Rage of Ages

In this ambitious new novel, the frustrations of modern parenting echo through the eras.

WHAT IS THE SOURCE of maternal rage? The answer is as infinite as it is ancient. In 1965, the poet and essayist Adrienne Rich, with small children underfoot, captured a possible explanation for this abyss in her journal when she described

it as “a sense of insufficiency to the moment and to eternity.”

But where — for moms, for women — does this nagging feeling of insufficiency come from? From the misogyny that we grow up with? From the helpless outrage we bear as our messy, gorgeous, individual maternal experiences are flattened by society into a weirdly infantilized stereotype that’s placed, like a paper doll, into a twodimensional dollhouse called “Motherhood”?

ELIZA MINOT is the author of the novels “The Tiny One,” “The Brambles” and, most recently, “In the Orchard.” Or does it come from the profound feeling of helplessness that accompanies the ability to give life to a human being, but be unable to ensure that life’s safety?

Ava Zaretsky, the diligent heroine of Alexis Landau’s ambitious and engaging new novel, “The Mother of All Things” (her third after “Those Who Are Saved” and “The Emperor of the Senses”), simmers with a steady rage that never fully erupts toward her kids (Sam, 10, and Margot, 13, who’s at the edge of “adolescence’s dark tunnel”) or her husband, Kasper, a preoccupied Los Angeles film producer. Rather, Ava’s rage burns beneath the surface, “so white and hot it blurred the contours of her body.” She is angry that, in a marriage of supposed equals circa 2019, Kasper can relocate to Sofia, Bulgaria, for a six-month film shoot without a second thought, while her own work as an adjunct art history professor is smudged out by the needs of her family. Her fury is also embedded, we later learn, in the powerlessness that comes with profound loss.

When the family joins Kasper in Sofia for the summer, the kids enroll in a day camp, allowing Ava to wander this mysterious city. Her curiosity and creativity bubble to the surface. She begins writing about an ancient Greek woman whose life parallels and dovetails with her own, and whose narrative is interspersed throughout the pages of the novel. By coincidence, Ava also reconnects in Sofia with an intimidating former professor named Lydia Nikitas and becomes involved in a group of women who participate in reenactments of ancient rites and rituals, most notably the Eleusinian Mysteries.

Despite some moments that feel forced and overly earnest, particularly in the ancient narrative and the Nikitas story line, Landau’s writing is accessible, specific, lush and transporting. Her research is rigorous and full of elegant effort. The great success of this novel is the author’s sustained exploration of a woman in early midlife who, seething quietly on the inside but operating gracefully on the outside, bravely re-evaluates how her life has unfolded in order to progress as a mother to herself. Renderings of Ava’s childhood — a heartbreaking recollection of a favorite red belt, memories of a father’s girlfriend entering her life and then leaving it — are especially astute and rich.

At times, the novel’s disparate parts compete with rather than complement one another; some characters seem predictable, and certain ideas redundant. When things are meant to get weird, as in the rituals, it can feel more Scooby-Doo than genuinely haunting. For this reason, more than once, I felt like shaking the book like a snow globe, as if its fascinating contents, suspended, might set free more of its wildness.

Landau’s prose can also lift off the page, as it does in a prolonged memory of Ava’s first childbirth and its aftermath. Here, Landau’s writing is intimate, tender and full of terror. The sentences breathe with the softness of shared human experience across time — absolutely sufficient to the moment, and to eternity, too.