To write a “book review” of The
Signature of All Things by Elizabeth Gilbert somehow seems presumptuous of
me.
First, a “review,” as
I understand reviews, would have me tell you a bit about the story. I do not
want to do that. For once, I picked the
book up just because of the author and my love of her writing. I did not read
anything about it beforehand.
The title was enough to pull me
into it on its own. The title resonates. What was this “signature?” I found
out…but not before something like Page 497 (of 500), and even then it’s
something your book club can debate for a long time. I’m still thinking about
it myself.
So, I’m glad I approached it that
way, for to have nestled up to any spoilers would have been unthinkable. I did
not want to know “what the book is about” beforehand. I’m glad I did that, because
it made everything in it a wonder, and with wonders loaded it is.
Signature
is really an epic, I’d say. It covers most of the 18th and 19th
Centuries, and it ranges from London to Philadelphia and more wondrous places
than you might ever imagine. The story it presents is more richly researched
than any I’ve read in a long time.
Her classy writing moved me forward
like not many other books. Even at 500 pages, it presented no temptation to
stop, as have others of that length. It never seems to drag, and it may not
even be long enough. I would have liked for the goodies of plot and character
development to never stop.
But that would have been
impossible, for Gilbert’s characters are one-offs, singular, never-to-be
born-anew as somebody else.
Simply stated, “there is no there
there,” as Gertrude Stein once wrote.
