Review for Friends and Strangers: Revealing Confrontations

When I first started J. Courtney Sullivan’s Friends and Strangers, I didn’t really like it. Or rather, I didn’t like Elisabeth, the main character. Truthfully, she remains annoying to me, but I think that might’ve been one of the author’s points in writing the book.

The novel follows a tumultuous year shared between two women who serendipitously fall into each other’s lives and grow consumed with the condition of the other. Elisabeth is a novelist in her mid-thirties who has put out two books, is married to a lovely man named Andrew (who was probably one of my favourite characters of the story), and together they have recently had a child named Gilbert through IVF. Sam is an arts major at a women’s college, in a relationship with an older man named Clive (tied with Elisabeth for my least favourite characters) whom she met in England, and she meets Elisabeth through her need of a job and experience as a nanny. From there, the two become enthralled with each other. Sam wants what Elisabeth has with the career, spouse, child, and life that has seemingly simply fallen into place. Elisabeth obsesses over Sam’s life and career path, using her as a distraction from her own problems that she hides from everyone, including Andrew. It is an incredible year of change for them both as Sam tries to understand her next move beyond college and Elisabeth navigates the balance between new motherhood, a new neighbourhood, and an increasingly stubborn lack of motivation to continue her career as a writer.

Effectively, what this novel did for me was serve as a reminder that people are complex. I mean, every book I read lately does this for me as we all find ourselves a little out of touch (literally and figuratively) with our friends and acquaintances. However, this novel particularly inspires an express reflection. By this I mean that I find a healthy number of books work on the familiar binary: there are good people and there are bad people, and many authors do not shy away from labeling each of their characters as such. Tolkien and Lewis are famous for this. More recently, I’ve noticed a pull towards trying to understand villains; to give a compelling reason as to why they are the bad one while it remains ever important that they remain on that side of the binary. What Sullivan achieves in this novel is a blatant reminder that every person has good and bad, selfish and selfless, loving and judgmental. Every friend, spouse, co-worker, and family member are going to have ways they’ve adapted to life that does not completely mesh with anyone else and in fact will probably cause some sort of friction.

This is precisely why I didn’t like Elisabeth. Coming from a poor background, it makes absolutely no sense to me to even contemplate a refusal of financial help from someone (especially parents) when it’s really needed. It irritates me that someone could even have the privilege to think like that, as jaded as that may sound. However, my thoughts on Elisabeth are, I think, exactly what the author tries to achieve as there are a plethora of characters in the story that would doubtless agree with me. Further to that, I’m sure that some readers would find solace in Elisabeth’s nerve. Sullivan covers every base in terms of characterization in this novel and showcases an incredible knowledge of humanity. I will say, however, that the representation that she places throughout in terms of LGBTQ+ folks is tokenized at best. At risk of sounding like an angry bisexual, if there’s going to be any representation of queer folks, do not just mention a lesbian relationship in passing. Give us just as much depth and characterization as was afforded to every other character. Better yet, make more of the main characters queer, too. We deserve more than just existence on the sidelines. It also further makes novels run the fine, if not blurred, line between out of touch and TERF-feeling.

That said, this was still a great read, even if it was just to feel angry about rich people again. Obviously, it’s the type of novel to make its reader question what kind of person they are, too. “Am I that judgy?” “Is what she did really that awful?” “How could they be so naïve?” “Where would I fit in this novel?” “Am I a bad person?” “Would I be as desperate?” The detail, down to the cost of a hand soap and description of light in a photograph, makes each reader feel like a part of Elisabeth and Sam’s crazy year. It pulls us in by asking, “Could you do any better? Can you do any better?”. And when a book spurs questions of morals like this one does, its bound to be good.