'Here is what we know, those of us who can speak to tell a story: On the afternoon of October 21st, my wife, Lexy Ransome, climbed to the top of the apple tree in our back yard and fell to her death. There were no witnesses, save our dog Lorelei . . .' So begins this remarkable, unputdownable debut about a man faced with the sudden and inexplicable loss of the love of his life. Convinced that Lexy's death was not an accident, and driven by a desire to discover what really happened that October afternoon, Paul decides to embark on the only course of action he can possibly imagine. What follows is a luminous account of an extraordinary, magical love affair, and its aftermath. This is the story of a passionate woman and her irrepressible dreams; of a man who does not know how to begin to live without her; of an animal's loyalty and devotion, and of the desperate search for answers that leads them all to places they never expected to go.
The Dogs of Babel is the story of linguist Paul Iverson, who calls home one day to find out his wife Lexy is dead. The only witness to her death is their dog, Lorelei, and so Paul sets out to teach the dog to speak so he can find out what really happened.
Now I’d first heard of Babel on a screenwriting website. It seems someone adapted the book and the resulting screenplay was so good, it made that year’s Black List. Reportedly, they were looking for an A-list actor for the role of Paul and blah blah bliggity blue. The way the story had been reported, I thought Babel was going to be a comedy of some sort. Anyway, when I’d found the novel at my new favorite book store Book Off, I decided to pick it up. What the hey, the premise was certainly intriguing. Unfortunately, what made for an intriguing premise turned out to be a patience-testing exercise in banality.
First, the novel actually spends precious little time exploring Paul efforts to teach Lorelei to speak. It is, in fact, a meditation on Paul’s relationship with Lexy. How it came to be, how their love progressed, and how it may (or may not) have impacted the events of Lexy’s last day alive. I admit, the meeting between the two characters was cute – it’s the very definition of “meet cute,” if you ask me – but as we move forward, it becomes abundantly clear that Lexy is, excuse the phrase, fucking insane.
Lexy designs custom masks for a living, and is several years younger than Paul. She’s impulsive, spontaneous, and off her rocker. On their first date, she convinces Paul to drive from wherever they live (Virginia, I think) to Disney World. She also states that they cannot eat dinner because dinner always comes at the end of every date. So each meal consists of appetizers, snacks, and the like. I suppose this was an effort to make Lexy seem quirky; instead, she came off as a loon.
Throughout the novel, Lexy has emotional outbursts, and they grow increasingly violent. In one scene, after Paul offers a slight bit of criticism on her latest work, Lexy takes a knife to the mask, completely destroying it before crumpling into a sobbing ball of delirium.
It was hard for me to truly understand why Paul was so in love with her. Sure, love doesn’t always make sense, especially to those on the outside looking in. But that’s just one of the missteps Parkhurst makes here. She doesn’t make us understand why Paul is so devoted to Lexy. He just is. That’s just not enough.
Oh, yeah, we almost forgot about the dog. There’s a tiny bit of subplot thrown in about a secret society of people dedicated to “canine communication,” an unseemly lot who have no qualms about butchering dogs in an effort to see their goals come to fruition. Interestingly enough, it’s the only part of the novel that generates any excitement. But it also feels somewhat tacked on, a throwaway bit that Parkhurst included because, hey, this is supposed to be a novel about teaching a dog to talk.
The Dogs of Babel disappoints because Paul gets no closer to understanding his wife – her life or her death – come the end of the novel. And as for Lorelei, well, let’s just say she won’t be much assistance in helping Paul figure things out.
No, we’re not given hard and fast answers, and I recognize that’s how it is sometimes. But we’re also left without any resolution, without any closure. It feels like a huge waste of time. And that’s why, in the end, this novel is simply not satisfying. Though it purports to be a tale of communication and understanding, The Dogs of Babel ultimately has nothing at all to say.
While the premise is an interesting one - a widowed man seeks comfort and answers from his dog, a Ridgeback, the only witness to his wife's death - the execution fell flat. I felt like I was reading the book equivalent of a Lifetime Original or Hallmark TV movie. Wife dies. Man haunted by her memory and unanswered questions about her death (she falls from a tree; she's not really a tree climbing type). Man reflects on their marriage in a series of flashbacks seen through his filter. Maybe rosy life not all that rosy. Man, a university linguistics professor, decides next research project will be to attempt to teach their dog to speak, thus helping him find answers he needs to heal and move on. Man goes to the brink, must wake up and find way back. Others worried; others get hurt in the process.
While I could identify with many of the emotions of the book, like the aforementioned Lifetime TV movies, it felt obvious, manipulative and heavy handed. The book club-friendly interview and questions provided at the end just added to the impression that this novel was manufactured for a certain audience. And that audience just isn't me.
Lexy Ransome is a high maintenance headcase. I won't dress the character up with the adjectives I suspect the author would prefer - creative, spontaneous, sensitive, beautiful. Lexy designs masks for a living, paints secret love notes on walls and hides darker messages in bookshelves, and keeps a journal of all her dreams. She also flips out over the least reason, and thinks about 'that moment' when she might commit suicide. All of these facets of her personality, good and bad, are learned in retrospect from her grieving husband Paul, who is desperate to find out exactly why she climbed to the top of the apple tree in their back yard and either fell or jumped. Lexy's death, when the truth about her 'livewire' behaviour starts to filter into the narrative, is rather a relief, but Paul's reaction did not endear him to me, either. The one living part of Lexy left to him is Lorelei, her eight year old Rhodesian Ridgeback dog, and his betrayal of their pet's trust during his nervous breakdown is almost disgusting to read. I know it's just a book, but I could barely stomach those chapters where he knowingly turns to a cruel, perverted group of men for help in making Lorelei 'talk'. Obviously his monomaniacal obsession with learning how his wife died - although the truth, knowing Lexy's past history, is perfectly obvious, and Paul has all the facts, even if the reader doesn't - drives him to do what he does, but I still have no sympathy for him.
In fact, the only part of the story that stirred me in a relatively positive way - if bringing tears to my eyes is better than wanting to throw the book away - is Lorelei's unconditional love, for both Lexy and Paul. Who wouldn't be affected by the description of a dog's devotion to its owner, whether they deserve such love loyalty or not? The scene where Paul tells Lorelei to 'Go get Lexy', and the poor dog runs around the house looking for her lost owner, is absolutely heartbreaking. Paul's grief, and the stages he goes through, is also raw and honest, but he goes too far.
If you get a chance to borrow this book, from a friend or the library, then definitely read it - the mystery of Lexy's last message to Paul is intriguing, but the (human) characters are not sympathetic and the study of grief is scary-depressing rather than comforting.
The story goes as follows: after the death of his wife, a linguistics professor believes the only way to find out the truth about his wife's death is to teach their dog to talk, because she was with his wife when she died. While doing so, he reminisces about his life with his wife.
Even despite my doubts, I enjoyed this book from the beginning, because it flows. Flowing really is the best expression; it's a pleasure to read, and I felt like I was floating over the pages. The writing felt very soft - this was one of the instances where the writing felt very tangible. (I know this sounds strange, but for me that's the best way to put it.)
And again, despite my doubts there were many passages I underlined and even more where I could've done so. The love Paul Iverson felt for his wife feels very real, as does his grief, and his slow coming to terms with what happened. His project with his dog, bringing with it something really creepy and disturbing, never quite seemed like a fool's errand for me. It was something for him to focus on, although I see why other people - especially scientists - might find it worrying. But it was interesting to read about what he was trying to do (and not).
It's also a very, very female book, at least it felt like that to me. It'd be interesting to see whether other people feel the same, although I can only think of one person who might be interested to read it, and she's a woman. But that kind of thing isn't bad. It had the same feel to it like "The Myth of You & Me", I think; the ease with which I read it definitely reminded me of that book.
So yeah, I really loved it. It's a beautiful story about love, loss and grief. And thus, probably, life.
I remember at least twice while reading this book while Paul was describing aspects of his research that I said to myself, “This man must be out of his mind!” Paul is such a sympathetic narrator that I was immediately interested in his story and how becoming a widower impacted him. I was so much in his corner and felt for his loneliness that I was buying in to his research, believing it might be possible to get Lorelei to confirm his suspicions. He was a linguist, after all, and I have very little practical experiences with dogs. I had entered into his odd reality without knowing it. Those “this man must be out of his mind” moments were my wakeup call that all was not right with Paul. Seeing that they were not wakeup calls for Paul made me nervous and tempted me (very briefly) to throw in the towel. By the time I realized that Paul was not the reliable man I was led to believe, it was too late. I couldn’t put the book down any more than I could look away. Someone had to be a witness for Lorelei.
Parkhurst tells an interesting story in The Dogs of Babel. Dealing with a partner with mental health issues is not easy. It’s also difficult to understand another person’s problems unless you’ve experienced them. Paul wanted to remember his wife in the best possible light. There were times when he described her outbursts and they didn’t seem at all as devastating as Lexy or Paul did or could easily be explained by lack of sleep or some other minor issue. Paul holds back because he is the perfect co-dependent. He overlooks behavior that should have made him take action, like their trip to New Orleans a few months before she dies. He wants Lorelei to talk because he needs to know what she knows – not because he wants to know the truth, but because he hopes he’s not guilty for what happened.
The Dogs of Babel has got to be the most bizarre novel I’ve read in a very long time. Paul's obsession led him places I've never even imagined in my nightmares. There are some amazingly inhumane things encountered in this novel which bring Paul to his tipping point. Because of this, I would caution readers who upset when animals are treated cruelly and sadistically. I found this novel worth the risk. The uneasy feelings created by the Cerberus Society paved the way for some beautiful, introspective, and intimate prose like the following passage from page 229:
It's not the content of our dreams that gives our second heart its dark color; it's the thoughts that go through our heads in those wakeful moments when sleep won't come. And those are the things we never tell anyone at all.
After finishing this novel, I will never be able to hear a joke about a talking dog, or any other animal for that matter, without thinking about Lorelei. I would also be willing to follow Parkhurst just about anywhere. The Dogs of Babel and Lorelei will stay with me for a long time.
4 on LibraryThing, and definitely going on my buy list.
This is a heart-breaking book, and at the same time a very beautiful and romantic one. A man (Paul) has lost his wife (Lexy) in a strange accident, the only witness their dog (Lorelei). Faced with clues that suggest her death was not an accident, he decides to teach his dog how to talk, so he can learn what she knows.
Parkhurst alternates chapters of Paul's work with Lorelei with chapters of Paul's memories of Lexy and their life together. The effect is very moving, as in one chapter Paul struggles with Lorelei, while in the next he remembers a wonderful trip that he and Lexy took.
In Carolyn Parkhurst's first novel The Dogs of Babel, Paul Iverson hopes to repeat Bell's success. This is no amusing parlor trick for the university linguistics professor, however; he's teaching his dog Lorelei to form vowels and consonants in hopes she'll clear up the mystery surrounding the recent death of Paul's wife. Lorelei was the only witness to Lexy's fatal fall from a tree in their backyard and somewhere buried in the spongy folds of that doggy brain lie the answers to so many questions.
Paul just wants some resolution to his crippling grief and to solve the riddle of why his beautiful wife would climb their thirty-foot apple tree in the middle of the day and either lose her footing or purposely jump to her death. If his Rhodesian Ridgeback hound could talk, what would she tell him about Lexy's final moments? Hopefully, something more reassuring than "ow ah oo ga ma ma."
The Dogs of Babel is less a mystery than it is a love story. As he wanders through his now-empty house, Paul looks for clues Lexy might have left for him. Certainly, some things seem out of place—books rearranged on the shelf, a steak bone in the corner of their bedroom which Lexy evidently gave to Lorelei that afternoon, a strange phone call showing up on his bill. As Paul drifts through the fog of mourning, Parkhurst weaves in flashbacks to the first time Paul and Lexy met (at a garage sale), their first date (a week-long trip to Disney World), and their rosy first days as a married couple.
Like the widower himself, the novel seems most comfortable when it's dwelling on the past. With only a few exceptions (when the prose gets as thick and tacky as spilled syrup), the extended flashback chapters are the strongest pages of the novel—perhaps because Lexy herself is such a vital, volatile character (Paul is wallpaste by comparison). She's a tormented artist: an imaginative crafter of masks one minute, a wailing psychotic the next as she rampages through her workroom and smashes her intricate creations. As the book unfolds, we start to see clues to Lexy's true character seeping through her pores in hot flashes of irrational anger. Paul's too blinded by love to catch the warning signs but because we already know Lexy has taken a dive from the top of a tree, we pick up the signals—her predilection for All Things Death, for instance—and record them in our book of evidence. Still, there's something compelling about the woman and it seems Parkhurst is as deeply in love with her as is Paul—and eventually we readers.
There are moments in the book when throats will be lumped, not from sorrow but from the joy of romance. The love Paul feels for Lexy is sometimes so palpable it makes you ache with the ache of your own first love when everything was possible and your bones grew and your skin stretched just to meet the space of your heart.
Then there are other times when the emotion is so overwrought it curdles on the page like cheese gone bad overnight. Parkhurst is no longer in control of the narrative and the words run amok like bad soap opera dialogue. There's one scene where Paul and Lexy wear masks of each other's faces and it all becomes a bit silly and trite as we're unnecessarily sledgehammered with symbolism.
At one point, The Dogs of Babel takes a weird detour into science-fiction territory as Paul gets involved with an ominous cult of men who are also trying to create talking dogs—through surgery, rather than patient instruction like Paul's. The bizarre subplot, reminiscent of Kirsten Bakis' 1997 novel Lives of the Monster Dogs, is awkwardly stuck in the last third of the book, but thankfully only lasts for about forty clumsy pages. The novel then returns to where it belongs—the luminous love story and piercing dissection of one husband's grief.
The Dogs of Babel begins with a detached, clinical tone (Here is what we know, those of us who can speak to tell a story: On the afternoon of October 24, my wife, Lexy Ransome, climbed to the top of the apple tree in our backyard and fell to her death), but it soon becomes a diary of Paul's emotions. By the final pages, he's reaching deep inside with a flashlight and rooting out his guilt and regret:
What did I do and what did I neglect to do? How did I fail her? How many different ways? In what way am I to blame—I know I must be, the problem is figuring out the details of my failure.
In spite of the novel's problems, it redeems itself with a climax that's both elegiac and life-affirming. You'll feel the joy and the sorrow all the way down to your lovely bones.
My disagreements with other reviews aside, I loved the book. It was emotionally draining, but sucked you in and held you there, and I thought it was top notch. It will probably be going somewhere on my top ten list of books which I really enjoy.
Actually, it applies to everyone -- although we interact with 'human', those who can speak, but it's doubtful that whether we really understand each other.
After Paul's wife, Lexy, falls to her death from a tree in their yard, Paul becomes obsessed with trying to find out why Lexy was in that tree and whether or not he had the perfect marriage he thought he did. Paul feels that the only living being who has the answer to all of his questions is their dog, Lorelei. Paul's emotional journey with Lorelei in trying to solve his wife's death is haunting, suspenseful and engaging.
Let me state clearly - it is not magical realism. It is a touching story about loss and greiving and it stayed with me far longer than I thought it would
The story is told in two time periods. In the past, is Paul and Lexy’s love story; in the present, is Paul’s struggles to find, then come to terms with his loss and the truths he has difficulty facing, including his irrational actions that put Lorelei at risk.
By the end, I wasn’t surprised by the things Paul learns, about Lexy and himself and their relationship, but surprises aren’t what this book is about. At its heart, it’s the story of love and how it can blind you to a person’s flaws and how some things are beyond your control and other things are within your control and learning the difference. It’s about an amazing love that wasn’t quite strong enough and about healing. Parkhurst’s prose is compelling and deeply felt. I look forward to reading more by her.