Name: Ordinary People
Rating: 3.977272727272727 (22 reviews)
ISBN: 9781429514422

Judith Guest

Ordinary People

laila

And what is fatherhood anyway? Talking to a kid about his clothes. Not applying pressure. Looking for signs. He knows what to look for now: loss of appetite, sleeplessness, poor school performance—all negative, so far. His son eats, he sleeps, he does his homework. He says he’s happy. Another duty: asking silly questions. Are you happy? He has to ask, though; pretends that he is kidding, just kidding; Conrad replies in kind. Pointless. Would the answer have been any different, even if he had thought to ask, before? Good manners have nothing to do with communication, he must remember that. And being a father is more than trusting to luck. That, too. Nobody’s role is simple, these days. Not even a kid’s. It used to mean minding your manners, respecting those who were bigger than you, treating each day as a surprise package, waiting to be opened. Not any more. So what’s changed? Not enough surprises? Too many, maybe.

Responsibility. That is fatherhood. You cannot afford to miss any signs, because that is how it happens: somebody holding too much inside, somebody else missing signs

A compelling start. Love at first read with this book. What are hopeful mornings—new beginnings—if not for our beliefs? 

To have a reason to get up in the morning, it is necessary to possess a guiding principle. A belief of some kind. A bumper sticker, if you will. 

Responsibility. That is fatherhood. You cannot afford to miss any signs, because that is how it happens: somebody holding too much inside, somebody else missing signs. 

“Don’t expect him to be the same person he was before.” But he does expect that. As does everyone. His mother, his grandmother, his grandfather—yesterday, Cal’s father-in-law had called him at the office: “I’ve got to admit, Cal, that it shocked me. He looked so —” and Cal felt him hunting for the painless adjectives “—tired out. Run down. I would think, for the kind of money you paid, they would have at least seen to it that he ate properly, and got enough sleep. And he was so quiet. Just not like his old self at all.

Abruptly he jumps up, walks to the end of the circular drive. Another thought nags at him, threatening to surface. He shrugs it off. Something unpleasant. Facing the house, he stares up at his bedroom window. In the early morning, the room is his enemy; there is danger in just being awake. Here, looking up, it is a refuge. He imagines himself safely inside; in bed, with the covers pulled up. Asleep. Unconscious.

They had laughed when they read it and he laughs now, out loud. See? Haven’t lost your sense of humor after all but your sense of identity is what seems to have been misplaced. No. Wrong. 

Conrad feels the slow, rolling pressure of panic building inside himself. The air in the back seat is being sucked out the windows by a huge and powerful vacuum. Relentless, it will soon crush the car like an eggshell.

Her attention on him now, full force. It will smother him. Too much interest brings out every ounce of reserve he has, makes him unable to think, to formulate answers, even to hear the questions. He looks blankly back at her.

Choir is the one time of day when he lets down his guard; there is peace in the strict concentration that Faughnan demands of all of them, in the sweet dissonance of voices in chorus

He has escaped this time but even the smallest, most insignificant encounter is alive with complication and danger. He wishes himself, for a moment, back inside the hospital where things were predictable. Mercifully dull.

He shuts his door and leans against it, trembling. A dull, roaring sound in his ears as he doubles over, arms crossed, pressed against his waist. His stomach tightens, as if to ward off a blow.

“You don’t believe that,” she says. “You say it, but you don’t believe it.” “I believe it,” he says. 

“I’m not even talking about blame, I’m talking about being available. We were busy down there. Every goddamned minute. There wasn’t time to talk.” 

“What was there to say? What do you think would have been said? Do you even think he knew at that point? And, if he did know, do you think he would have told us?”

It gives him control over his schedule, and, besides, riding the train has always made him nervous.

 He can’t work, as he has seen some men do; he can barely read the paper. Riding the train gives him too much time to think, he has decided. 

This gaunt, thin figure that sits across from him, hair chopped bluntly at the neck, still grins; still kids, but the eyes are different. He cannot get used to it. 

 That is the image that must be dispelled. 

It has to be his fault, because fault equals responsibility equals control equals eventual understanding. How things happened. Why they happened. So where is the fault? Is it in believing that the people you love are immortal? Untouchable? No, everyone believes that. Only no one knows it’s what he believes—until it happens. Then comes the rage, the banging about the walls, crying what if, what if. Everyone is always so damned surprised, that is the horror of it.

Don’t squirm don’t panic release is inevitable. Soon soon

He is abruptly uncomfortable. An endless grilling process, like it was in the hospital. He forgot how it 

A long, uncomfortable silence. He is tired and irritated. And again, there are no choices; 

So, how do you stay open, when nobody mentions anything, when everybody is careful not to mention it?

If you must ponder it, then do it alone at isolated periods with long intervals in between, so as not to drive yourself bats.

my heart aches thinking about this book. conrad jarrett is a literary mirror of me. i have never felt so wholly represented by somebody, real or fictional. he and i are mosaics of each other, broken pieces and parts glued together to create something beautiful. i cried, i laughed, and i cried even more. this book tore me up in ways i wasn’t even aware was possible. conrad’s story has always and will always remain the most important i’ve ever read. my soul is intertwined with his forever. i love ordinary people. judith guest is my hero.

EDEN!!!!!

giulia

"In the early morning, the room is his enemy; there is danger in just being awake. Here, looking up, it is a refuge. He imagines himself safely inside; in bed, with the covers pulled up. Asleep. Unconscious."

D D D 

Loved the ending. Great & realistic book about grief. not much going on plot wise. they were legit ordinary …. 3.6 stars.

The Jarrets are a typical American family. Calvin is a determined, successful provider and Beth an organized, efficient wife. They had two sons, Conrad and Buck, but now they have one. In this memorable, moving novel, Judith Guest takes the reader into their lives to share their misunderstandings, pain...and ultimate healing.

Ordinary people

great writing all around. loved the story and the characters. a bit different from the movie, that is also great (...maybe better thanks to the casting).

Describes a youth's breakdown and recovery and how it affects his family.

Audrey Cashmore

This is honestly one of my favorite books. I read it years ago and enjoyed the raw emotion portrayed and frank honesty expressed throughout the novel. I think books that take on challenging and tragic realities are ones we need to read.

Definitely make sure you are in a mentally healthy space when you choose to read this as there are heavy themes of loss, grief, and mental health issues.

Olivia Rousseau 

Paige Wanner

The Jarrets are a typical American family. Calvin is a determined, successful provider and Beth an organized, efficient wife. They had two sons, Conrad and Buck, but now they have one. In this memorable, moving novel, Judith Guest takes the reader into their lives to share their misunderstandings, pain...and ultimate healing. 
(back cover)

Ordinary People

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