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Rating: 
Summary: Just barely worth reading . . .
Review: This isn't a thick book, because there just aren't that many letters between Maxwell and O'Connor. I only picked it up because, after reading a few of O'Connor's short stories, I immediately decided that I needed to read every word that was ever written by or about this man. Except for one lousy biography, I didn't regret the time at all. But this, honestly, isn't a great collection. The letters start out rather dry, and even as they get more affectionate, you still don't feel like there's any meat there. They discuss their families, and how much they like them, and how badly they want to see each other - but regarding their opinions on anything else, or an idea of how they went about writing their works, one gets very little: a lot of frustration about writer's block and some comments that are only useful if you're already familiar with Maxwell's novels (I've only read So Long See You Tomorrow, which isn't mentioned in this book) and O'Connor's later New Yorker stories. And - except for The Ugly Duckling, a story that Maxwell inexplicably didn't like - most of O'Connor best work did not come in this period. The most moving part of the correspondence, actually, comes when his creativity starts to dry up - and anyone that has read his Collected Stories can feel his genius exhausting itself towards the end. A lot of it, too, just reads like little notes passed between friends - I imagine they saved their weightier ideas for when they could see each other, or could have long conversations on the phone. None of them have the literary feel that Chekhov's letters do - those are works of art, as letters often were when it was hard to see people face to face or just pick up the phone. The letters are often just summaries of events - this story is going well, this one not so well, the kids are fine - that were updates between friends: they're not interesting for an outsider, unless you're curious whether the family lives of happily married writers are as ordinary as ours (yes, they are - all happy families do indeed ressemble each other). The part of this book still sharp in my memory is the remembrance that Maxwell wrote of O'Connor after he died. It's just a few pages, but the weight of years of affection and respect are there. A beautiful piece of writing. And one meant to be read - which is more than I can say, I'm afraid, for the letters. Spend your time on their books: you'll get a better sense of what their lives were about.
Rating:
Summary: Just barely worth reading . . .
Review: This isn't a thick book, because there just aren't that many letters between Maxwell and O'Connor. I only picked it up because, after reading a few of O'Connor's short stories, I immediately decided that I needed to read every word that was ever written by or about this man. Except for one lousy biography, I didn't regret the time at all. But this, honestly, isn't a great collection. The letters start out rather dry, and even as they get more affectionate, you still don't feel like there's any meat there. They discuss their families, and how much they like them, and how badly they want to see each other - but regarding their opinions on anything else, or an idea of how they went about writing their works, one gets very little: a lot of frustration about writer's block and some comments that are only useful if you're already familiar with Maxwell's novels (I've only read So Long See You Tomorrow, which isn't mentioned in this book) and O'Connor's later New Yorker stories. And - except for The Ugly Duckling, a story that Maxwell inexplicably didn't like - most of O'Connor best work did not come in this period. The most moving part of the correspondence, actually, comes when his creativity starts to dry up - and anyone that has read his Collected Stories can feel his genius exhausting itself towards the end. A lot of it, too, just reads like little notes passed between friends - I imagine they saved their weightier ideas for when they could see each other, or could have long conversations on the phone. None of them have the literary feel that Chekhov's letters do - those are works of art, as letters often were when it was hard to see people face to face or just pick up the phone. The letters are often just summaries of events - this story is going well, this one not so well, the kids are fine - that were updates between friends: they're not interesting for an outsider, unless you're curious whether the family lives of happily married writers are as ordinary as ours (yes, they are - all happy families do indeed ressemble each other). The part of this book still sharp in my memory is the remembrance that Maxwell wrote of O'Connor after he died. It's just a few pages, but the weight of years of affection and respect are there. A beautiful piece of writing. And one meant to be read - which is more than I can say, I'm afraid, for the letters. Spend your time on their books: you'll get a better sense of what their lives were about.
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