tough call to determine when a relationship has reached the end of its lifespan. When is it necessary to bail out or adjust the terms of engagement? Needs change and expectations dwindle. There may still be love but the need "to be together" has faded. Friendships have boundary lines. There are unsaid lines drawn in the sand. The desire to move a relationship forward could be negated by the other party's unwillingness to go with it. Perhaps they lose interest. Or they got a bad vibe. People are super sensitive. We process subtle messages and act accordingly. The pain of separation is equal to the amount of initial energy and time invested.
   If it is a friend you only met recently and oddly the relationship ends because she moves away, the pain of separation will probably not be as great as a friendship cultivated throughout many years that suddenly terminates.
   The lyric from the Sondheim song "every day a little death" makes sense when one considers the many times love is given only for it to eventually subside and cease to be. Every day there is a little death, not only in our bodies but in the course of our relationships.

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Poem: "favor"

when you open your mouth it sounds like you’re going to say something horrible,
but instead, what comes out
is less worse than its preface:
your face all in a contorted mass,
because you are half-afraid what you’re going to say
will be muddled
and
the efficacy of your hold will be lost.

so you do that preface thing

again

with your face:

pull out your hands to the corners of the room,
your mouth opening to the scale of an italian frescoe,

downsizing your chin a bit —
almost wanting to be interrupted —
so that I can perhaps fill in the void for you

“i need you to take him to the doctor’s”

“i can’t find anyone else”

and it wouldn’t matter so much that he is asking for my time —
I have lots to give,
plenty of deferrals to stave off the tedium of whatever you want to call it

but it is in the tenacity of his stare,
the half-gaping mouth
and the reluctance to just come out and say it
that fuckin’ stuns me

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Of Carmelites and African Greys

Brother Gabriel Rivet, OSB

In a mostly abandoned seminary building, I climb a flight of stairs, pass two meowing cats, and knock on the door of an old prefect’s office to rendezvous (as I do every Saturday afternoon) with Gabriel Rivet, a monk of Saint Joseph Abbey, a Benedictine monastery on the outskirts of Covington, Louisiana, a bedroom community of New Orleans. The office is musty, retired parrot feathers garner the air and there is a strong scent of vegetables, parrot mix and the lulling hum of daytime television. “Mostly to entertain her,” Gabriel tells me pointing to the African Grey who does, in fact, seem to be watching TV, her head cocked to one side, intent, soaking it all in. Newspapers line the bottom of Jocko’s cage, old Times Picayunes and church bulletins; Br. Gabriel is exceedingly insistent that I place three layers of print to cover Jocko’s cage and to make sure I secure the edges with scotch tape. While he prepares Jocko’s egg – a treat the avian companion gets every afternoon – we talk about Saint Thérèse, Saint Benedict, and monasticism. “You want your egg, Jocko?” Gabriel croons, motioning to the bird with a plate he places on top of the cage. Jocko knows the routine and determinedly climbs up to eat her fill of the yellow yolk. Usually, the monk, who will celebrate his fiftieth year of monastic profession this summer, offers me the white of the egg. “It’s not good for her. No nutritional value.”