Big Brother

Por Lionel Shriver

Inspirada en la experiencia autobiográfica de la autora, cuyo hermano mayor padeció una obesidad que le provocó un fatal ataque al corazón, esta novela es una sátira feroz de las «familias felices» y de una sociedad desquiciada, que se obsesiona con el culto al cuerpo y al mismo tiempo publicita y consume toneladas de comida basura. Pero es también una indagación en las complicadas relaciones entre hermanos, en el complejo de culpa y la necesidad de redención, en la lucha por salvar de la autodestrucción a las personas a las que queremos y a nosotros mismos. «Su mejor novela hasta el momento... Preparaos para algunos episodios brutalmente viscerales. Pero ¿quién podía pensar que una novela sobre la dieta podía ser tan conmovedora y desbordante de suspense?» (Amanda Craig, The Independent).

• Idioma: Español
• Editorial: Editorial Anagrama
• Fecha de lanzamiento: 21 may 2014
• ISBN: 9788433934901

Lionel Shriver

Although Lionel Shriver has published many novels, a collection of essays, and a column in the Spectator since 2017, and her journalism has been featured in publications including the Guardian, the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, she in no way wishes for the inclusion of this information to imply that she is more “intelligent” or “accomplished” than anyone else. The outdated meritocracy of intellectual achievement has made her a bestselling author multiple times and accorded her awards, including the Orange Prize, but she accepts that all of these accidental accolades are basically meaningless. She lives in Portugal and Brooklyn, New York.

Vista previa del libro

Índice

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II. Hacia abajo

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III. Fuera

Créditos

A Greg, siempre increíblemente feliz por todas las cosas buenas que me ocurrían; ante su vida –radical, fantástica, asombrosa- cualquier ficción palidece.

Una de cada tres personas cambiaría un año de vida por un cuerpo ideal.

Daily Telegraph, 24 de marzo de 2011

I. Hacia arriba

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No tengo más remedio que preguntarme si alguno de los momentos verdaderamente interesantes de mis cuarenta y tantos años ha tenido que ver con la comida; me refiero a la salivación, la masticación y los movimientos peristálticos. No hablo de cenas ni de celebraciones, y tampoco de camaradería. Por extraño que parezca, sobre todo teniendo en cuenta que comer es algo que hago todos los días, no consigo recordar muchas comidas con detalle; en cambio, me resulta más fácil traer a la memoria mis películas preferidas, los amigos leales, las graduaciones. De ello se desprende que el cine, la afinidad y la educación son para mí más importantes que atiborrarme. Bien hecho, me dirán; pero, sinceramente, si tuviera que sumar todo el tiempo que he dedicado generosamente a planificar menús, comprar comestibles, prepararlos y cocinarlos, poner la mesa y fregar la cocina para almuerzos y cenas, la comida, de un modo u otro, supera con creces el cariño que le tengo a En un lugar del corazón, hasta convertir esa película en una banal nota al pie, y lo mismo puede decirse del cariño que siento por cualquier ser humano, incluso por aquellos a los que reconozco querer. He pasado más tiempo pensando en el almuerzo que en mi marido. Súmese a ello el tiempo que también he pasado lamentando mi debilidad por los merengues de limón, prometiendo saltarme el desayuno de la mañana siguiente y abriendo la nevera/frenándome antes de despacharme las sobras de las natillas de calabaza/cerrándola después con determinación, y parezco una persona que se ha interesado muy poco por algo aparte de la comida.

Entonces, ¿por qué, si de todo lo anterior puede inferirse que para mí comer ha sido tan bochornosamente fundamental, no consigo recordar una secuencia eidética de comidas dignas de mención?

Yo, como la mayoría, tengo recuerdos más vívidos de los platos preferidos de mi infancia. Como a casi todos los niños, me gustaban las cosas sencillas: tostadas, bizcochos, galletas saladas. De adulta, el paladar se me ensanchó, no así el carácter. Soy arroz blanco. Siempre he existido para crear una carta más emocionante. De pequeña, yo era el complemento ideal. Ahora también.

Dudo que esto sirva para paliar mucho mi turbación, pero tengo algunas modestas excusas por haber hecho demasiado hincapié en la cuestión mecánica de la alimentación. Durante once años llevé una empresa de cátering. Pensarán ustedes, entonces, que al menos podría recordar victorias personales en Breadbasket, Inc. Pues, no exactamente. Aparte de los profesores universitarios, que son más innovadores, los de Iowa somos conservadores a la hora de comer, y sin duda alguna soy capaz de evocar una monótona cadena de montaje de tartas de zanahoria, lasañas y pan de harina de maíz con nata agria. Sin embargo, los únicos platos que recuerdo en alto relieve son los que llamaré «desastres»: el pudin de agua de rosas espesado con harina de arroz que terminó pareciendo una cuba roñosa llena de un mejunje viscoso más apropiado para pegar papel pintado que para cualquier otra cosa. El resto, los rollitos de salmón con tal o cual cosa, las frituras de esto o lo otro con un toque de lo que fuese..., todo eso es una mancha borrosa en mi memoria.

Paciencia. Estoy acercándome a algo. Y propongo: la comida es, por naturaleza, difícil de aprehender. Más concepto que sustancia, la comida es la idea de la satisfacción, mucho más poderosa que la satisfacción misma, y por eso una dieta puede tener la misma influencia que la religión o el fanatismo político. No es lo apetitoso, ni un sabor irresistible, lo que nos lleva a comer más, sino la imposibilidad misma de que la comida satisfaga. La experiencia más suntuosa, en lo que a ingerir se refiere, se sitúa en un punto intermedio, a saber, recordar el último bocado y comenzar a anhelar el siguiente. La parte real del comer es algo que casi no sucede, y lo que convierte los placeres de la mesa en tan tentadores –y tan peligrosos– es su incapacidad casi absoluta de cumplir lo que prometen.

¿Estrecha de miras? No estoy tan segura. Somos animales, y la pulsión de comer, mucho más fuerte que ese asunto secundario llamado sexo, motiva casi todo el empeño humano. Tras haber triunfado de modo manifiesto en la competencia por el dominio de los recursos, los más entrados en carnes somos, por tanto, la coronación de las historias sobre el éxito biológico. Pero... pregúntenle a una manada de renos afectada de superpoblación: la naturaleza castiga el éxito. Nuestra costumbre de ahorrar para tiempos peores, de enterrar bellotas en el escondite más seguro y privado para el largo invierno, por más prudente que sea a su manera, y por mucho que exprese la astucia darwiniana, está matando a mi país, y por eso dudo que la despensa, como tema, sea una ofensa. Cierto, a veces me pregunto hasta qué punto me importa mi país, pero mi hermano sí me importa.

Cualquier historia que trate sobre hermanos se remonta, qué duda cabe, a tiempos lejanos, pero, para lo que nos ocupa, el capítulo de la vida de mi hermano que más atención merece comenzó, acertadamente, durante una comida. Debió de ser un fin de semana, pues yo aún no había salido para mi cuartel general de manufacturas.

Como era normal en aquella época, mi marido había subido del sótano a la cocina muy pronto. Acostumbraba levantarse a las cinco de la mañana y, claro, a mediodía ya se moría de hambre. Ebanista autónomo, creador de muebles hermosos y únicos que nadie se podía permitir comprar, para trabajar sólo tenía que bajar a su taller y, naturalmente, podía empezar a la hora que se le antojase. Esa estupidez suya de levantarse en cuanto asomaba el sol era únicamente para la galería. A Fletcher le gustaba el rigor que eso implicaba, esa fachada de aún más dureza, más fuerza, disciplina y abnegación.

A mí esa manía de levantarse y arrancar me ponía de los nervios. En aquellos días no tenía la sabiduría necesaria para aceptar la discordia a una escala tan insignificante, pues la hora en que sonaba el despertador de Fletcher no tardaría en ser el menor de nuestros problemas. Claro que lo mismo puede decirse de todas las fotografías del antes, que parecen serenas sólo en retrospectiva. Entonces, mi irritación por el aire de superioridad moral con que él saltaba de la cama era bastante real. El tío se iba a dormir a las nueve y disfrutaba de sus ocho horas de sueño como una persona normal. ¿Qué tiene eso de abnegado?

Igual que con otras muchas de sus intimidatorias excentricidades, me negué a seguir ese programa y empecé a dormir hasta tarde. Yo también era mi propia jefa, y detestaba madrugar. La revuelta primera luz del día me recordaba el café de filtro aguado y recalentado en un calientaplatos. Irme a dormir a las nueve me habría hecho sentirme como un crío al que despachan a su habitación mientras los adultos se divierten, con la diferencia de que en mi caso los que se hubiesen divertido, y demasiado, habrían sido Tanner y Cody, dos adolescentes a los que no les apetecía nada adoptar el horario de falso campesino de su padre.

Así pues, tras recoger los platos de la tostada y el café, a la hora de comer yo nunca tenía hambre; aunque, tras la llamada telefónica que había recibido una hora antes, se me había ido el apetito por otras razones. No consigo recordar qué estábamos comiendo, pero es probable que fuese arroz integral con brécol; incluso con un puñado de variaciones poco interesantes, en esos días siempre era arroz integral con brécol.

Al principio no hablábamos. Cuando nos conocimos, siete años antes, la comodidad que nos hacía sentir el silencio mutuo había sido encantadora. Una de las cosas que hasta entonces me habían llevado a descartar el matrimonio era la perspectiva de que fuese una cháchara sin fin. Fletcher pensaba lo mismo, aunque la textura de su silencio no se parecía a la mía; era más grueso, más concentrado... Agitado, opaco. Y eso le confería un toque que encajaba agradablemente con el mío, más frío y homogéneo. Mi silencio emitía un zumbido caprichoso, aun cuando yo no zumbara. En términos culinarios, parecía una sopa fría y aguada. Más oscuro e inquietante, el de Fletcher se asemejaba más a una salsa de vino tinto. Él luchaba con los problemas; yo simplemente los solucionaba. Criaturas solitarias los dos, nunca hablábamos por hablar. Hacíamos buena pareja.

Sin embargo, ese mediodía el silencio fue una expresión de terror y dilación, y su textura, fangosa, la de mi desastroso pudin de agua de rosas. Ensayé varias veces la frase introductoria antes de anunciarle en voz alta:

–Esta mañana ha llamado Slack Muncie.

–¿Quién es Mack Muncie? –preguntó Fletcher, con aire distraído.

–Slack. Un saxofonista, de Nueva York. Lo he visto algunas veces. Bastante conocido, creo..., pero, como casi toda esa gente, tiene problemas para llegar a fin de mes. Se ve obligado a aceptar bolos en bodas y restaurantes, donde todo el mundo habla alto y la música no le interesa a nadie.

Un párrafo entero que podía considerarse exactamente ese «sacar un tema de conversación» que yo afirmaba evitar.

Fletcher levantó la vista con cautela.

–¿De qué lo conoces?

–Es uno de los más viejos amigos de Edison. Un auténtico incondicional.

–En ese caso –dijo Fletcher–, debe de ser un tipo muy paciente.

–Edison ha estado viviendo en su casa.

–Creía que tu hermano tenía un apartamento. Encima de su club de jazz.

Fletcher dijo «su club de jazz» en un tono teñido de escepticismo. No creía que Edison hubiese tenido nunca su propio club.

–Ya no. Slack no quiso decir mucho más, pero hay cierta... historia.

–Oh, claro, seguro que hay una historia. Pero no será cierta.

–A veces Edison exagera. Y exagerar no es lo mismo que mentir.

–Cierto. Y el «perla» no es el mismo color que el «marfil».

–Con Edison hay que aprender a traducir –dije.

–Lo que me parece es que está viviendo de la caridad de los amigos. ¿Qué te parece esta traducción?: tu hermano es un sin techo.

Para hablar de Edison, Fletcher solía decir «tu hermano», y mi oído lo descodificaba así: «tu problema».

–Más o menos –dije.

–Y está sin blanca.

–Edison ya ha tenido más de un bache. Entre una gira y otra.

–Entonces, a causa de una historia misteriosa y complicada, no pagar el alquiler, por ejemplo, ha perdido el apartamento y ahora pasa de un sofá a otro.

–Sí –dije, muerta de vergüenza–. Aunque parece que se está quedando sin sofás.

–¿Por qué ha llamado ese tal Slack y no tu hermano?

–Bueno, creo que Slack ha sido muy generoso a pesar de que vive en un apartamento pequeño, una habitación en la que también tiene que ensayar.

–Cariño, vamos, dilo de una vez. Di lo que no quieres contarme, sea lo que sea.

Yo me concentré en pillar con los dedos un cogollito de brécol, demasiado crudo para pincharlo con el tenedor.

–Dijo que no hay espacio suficiente para los dos. Que casi todos sus otros colegas ya no viven solos, o están casados y con niños, y que... Edison no tiene otro sitio adonde ir.

–Otro sitio, pero ¿dónde?

–Ahora tenemos un cuarto de huéspedes –dije, en tono de súplica–. No se usa nunca, salvo cuando viene Solstice una vez cada dos años. Y, bueno..., es mi hermano.

Hombre contenido, era raro ver a Fletcher irritado.

–Lo dices como si jugaras una baza.

–Quiere decir algo.

–Algo, pero no todo. ¿Por qué no puede ir a casa de Travis? ¿O de Solstice?

–Ya sabes que mi padre tiene un carácter imposible, y más de setenta años. Edison ya casi no vivía en casa cuando nació mi hermana. Solstice y él apenas se conocen.

–Tú tienes otras responsabilidades. Con Tanner, con Cody, conmigo –una pausa significativa–, con Baby Modorro. No puedes tomar una decisión así por decreto.

–Slack parecía estar al límite. Tenía que decirle algo.

–Lo que tenías que decirle –dijo Fletcher, sin alterarse– era: «Lo siento, pero tengo que consultarlo con mi marido.»

–Puede que yo ya supiera lo que ibas a decir.

–¿Y qué iba a decir?

Sonreí un instante.

–Algo como: «Por encima de mi cadáver.»

Sonrió un instante.

–No te equivocabas.

–Soy consciente de que en la última visita las cosas no fueron muy bien.

–No. No fueron bien.

–Parecíais mal predispuestos el uno con el otro.

–Nada de «parecíais». Lo estábamos.

–Si fuese cualquier otra persona, no te lo pediría, pero no lo es. Para mí sería muy importante que te esforzaras un poco más.

–No es cuestión de esforzarse. Una persona te cae bien o no te cae bien. Si hay que esforzarse, es que no te cae bien.

–Puedes ser un poco más tolerante. Con otros lo eres.

Me tomé un momento para reflexionar, y me dije que, en el caso de Fletcher, eso no siempre era cierto. Podía ser duro.

–¿Estás diciéndome que durante esta negociación nunca has hablado directamente con tu hermano? ¿Y que su amigo está tratando de quitárselo de encima sin que él se entere?

–Es posible que Edison esté avergonzado. No le gusta pedirle favores a su hermana pequeña.

–¡¿Pequeña?! Tienes cuarenta años.

Fletcher, hijo único, no entendía nada de hermanos, y hay que ver lo inamovible que es ese diferencial.

–Cariño, seguiré siendo su hermana pequeña cuando tenga noventa y cinco.

Fletcher metió la olla del arroz en el fregadero.

–Ahora tienes un poco de dinero, ¿no? Aunque nunca termino de saber bien cuánto. –No, y no lo sabría. Yo me lo guardaba para mí–. Pues envíale un cheque, lo suficiente para que pague la fianza de algún cuchitril y un par de meses de alquiler. Problema solucionado.

–Estás diciéndome que lo compre, que lo soborne para que no se acerque a nosotros.

–Bueno, aquí tampoco estaría muy bien. No puede decirse que en Iowa haya un «mundillo del jazz».

–En Iowa City hay locales.

–Numeritos de gente que pasa la gorra, y para un puñado de estudiantes que son unos bordes. No creo que sea eso lo que quiere el Señor Importante Pianista Internacional.

–Pero, según Slack, Edison no está... «en su mejor momento». Me ha dicho que necesita a alguien «que lo cuide», y que cree que su seguridad en sí mismo ha sufrido un duro golpe.

–La mejor noticia que he oído en todo el día.

–A mí el trabajo me va bien –dije, en voz baja–, y eso debería servir para algo. Para ser generosa. –Y estuve a punto de añadir: Generosa como he sido contigo y con dos críos que ahora son también mis hijos, pero no quise restregárselo por la cara.

–Lo que pasa es que así también ofreces la generosidad voluntaria del resto de esta familia.

–Ya lo sé.

Fletcher se apoyó en los dos cantos del fregadero.

–Lamento parecer insensible. Es tu hermano, y para ti esta situación debe de ser triste, me ponga a mí de los nervios o no. Que tu hermano atraviese esta mala racha, quiero decir.

–Sí, muy triste –dije, agradecida–. Edison siempre ha sido el más brillante. Que ande corto de dinero y abusando de la hospitalidad de sus amigos..., bueno, no me parece justo. Es como si el mundo entero estuviera patas arriba.

No iba a decírselo a Fletcher, pero Edison y Slack debían de haber partido peras, pues la urgencia del saxofonista había estado teñida de algo que yo sólo podía llamar cabreo.

–Pero... aunque decidiéramos que sí –dijo Fletcher–, y no lo hemos decidido, su visita no podría ser por tiempo indefinido.

–Tampoco puede ser condicional. –Si yo iba a pensar de esa manera, y preferí no hacerlo, había acumulado, en los dos años anteriores, la mayor parte del poder en la familia. Me disgustaba tener poder, y en circunstancias ordinarias más bien esperaba que, si no tenía que ejercerlo, ese peso desconcertante desaparecería. Sin embargo, por una vez esa novedosa situación mía me sirvió para algo–. ¿Decirle «sólo tres días» –dije–, o «sólo una semana»? No es nada gracioso, suena como si únicamente pudiéramos soportar su compañía durante un tiempo limitado.

–¿Y no es verdad? –repuso Fletcher, cortante, y dejó que me ocupase de los platos–. Me voy a dar una vuelta en bicicleta.

Por supuesto que se iba a dar una vuelta. Montaba en bicicleta horas enteras casi todos los días; mejor dicho, en una de sus bicicletas, pues tenía cuatro, que se disputaban con varias mesitas de centro sin vender el espacio limitado de un sótano que, cuando nos mudamos a esta casa, parecía una caverna. Ni él ni yo lo mencionábamos jamás, pero había sido yo quien le había comprado esas bicicletas. Técnicamente podría decirse que hacíamos fondo común, pero cuando una parte contribuye con el contenido de un frasquito de colirio y la otra con el lago Michigan, «fondo común» no parece el término apropiado.

Desde que mi marido había empezado a montar en bicicleta obsesivamente, yo ni siquiera me acercaba a mi mastodonte de diez marchas, que entonces ya acumulaba polvo y tenía las ruedas desinfladas. Cierto, había sido yo quien había elegido descuidarla de esa manera, pero no porque quisiera. Era como si Fletcher me hubiese robado la bicicleta. Si yo alguna vez la hubiera sacado del sótano, si hubiera engrasado la cadena y salido a la calle, despacio y sin alejarme mucho, se habría reído de mí. Y prefería evitarlo.

Cada vez que él salía a dar una vuelta en bicicleta, yo me irritaba. ¿Cómo podía Fletcher soportar semejante aburrimiento? Algunas tardes volvía a casa rezumando energía y satisfacción, un estado que le producía el haber mejorado su tiempo, por lo general en sólo unos segundos. Que tardase un segundo menos en repetir la misma ruta por los maizales hasta el río no tenía ninguna consecuencia para nadie. Fletcher tenía cuarenta y seis años, y el ordenador que llevaba en el manillar no tardaría en registrar simplemente la decepción que él mismo experimentaría. No me gustaba pensar que le reprochaba algo que era exclusivamente suyo, pero él tenía los muebles, una actividad que ya era bastante privada, y hacía esas salidas para librarse de mí.

Esa irritación me hacía sentirme tan culpable que llegaba al extremo de disimularla, y me forzaba a sugerir que fuera a dar una vuelta en bici para quitarse de encima cierta frustración con Tanner, «pues la bici hace que uno se sienta mucho mejor». Sin embargo, un falsete demasiado cantarín delataba mi doblez, y lo que más me confundía era que a él le gustaba que sus paseos me irritasen.

Estaba claro que yo era una mala esposa. Esas excursiones aeróbicas le alargarían la vida. Después de que Cleo, su ex, se hundiera de esa manera tan singular, Fletcher se había vuelto un ser cada vez más consumido por el control, y comparadas con las demás obsesiones, la bicicleta era inofensiva. Entre el ejercicio y la dieta estricta, mi marido había perdido el diminuto michelín en la cintura que había achacado a mi puré de patatas y mis magdalenas. Sin embargo, a mí ese rollito me había gustado, ya que, en un sentido más amplio, había hecho de él un hombre menos duro. A la vez que pedía perdón, ese ligero exceso también parecía concederlo.

Yo también necesitaba un poco de perdón, para qué negarlo. Durante los tres años anteriores debí de engordar unos nueve kilos (odiaba subirme a una balanza y enfrentarme a la cifra exacta). Mientras me ocupaba de Breadbasket, estaba bastante delgada. Por alguna razón, en el ramo del cátering la comida se vuelve repulsiva; una caja de queso para untar no se distingue de un montón de yeso, pero en mi siguiente empresa los mexicanos que tenía contratados no paraban de llevar al trabajo bandejas repletas de tamales y enchiladas. Antes cocinaba de pie; ahora trabajo sentada en un despacho. Así pues, había llegado a desperdiciar un porcentaje asombroso de mi tiempo mental haciendo promesas hueras, como comer una sola vez al día o aplicarme un castigo inútil por haberme zampado un pimiento relleno de más en el almuerzo. No me cabe duda de que a cierto nivel inconsciente, de alta frecuencia, había gente que oía el chirrido de la humillante rueda del hámster que no paraba de dar vueltas en mi cabeza, un agudo penetrante que salía de todas las demás mujeres con las que me cruzaba en los pasillos de los supermercados. En el Hy-Vee, para ser exacta.

No era justo, pero yo culpaba a Fletcher por esos nueve kilos. Puede que fuese una mujer discreta que se mantenía al margen, pero eso no quiere decir que fuera una incauta. Era, más bien, esa clase de persona a la que se la podía amenazar con el dedo y desaprobar chasqueando la lengua y no decía nada, que cedía a toda clase de intimidaciones mientras parecía aceptarlo todo como un buen campista. Y la gente se marchaba pensando: Sí, señor, eso le enseñará, y después yo desaparecía y me dedicaba alegremente a hacer lo que acababan de decirme que no hiciera.

Ese lado desafiante me había traicionado cuando empecé a picotear deliberadamente entre comidas, y básicamente cosas que Fletcher había eliminado de la lista. (Repudiar el queso fue mortal. Un día después de que me lo anunciase, volví del supermercado con medio queso brie.) Que Fletcher desdeñara los mismos platos que lo habían embobado cuando éramos novios y en los primeros años de casados –tarta de plátano, la pizza casera bien gruesa– hirió mis sentimientos. No debería haber mezclado amor y comida, pero ése es un error que las mujeres hemos cometido durante siglos, así que ¿por qué iba yo a ser diferente? También echaba de menos cocinar, una actividad que me resultaba terapéutica; de ahí que de vez en cuando hiciera una tarta de coco, que Fletcher boicoteaba, y que hasta los niños evitaban cuando el padre los vigilaba con el ceño fruncido. Pero, bueno, alguien tenía que comerse esa tarta, ¿no? La pobre me daba pena, y las consecuencias serían funestas.

Al menos conseguimos alcanzar un compromiso ritual. De cada dulce que entraba de contrabando, yo me permitía probar un bocadito, nada más, un caprichito, y lo decoraba con una pizca de nata montada, unas hojitas de menta y un par de frambuesas superfrescas, y después lo servía en una gran fuente de porcelana para postres con un tenedor reluciente de plata. La dejaba en el centro de la isla de la cocina como hacen los niños cuando ponen las galletas para Santa Claus. Después me hacía humo. Fletcher nunca picaba cuando yo lo miraba; con todo, que en menos de una hora desaparecieran esas muestras ilícitas de lo que entonces mi marido consideraba «tóxico», para mí significaba algo que soy incapaz de expresar con palabras.

En sentido estricto, y como nazi de la nutrición, Fletcher se había vuelto más atractivo, pero también me había atraído antes. Además, sus aristas eran ahora más pronunciadas. Tenía la frente alta y la cara ovalada y alargada; con el pelo cortado hasta el punto de que parecía un tojo, para disimular al máximo la calvicie, la cabeza parecía una bala. La nariz, larga y robusta, de perfil parecía esa √ con que se indica que se ha comprobado algo, y las gafas de fina montura metálica le daban una angulosidad profesoral. Cierto aire estricto y censurador había penetrado la geometría triangular de los hombros anchos y la cintura, ahora estrecha, de modo que el mero hecho de estar en su presencia hacía que me sintiera como si me reprendiera por algo.

Mientras recogía los platos, me molestó que no se hubiera quedado a limpiar la cocina, cosa nada típica de él. Por lo general, despachábamos esa labor con la fluidez propia de la natación sincronizada. Todo lo hacíamos mejor si trabajábamos codo con codo –ninguno de los dos entendía ese cuento del «tiempo libre», y tampoco nos hacía pizca de gracia–, y mis recuerdos más queridos tenían que ver precisamente con esos simulacros de limpieza a fondo. Cuando empezamos a salir, las noches que yo servía un gran bufé, Fletcher metía a Tanner y a Cody en sacos de dormir en el suelo de mi sala de estar para poder ayudar en la cocina. (La primera vez que lo vi sacudirse las manos en el fregadero –poniendo los dedos hacia abajo y haciendo splat splat, un movimiento instintivo y apenas perceptible que garantiza que uno no salpicará de agua todo el suelo cuando vaya a secarse las manos con el paño de cocina–, supe que ése sería el hombre con el que me casaría.) Fletcher limpiaba la encimera, guardaba con cuidado las sobras en recipientes herméticos, enjuagaba enormes boles de mezcla para tartas y nunca se quejaba, nunca había que decirle lo que tenía que hacer. Sólo paraba para acercarse a mí por detrás mientras yo sacaba del lavaplatos otra tanda de vasos todavía calientes, y me besaba en la nuca. Lo crean o no, esos episodios de fregoteo con los delantales manchados eran románticos, mucho mejores que el champán y la luz de las velas.

Si tenía presentes esos recuerdos, difícilmente podía reñirle porque llenase de agua jabonosa la vaporera del brécol tras una comida para dos. Repasé nuestra conversación. Podría haber sido peor. En efecto, Fletcher podría haber advertido: «Por encima de mi cadáver.» Yo lo había dicho maliciosamente por él. En ningún momento pregunté directamente: «¿Te parece bien que mi hermano se instale un tiempo en nuestra casa?» Y él nunca dijo ni sí ni no.

En nuestra casa. Era nuestra casa, por supuesto.

Yo, que había vivido de alquiler casi toda la vida, todavía no me había quitado de encima la impresión que me producía el hecho de que esa casa de Solomon Drive no fuese de otro; la mantenía escrupulosamente limpia como si los verdaderos propietarios pudiesen llegar en cualquier momento sin avisar. Era una casa más grande de lo necesario, y la plétora de alacenas de la cocina invitaba a comprar máquinas para pasta y para hacer pan que sólo usaríamos una vez. Merecedor de la despectiva etiqueta McMansion, nuestro nuevo hogar había sido una reacción exagerada a la parálisis que caracterizó la época que Fletcher vivió de alquiler, uno de esos refugios «temporales» que los hombres se buscan después del divorcio y del que no se van nunca a menos que lo pise una nueva mujer. Poder comprar una casa, así, de pronto, y en efectivo, me había hecho enrojecer del respeto que imponía, y en cierto modo podría decir que la compré sencillamente porque podía.

También había querido encontrar un espacio para que Fletcher trabajase. Los muebles eran su pasión; así pues, lo que hice fue comprarle su pasión. Ingenua en todo lo que tiene que ver con el dinero, no podía saber de antemano lo mucho que iba a molestarse conmigo precisamente por eso.

En los primeros tiempos de nuestro matrimonio, Fletcher había trabajado para una empresa agrícola que fabricaba semillas modificadas genéticamente. Yo tenía muchas ganas de que dejara ese trabajo porque él no era un vendedor nato –no por aversión ecologista a enredar con la naturaleza ni por indignación política ante una América empresarial que quería patentar lo que una vez había estado allí literalmente para todo el mundo–. La verdad es que no tenía muchas opiniones; no les veía el sentido. Aunque me opusiera a la producción de maíz sin germinar y resistente a las enfermedades, la nueva «variedad» seguiría vendiéndose igual. Para mí, la mayoría de las convicciones eran mero entretenimiento, y cultivarlas una vanidad; por eso es raro que lea la prensa. Que me entere de un asesinato en el Líbano no devolverá la vida a la víctima, y dado que el efecto principal de la noticia consistía en agudizar la sensación de impotencia, me sorprendía que se le prestase tanta atención. La negativa a forjarme puntos de vista para el consumo social me convertía en una persona aburrida, pero me encantaba ser aburrida. No ser interesante para nadie siempre había sido mi objetivo.

Tampoco McMansion, un cubo neocolonial, tenía carácter. Era de construcción reciente, con suelos de madera de arce sin un solo rasguño. Yo adoraba ese espacio en blanco y sin historia. Las tomas de la electricidad estaban perfectamente instaladas, y todo funcionaba. Yo nunca había cultivado mi carácter, salvo en el sentido de no ser dada a sisar en las tiendas o engañar a mi marido. Edison era el que quería que lo llamasen «un verdadero carácter», y podía tenerlo. Yo, en cambio, disfrutaba del anonimato, y ya entonces odiaba con todas mis fuerzas que el brillo de un reflector público no deseado me hubiese convertido en alguien aparte para los demás. (Por Dios, pensaría cualquiera tras haberme enterrado yo misma y a propósito en el centro del país, lo último que podía esperar era pasar inadvertida.) Yo tenía historia más que suficiente, y, con la única excepción de Edison, mi instinto me decía que, en todo lo tocante al pasado, lo mejor era correr el telón.

La casa, enorme y lobotomizada, era el fondo perfecto y neutral contra el que el trabajo artesanal de mi marido había reemplazado los accesorios de grandes almacenes que habían poblado todos nuestros hogares anteriores juntos. (Esa suma de fuerzas domésticas representó la primera vez en la vida en que alguien me ayudó a mudarme. Con una eficiencia que sólo cabe calificar de despiadada, Fletcher era capaz de meter en cajas una habitación entera en una sola tarde, algo incluso más romántico que limpiar los restos difíciles del robot de cocina.) Sus creaciones eran tan vivas que, siempre que yo entraba en la sala, el mueble en cuestión daba la impresión de haber estado pastando en las alfombras momentos antes. Los cantos posteriores se curvaban como la cornamenta de un venado, las patas arqueadas brincaban sobre pies tallados, el sofá parecía estar sujeto con unos cojines sin los que esa criatura asustadiza podría haber salido a medio galope por la puerta.

Aunque a Fletcher le gustaba creer que su trabajo mejoraba por momentos, mi mueble preferido era uno de los primeros que hizo. Lo llamábamos el Bumerán. El cojín de cuero rojo era ovalado. La madera que formaba los brazos contiguos y el respaldo se inclinaba hacia arriba a la derecha y después formaba un arco hacia abajo, a la izquierda, hasta que el extremo opuesto del brazo izquierdo rozaba el suelo. Parecía que alguien hubiese lanzado ese sillón por el aire. Las tablillas que soportaban la gran línea trasera ascendente también eran curvas: ébano de Macasar laminado, palisandro y arce que Fletcher había dejado en remojo una semana entera para que adquiriesen esas formas curvas. El Bumerán era una especie de amuleto. La mayor parte de las personas que han perfeccionado una habilidad pueden aferrarse a una piedra de toque parecida, prueba temprana de que tienen lo que hay que tener, el objeto al que siempre pueden remitirse cuando un empeño parece irse a pique: ¿Ves? Si puedes hacer eso, puedes hacer cualquier cosa. Yo, en cambio, no tenía nada equivalente, y no lo tenía porque el producto no me importaba. Lo que me gustaba era el proceso. Fuese tarta de mermelada o las cosas absurdas que vendía en esa época, para mí el resultado era pura paja en el preciso instante en que lo terminaba. Terminar un proyecto era algo absolutamente espantoso.

Terminé de rascar la capa beige de la olla del arroz y miré por la ventana que da a la calle. Había empezado a llover, pero no sería la lluvia la que conseguiría que el intrépido de mi marido volviese a casa. A salvo en mi soledad, subí sigilosamente a mi despacho y reservé un billete de La Guardia a Cedar Rapids; escogí al azar una fecha de vuelta que siempre podíamos cambiar. Extendí un talón por quinientos dólares y en la esquina inferior izquierda garabateé «para imprevistos». Metí en un sobre el talón y el billete electrónico impreso, decidí enviarlo por Federal Express a Edison Appaloosa, c/o la dirección que Slack me había dictado esa mañana, y ordené que pasaran a recogerlo y lo cargasen en mi cuenta.

Que dos años antes hubiese comprado la casa con los ingresos de mi precaria empresa podría haber significado que tenía «derecho» a instalar a mi hermano en el cuarto de huéspedes sin pedir permiso; pero hacer valer una superioridad fiscal me parecía vulgar y antidemocrático. En esa casa vivían tres Feuerbach, y sólo una Halfdanarson.

Lo que me incitaba a no tener consideración por la oposición de Fletcher era otra cosa. Por lo general, yo no era rehén de mi familia. En algún momento descubriría lo profundo que era el vínculo que seguía uniéndome a mi padre, pero para eso tendría que esperar hasta su muerte, y no fue un descubrimiento precisamente agradable; mientras tanto, era libre de decir que mi padre era insoportable. Mi hermana Solstice era más joven que yo, lo bastante para que pudiera ser su tía, y si venía a Iowa a visitarme algún que otro verano era sólo porque ella insistía. (Solstice había crecido en los restos fracturados de una familia fallida formada por chalados y a la que había intentado una y otra vez ponerle una etiqueta más atractiva. Por tanto, mi hermana era la única que compraba regalos, que enviaba postales y me visitaba con una regularidad tal que sólo podía indicar una cosa: disciplina.) Magnolia, mi encantadora madre, murió cuando yo tenía trece años. Mis cuatro abuelos también habían fallecido. Solitaria hasta que conocí a Fletcher, no había sido yo quien había parido a mis hijos.

Edison era mi familia, el único pariente de sangre al que quería abiertamente, un afecto que destilaba toda la lealtad que la mayoría de la gente disuelve en un clan más grande hasta que queda convertida en una devoción con la intensidad del tamarindo. Y había sido de Edison de quien había aprendido a ser leal; por tanto, de él manaban todas las demás lealtades, y los beneficiarios de esa capacidad de aferrarse con fuerza a alguien eran Fletcher y los niños. Es posible que hubiese sido ambivalente respecto del pasado que compartíamos, pero sólo lo compartíamos Edison y yo. Si he de ser franca, no vacilé un instante cuando Slack Muncie me llamó por la mañana. Fletcher tenía razón, era una baza. Edison era mi hermano, y la discusión podría haber terminado en ese momento.

2

–A las cinco voy a buscar al tío al aeropuerto. –Las pecanas olían ya a tostadas, y saqué la tarta del horno–. No faltéis a la cena.

–Tiastro –me corrigió Tanner, que estaba junto a la encimera de la cocina recogiendo del suelo

Comentarios para Big Brother

[shetreadssoftly · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Big Brother by Lionel Shriver again focuses on today's current headlines/obsessions. This time it is a family's destructive relationship with food. Pandora was a caterer. Now married to Fletcher, she cooks to show love. Her brother, Edison, is using food to ease his pain and has gained hundreds of pounds."

Pandora is also a successful owner of a start-up business and even while she downplays her accomplishments, they are truly remarkable. Her husband, Fletcher, has become a health-consumed food Nazi and compulsive exercise junkie who makes handmade furniture in their basement, most of which he is unable to sell. Adding to this already potentially stressful marital situation are Fletcher's two teenagers and a visit from Pandora's now morbidly obese brother, Edison. Even while Pandora is cracking under the strict disciplines her husband wants to live under, she views Edison's life without rules as a cry for help.

While the subject matter may make people squirm and look over their shoulder in the mirror or jump on that scale one more time, the issues Shriver raises and brings to our attention in this intelligent, very timely novel are worth the price some of us might pay in discomfort.

I've lived with a food Nazi and the rules they want to impose on everyone around them is simply a way for them to strive to control other people. It doesn't work and will always cause dissension in the ranks. On the other hand, Edison's incredible girth is undeniably unhealthy. But the real question is can you truly help your family by trying to control them or their behavior even if you are doing it for all the right reasons? And beyond that can anyone control the behavior of others?
Shriver wrote an article about body image: Warning: I Will Employ the Word 'Fat

"A complex, conflicted relationship to the body isn’t the exclusive preserve of the overweight. To a modest extent, we can control its contours and influence its functionality, but in the main the body is a card we’ve been arbitrarily dealt. Looking in the mirror, we both recognize ourselves and don’t. Are we what we see? What unpleasant surprises about our true natures will emerge when the body falters from illness, age, or accident? Whatever our sizes, in time the body will betray us all. Thus it’s in everyone’s interest to maintain a sharp distinction between, as my narrator in Big Brother puts it, “the who” and “the what.” "

Yet, again, Shriver's use of language leaves me humbled and admiring. She always uses the exact word to say or describe her scenes or characters. Have you ever, like me, muttered while writing, "No, that's not the word I want - it's like that word but that's not it..."and struggled trying to get the exact word you are searching for untangled from your mind? Lionel Shriver is an incredibly gifted wordsmith. Add that talent to her story telling ability and it leaves me in awe. This may not have been my all-time favorite Lionel Shriver novel, but it is most certainly very highly recommended.

Disclosure:I received my advanced reading copy from the publisher and TLC for review purposes.

[laine4cunningham · Calificación: 2 de 5 estrellas]

I feel cheated.
There was a feeling all along that this novel was written in too-journalistic a way. That is, it felt more like nonfiction, a memoir, than fiction. There were moments when Shriver hit her usual stride with the prose and I kept reading in part hoping there would be more of that.
I would have given this book 3 stars if that was the only issue. There was quite a bit of unique, thought-provoking material she mentioned in here...the twisted relationship between siblings that can come when they live together as adults, the desire to leave a marriage yet not divorce, and other subtle threads. But she left most of those undeveloped.
I wonder if she left them undeveloped because of how she handled the time when the two lived together. The fact that SPOILER ALERT the middle portion never happened would explain some of this style choice. But in the end, when it turned out that the middle part never happened, I was more than disappointed. I felt cheated out of the time I'd spent reading. It feels like an easy way out for the story.
I wanted to like this book because I was so impressed with Kevin. But this one fell flat in a very disappointing way.

[suetu_1 · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

High-concept and high-calorieI’m a sucker for novels with high-concept hooks. I can summarize Lionel Shriver’s latest in just a few sentences. Pandora Halfdanarson, a married, mid-western entrepreneur, hasn’t seen her older brother in four years. Edison is a successful jazz pianist out of New York, and this is the longest they’ve ever been apart. A friend of his calls her, indicating that Edison’s fallen on hard times, and she invites him to come stay for a visit. At the airport, she fails to recognize him—in the time they’ve been separated, her brother has gained several hundred pounds!That premise was all I needed to hear. Much like the eponymous brother, I gulped this treat down whole—and enjoyed it thoroughly! I don’t feel a large need to summarize the plot further. Is there any more you really need to know? Here’s what’s awesome about the novel: with a premise like that, there were only a few outcomes to the tale that I could readily envisage. Ms. Shriver managed to truly surprise me.This is, I think, the fourth novel dealing with morbid obesity that I’ve read in the past year or two. (For those who are interested, the others were The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg, Bed by David Whitehouse, and Heft by Liz Moore, all of which are different, and all of which are recommended.) It’s sort of fascinating to see this cultural preoccupation at last seeping into our literature. I only wonder that it took so long.Ms. Shriver first came to my attention years ago with the publication of the uber-intense We Need to Talk about Kevin. In the years since, I’ve been delighted to see that she likes to change things up. Her last novel, The New Republic, was a satire, for goodness sake! Big Brother doesn’t really remind me of any of her earlier works, except that she always seems to be drawn to a certain darkness. That said, this is really not a dark novel. Honestly, I’m not sure how to describe it as far as tone or genre, other than to say it’s a family drama, not merely about these adult siblings (and their relationship with their father), but also very much about the relationship between each sibling and Pandora’s husband and teenage stepchildren. With Ms. Shriver, it goes without saying that you can expect lovely prose and exactingly-drawn characters. This tale moved quickly! I read it easily in a day. It’s a compelling story, and hard to put down. It’s like an episode of Dr. Phil you know you should turn off, but you just can’t look away. Edison is both sympathetic and deeply repulsive. More than anything, however, I come back to the novel’s ending. I imagine it being polarizing, but I found it inspired. While I have not read them all, this is my favorite of Ms. Shriver’s novels to date.

[nomadreader_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

The backstory: Lionel Shriver is an author whose work I've enjoyed immensely in the past. After raving about So Much For That (I gave it 5 stars), I also enjoyed We Need to Talk About Kevin (I gave it 4.5 stars) and The New Republic (I gave it 4 stars.) I'm utterly fascinated with both her work and her as a person, because her books and characters are so distinct.The basics: Big Brother is the story of Pandora, who grew up in Los Angeles with a father who starred on a popular 1970's family sitcom with parallels to her life. She now lives in Iowa with her husband Fletcher, a health nut, and his two children. When her brother Edison, an accomplished jazz pianist, arrives for a visit, Pandora cannot believe how obese her brother has become.My thoughts: I didn't realize this novel is set in Iowa until I began reading it, and it was a treat. From the point of view of this Iowa transplant, Shriver nailed the details, the positive and the negative, of everyday life in Iowa. Pandora, too, is a fascinating character. Life so many Shriver narrators, she is somewhat brash, refreshingly honest and insightful, and beautifully formed. I did, however, chuckle at her use of the phrase "But, to my horror," because I could imagine almost any Shriver character using that phrase, despite their differences. What Shriver characters also tend to have in common is a clear view of both the world and themselves.In addition to the fascinating character of Pandora, a woman I'm not sure I would actually want to be friends with, but one who fascinates me, is the powerful theme of family and obligation. As a stepmother and wife, Pandora in some ways feels she owes her brother more than her husband and his family:"He's a sponger you're related to by accident. I'm your husband by choice. If you 'love' that loudmouth it's a kneejerk genetic thing; I'm supposed to be the real love of your life."This tension is palpable throughout the novel, and it's one I keep coming back to. In most cases, of course, it's not a choice. Your 'chosen' family and the family you were born with can peacefully coexist. But how does it feel to have to choose, on some level, between the two? Shriver explores these ideas beautifully through Pandora, Edison and Fletcher. Each character's perspective makes sense, and their conflicting thoughts and feelings are beautifully realized.Yet as fascinated as I was with these characters, they never seemed quite real to me. As I read, I got caught up in the ideas more than the stories themselves. I couldn't shake the sense that Shriver had an agenda and is more interested in making her readers think than in telling a story. I'm not opposed to either, but this novel often felt more like an exercise in thinking than a captivating story. Shriver's writing and observations are often profound and challenging, but I can't quite shake the feelings of being somewhat manipulated as I read.Favorite passage: "If I held few opinions, I did cling to a handful--like the view that facts are not the same as beliefs, and that most people get them confused."The verdict: I appreciated Big Brother more once I finished it. Is it an accomplished, intelligent, thoughtful novel? Absolutely. Is it one I will continue to think of and ponder? Yes. Was it a novel I loved while reading? Not always. Ultimately, it's a novel I appreciate and respect far more than I enjoyed it.

[toobusyreading · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Pandora's big brother, jazz musician Edison, is unrepentantly fat when he comes to stay with her because he has no where else to go. Pandora's husband is obsessively and stridently health conscious.You can tell from just that there will be much conflict, but how much will Pandora do to help and how much is she willing sacrifice to be peacemaker? Only she can make that decision.This story is about family dynamics gone desperately awry, about the obesity problem now being called an epidemic in the U.S. Pandora, who claims to never want the spotlight, has become successful by selling dolls that insult those they are given to, passive-aggression flaunting itself as humor, supporting the less financially successful and therefore resentful members of her family.That should give you a clue to the dynamics of this book.The writing, for the most part, was wonderful. Pandora and Edison's father is a washed-up TV star from a mostly forgotten series that was more real to him than his real life. The book included a good-sized chunk of explanation about the show, and I got bored with that, but otherwise, the book was entertaining and thought-provoking. The ending was not what I expected, but I wasn't disappointed in the turn that the book took.I think I've read only one other book by this author, So Much For That, and I didn't love it. I decided to read this one only because the subject sounded so intriguing, and now I'm going to have to try more of her books. This one exceeded my expectations.I was given an advance copy of this book for review, for which I am grateful.

[beamis12 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I was a little disappointed in this book. I know that the author lost her brother due to weight issues and this book is definitely about us and our weird relationship with food. It was told in the first person, which is always a bit tricky, but this allowed the narrator and chance to. I almost felt lectured, on all and sundry having to do with weight and food. Also the narrator's father in the book had been a TV movie star back in the day and we are treated to further diatribes on this. The main story was okay, family members and what we owe them, how to keep our own family content while dealing with a very large brother who is a house guest, but once again how this is resolved seemed a bit unbelievable. There are some good parts here and there about what food means to different people and how often food is used as a weapon or a crutch, but for me this wasn't enough. I also did not really like any of the characters with the exception of Cody, the young girl who is kind and tries to keep everyone together. Other readers may find what I did not interesting but for me, I just expected more.

[ellencam · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Spoiler alert: Maybe a little one coming up.....I really don't know how to write a helpful review about this book. I finished it ten minutes ago, and can't even decide how to rate it. I will start with what I liked; The writing was excellent, I thought. I had never read anything from this author, and thought her storytelling was superb. I eagerly anticipated getting back into the book every evening. I am not a person who will continue to read if a book is not entertaining me, so just getting to the end will tell you the book had something going for it.As for what I did not like; The characters, all except Cody the stepdaughter, were beyond annoying. The "big brother" with the massive weight problem was SO aggravating, referring to people as "cats" and putting, "dig?" at the end of every other sentence. His ridiculous overeating greatly exaggerated the actual journey to obesity, I thought. I don't think most people shovel down boxes of confectioner's sugar and wolf down all sorts of fattening foods as if they had been starving. It just seemed so exaggerated. The husband and his obsessive running and dieting was just as bad. The "Wait a minute. Did I really tell you that story?" ending seemed so contrived.I'm just not sure what the author was trying to say. I might have been expecting more as I had seen this book featured in People Magazine a couple of months ago and looked forward to a good read. Would I recommend this to anyone? No, I really would not. I do, however, appreciate the fact that the author sent it to me as I had won the book in the Giveaways program, and I plan on reading one of her other books because I have heard very good things about them.

[smileydq · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Fans of Lionel Shriver will not be disappointed with this new novel, which I am absolutely placing at the top of my 2013 list (at least for now, who knows what gems are still to come?) As always, Shriver has crafted a detailed and complex narrative about family dynamics, love, loyalty, and the question of how to gauge what one person might 'owe' another, especially a blood relation. This is a story about fat as a social issue, a personal battle, and a family tragedy.A quick plot summary would do this book and its readers an injustice - suffice it to say that 'Big Brother' has something for every kind of reader: sibling rivalry, fame, television, parental dysfunction, spousal competition, and food, glorious food. Shriver's characters are not always likable, or lovable, but they are strikingly real and sometimes painfully human. She writes witty dialogue and vocabulary-heavy descriptions that immerse the reader in the lives and minds of the characters; even the lesser characters are given brief moments to shine.To anyone who has ever felt out of control in the face of someone else's struggle, or struggled themselves to reach out to someone else while maintaining a fragile hold on his or her own life, this book is a must-read. I highly recommend 'Big Brother', it's deserving of more than five stars!

[justmelissa_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

First, the good: Lionel Shriver has a gift with words. I highlighted a handful of passages in this book because they were so well written; at turns, evocative, lyrical, clever, lighthearted or funny . Early on in my reading I turned to my husband and said "I'm not even 50 pages in and already she's used "folderol" and "foofaraw" - this is my kind of book!" I thought the pacing was swift - despite pausing to savor my favorite sentences, this was still a quick read. Without giving anything away, Shriver uses an unusual technique near the end of the book that would be hard to pull off, but somehow seems perfect for these characters. The bad: Almost to the one, these people are making bad choices. Not just ones that might lead to undesired outcomes, but one that hurt themselves and each other. Their motivations are often selfish, their solutions are damaging, their emotional maturity is low. Seriously, whatever they're doing, they're doing wrong! Among them, they are co-dependent, uncommunicative, bullying, self-righteous, narcissistic, unproductive, hubristic, passive-aggressive, and fat. And the whole thrust of the book is this: we must fix the fat man. Being fat is a moral flaw, a wrong that must be made right at all costs. I wanted to shake all of them - fine, fix the fat man, but also? Fix yourselves! Final verdict: Although I hated these people, I think Big Brother would make a great book club book. There is a lot to discuss & debate about the writing craft choices Shriver made AND the subject matter and characters give readers plenty to sink their teeth into. And an addendum. I first gave this book a 1 1/2 star rating. I thought I really hated it. Then I started writing the review. The more I wrote, the higher the rating got until I finally settled on four stars. I figure any book that inspires me to write a spontaneous review and pisses me off so much, is probably pretty darn good after all. I'd much rather read a book that invokes a passionate response than one that simply entertains. Well played, Ms Shriver.

[detailmuse · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Food is by nature elusive. More concept than substance, [...] food is the idea of satisfaction, far more powerful than satisfaction itself.Forty-year-old Pandora Halfdanarson is a business entrepreneur, a wife and step-mother, middle child of ‘70s sitcom star Travis Appaloosa ... and younger sister to New York jazz pianist Edison, whose life has collapsed to rock-bottom under the ~400-pound weight of obesity. When Edison’s last friend kicks him out, Pandora welcomes him to her home in Iowa, and Shriver begins an exploration of obesity and family, particularly marriage and sibling relationships.I read Shriver’s We Need to Talk About Kevin and found it riveting. It was about outward-facing violence -- the evolution of a school shooter -- whereas here the look is inward -- the evolution of self-destructive habits. The novels feel remarkably similar in terms of characters (including angry unlikeables) and especially in style -- the ruminative narrative here could turn into the epistolary narrative of Kevin with only the addition of, “Dear...” to begin each chapter. But just as there’s more drama with extroverts than introverts, and with violence to others vs. lack of self-care, so this novel is quieter. Boring even came to mind over the first half, which is mostly set-up. Yet the pages fly ... to an ending that’sperhaps better than the whole book.Edison['s] my family, the sole blood relative whom I clearly and cleanly love. This one attachment distilled all the loyalty that most people dilute across a larger clan into a devotion with the intensity of tamarind.The sibling relationship and obesity are fresh aspects in this novel, and good reasons to consider reading it.(Review based on an advance reading copy provided by the publisher.)

[daniellnic · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Shriver also has a way of playing with readers in a major way, particularly with her endings. You’ll either be angry, disbelieving, inspired or gradually resigned to the way she chooses to bring closure to her novels. Pandora wraps up her story in a way that isn’t entirely satisfactory, but not unexpected if you’ve read any of Shriver’s previous novels. The groundwork is laid for the ending but it has a “fool me once, shame on you…” type feeling. We Need To Talk About Kevin sparked much discussion on whether it’s ending was a gimmick (and whether or not it was a successful one), and Big Brother certainly comes up the the line and kisses it. I would have been more upset with it had I not already come to think of Shriver’s works more as astute observations of social issues masquerading as novels. Big Brother seemed less plausible as a novel than some of her other work. It felt like reading an “issues” book, a screed on obesity.

Nevertheless Big Brother is a compelling, thought provoking read, and it characters are well drawn, if annoying. Many theories and perspectives compete for the readers attention - to be agreed with and disavowed, to be ashamed of and accepted, sometimes within the same paragraph. Never for the faint of heart, Shriver’s latest effort is both haunting and sad. Though I have many reservations, it’s hard not to recommend Big Brother for consideration especially for those looking for something of relevance and worthy of discussion.

[karieh_2 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

“Big Brother” takes a multi-faceted approach to one of the most emotional and personal aspects of many people’s lives – their relationship with their body and as an extension – their relationship with food. How we appear to other people is such a part of how we feel about ourselves and how others perceive who we are. Gender and race are things we cannot change. Our bodies – our actual size – is something we can change. The reasons for doing so – or not doing so – and how others react to us – are numerous and very deep.The main character of “Big Brother” – Pandora (interesting choice) is confronted with the need to deal with all of these subjects when her older brother Edison comes for a visit and she finds that he is not the man she had expected. He has nearly tripled in size from when she last saw him. “I took my coffee to the stove and put an arm around his shoulders. It shocked me that it took a small but detectable overcoming of revulsion to touch my own sibling.” During his visit, she learns a great deal about herself and about the relationship she thought she had with her brother. “Clearly, my brother had neither read my interviews nor looked at my website. I wondered if I felt hurt. I marveled that I didn’t seem to. Instead I felt an increment sorrier for Edison. If I felt any sorrier for Edison, I would faint.” “I was the middle child, the stepmother, until recently the mere caterer of other people’s grand occasions. Well before sharing a rare center stage in my long-in-coming marriage, I’d grown accustomed to feeling ancillary – a bit off to the side, an afterthought. This was my first intimation of what it might feel like to be too important.”And then the visit changes. Pandora decides to take on a challenge – and to completely change her life and those of all of her family members. In the midst of this challenge, some of her insights/thoughts on weight, losing weight, body image, and self-worth…are fascinating. “Ever since Edison gave me cause to, I’ve made a study of this: the hierarchy of apprehensions when laying eyes on another person. Once a form emerges from the distance that is clearly a human and not a lamppost, we now log (1) gender, (2) size. This order of recognitions may be universal in my part of the world, though I do not believe “size” has always been number two. Yet these days I am apt to register that a figure is slight or fat even before I pick up a nanosecond later that they are white, Hispanic or black.” “I believed – and could not understand why I believed this, since I didn’t believe it – that the number on the dial was a verdict on my very character. It appraised whether I was strong, whether I was self-possessed, whether I was someone anyone else would conceivably wish to be.” While I am not quite sure how I feel about the plot device that is used near the end of the book – I could certainly appreciate how Shriver so often cuts right to the quick in describing feelings about food and weight that many, if not all of us, have had. When Pandora tries to start eating solid food again after a long time on a liquid diet - “I felt exiled, ejected from Eden, an eternally pristine garden where Eve is forever unsullied by eating the apple because she doesn’t eat anything. From the first book of the Bible, food correlates with evil, and I felt contaminated. Demoted to one more schlub who has to decide whether to have a second cookie, I wasn’t special anymore.” “…weight loss made for a pretty shabby religion, if only because for faithful adherents it had a sell-by date; you could only continue to worship at the altar of comestible restraint if you chronically failed your vows.”Food isn’t something any person can quit. It’s one of the toughest addictions to deal with because of that. There is no going cold turkey on food. We all have to eat – we do all eat…and how we think of ourselves and how others think of us is complex, emotional, irrational and highly charged. This book brings that truth to the fore.

[pattylouise_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Big BrotherbyLionel ShriverMy" in a nutshell" summary.Basically it's this...a sister goes overboard to help her obese brother lose weight...or does she?My thoughts after reading this book...Oh my...I loved Lionel Shriver's book...We Need To Talk About Kevin. With that thought in mind I was so anxious to hit this book. Edison...Pandora's brother...is clearly obese. If that is not uncomfortable enough...he is also clearly obnoxious. He doesn't have a home, any money, and he appears to be running out of friends. He comes to Pandora and irritates everyone. Sigh! He even irritated me! He seems to have taken over the house. He is the kind of person that in reality would be intolerable. He takes over the kitchen, cooks gigantic amounts of unhealthy fatty foods and again...irritates everyone.Pretty much this book is sort of two books in one...the first part is all about being fat and the second part is all about what Pandora does to help her brother lose weight.What I loved about this book...I am not sure that I really loved anything about this book...seriously. I am sad to say that but it's what I feel. What I did not love...I don't think I was a good fit for this book. It didn't absorb me, it didn't make me feel good about food or people or relatives...or handmade furniture...lol...and the whole idea of leaving your family to live with this obnoxious brother...kind of not believable.Final thoughts...My final thoughts about what I read are usually clear. In this case and for this book they are not clear. I have mixed feelings about this book and most of them are not good ones. The writing is great, the character descriptions clear...but I didn't enjoy this book. Plus I missed th twist...a friend had to point it out to me!

[sainsborough · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

Firstly, I am writing this not having read any other reviews. Secondly, my BMI is at the border between normal and overweight. In that context, here goes:Unbelievable, a novel by Lionel Shriver that is actually laugh-out-loud funny! Shriver takes herself extremely seriously, so perhaps it is unintentionally funny? And only in parts. In other parts, I came to the realisation that there is only one thing more tedious than being on a diet, and that is reading about someone else on a diet.Sticking with it (the book, I mean) as this dieting progresses, I wondered at the presumptuousness of the slimming method adopted. Wouldn't what Shriver appeared to be advocating pose a grave danger to public health? I mean, four little envelopes of powder for months on end? Is she seriously suggesting that this is a sound and sustainable approach to help a morbidly obese man? Would it really be possible for anyone to follow this regime?As always with this writer, the book is full of thrillingly incisive, pithy observations about life in general, that had me poised over the text with a highlighter pen. However, I got a distinct feeling that Pandora is actually Shriver (and that was before I read an article revealing that Shriver did in fact have a fat brother). Pandora's voice is disciplined, controlling, intolerant of failure and without an overabundance of heartfelt sympathy for the foibles of her fellow man. Pandora is childless, but a step-mother, to allay any suggestion that there is perhaps part of her personality not quite filled out. Pandora seems to have the attitude that, seeing she has made it and has money, she is a pillar of virtue who can tell everyone else how to run their lives and what is good for them. For most of the book, despite the protagonist's efforts to disguise it, that stance appears jaw-droppingly arrogant and was an irritation to a reader like me.BUT the book redeems itself...(How? Can't tell you. No spoilers here. Read the book. To the end.)

[nyiper · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

As others have already written, the writing itself is good but the ending? Disappointing to say the least and Edison, the big brother---as in real life, he represented a tremendous, no pun intended, problem with the negatives of the high fat, sugar, salt food supply/industry and too many people who can't find anything that appeals to them about life once they start down the road of eating everything in sight. It's a very sad commentary---yes, there were funny parts but the book was depressing in so many ways. I couldn't quite imagine the ending beyond the idea of Edison reaching his ideal weight and I guess the author couldn't really figure that out either.

[samsattler · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

Big Brother is my first exposure to a Lionel Shriver novel. My first impression, one that hardly changed for most of the book, was that Shriver is a good storyteller who populates her novels with a cast of interesting, well-developed characters. Her characters, flawed human beings that they are, are all the more realistic because making them “likable” is not a goal - rather, Shriver wants the reader to understand and remember them. I had a feeling that I would be exploring Shriver’s earlier work soon.And then it happened. I reached the book’s final few pages and got a surprise that made me see Lionel Shriver and Big Brother very differently. It was one of those “aha moments” that made me realize there was a lot more going on here than I thought.Successful businesswoman Pandora Halfdanarson has made a nice life for herself in Iowa where she lives with her husband and his two teen-aged children. Pandora, who spent summers in the area with her grandparents when she was a child, enjoys the relative simplicity of her lifestyle there. Her big brother, however, has taken the opposite approach with his own life. Edison, a talented jazz pianist, enthusiastically adopted his television-actor father’s screen-name, becoming Edison Appaloosa in the process, and moved to New York City to make his name. And, especially to hear him tell it, Edison has done quite well there.But, as Pandora learns when Edison pays her a long-delayed family visit, all is not as it seems. The handsome brother she expects to collect at the airport is nowhere to be found. Instead, Pandora finds a morbidly obese version of Edison she barely recognizes as her brother. Edison is so big that, strictly for the convenience of complaining passengers, he has been carted to baggage claim in a wheelchair. When she gets him home to her family, Pandora and her husband are dismayed to find that all of Edison’s numerous bad habits have grown in proportion to the rest of him. He is the houseguest from hell.Big Brother is most obviously about the obese and how they are perceived and treated by others – despite the fact that obesity is so common in this country. Shriver’s portrayal of their self-esteem problems and physical limitations is blunt; she does not shy away from any aspect of their daily lives, including cleanliness issues. She is equally blunt about the callous reaction to the grotesquely overweight that so many of us do not even try to hide from “big” people when we see them. But that is just the beginning of what Lionel Shriver wants to say. Big Brother is also about family loyalty, bad parenting, personal courage, blind love, depression, dieting, and chasing fame for fame’s sake.And then there’s that surprise that I can’t tell you about. Bottom Line: This one, particularly because of one or two memorable scenes, might not be for everyone, but those who stay with it will most likely consider themselves to have been well rewarded for the effort.

[shazjhb · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

This book will make my top 10 for 2013

[msbaba · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

In Lionel Shriver’s mammoth 2003 bestseller, We Need to Talk About Kevin, the novel is narrated by a mother whose teenage son has perpetrated a Columbine-type mass murder. The story is told in excruciating detail and psychological depth by the psychotic adolescent’s mother. The mother is motivated to write her story in order to answer her own question: “Am I responsible?” In Shriver’s latest novel, responsibility remains a key issue. Big Brother is narrated by a middle-aged sister who discovers, after a four-year period of not seeing her brother, that this beloved older sibling has become morbidly obese. He is so immense that he is literally eating himself into an early grave. In this book, the sister tells about her discovery of her brother’s health issue, the brother’s two-months stay at her home, the impact that visit had on her and each member of her family, and finally, the enormous lengths she went through to help rescue her brother from his potentially fatal eating disorder. Ultimately, we have to ask: “How much responsibility did the sister really owe her brother to help rescue him from his fatal obsession with food?” At the same time, the reader is pulled up hard against the same significant moral issue: “How much responsibility should any of us bear to rescue anyone we care about from obesity?”I found this book deceptively (and deliciously) alluring. Shriver is a master literary storyteller. For me, a significant part of the joy of reading this novel was seeing how carefully the author crafted this story. After I finished the book, I went back and examined the book’s architecture and plotting. I must say, I admire Shriver’s brilliance.Overall, the novel is a veiled, strange, dark, and twisted tale; however, the page-by-page reading experience is much lighter—actually full of humor, and the odd sensation of peeking in on behaviors that are mostly kept private. It was definitely compelling. I finished it in a little over a day. This is one of those books that gained greater favor with me after I finished it. At first, I thought it was a strong four-star book. But the book’s moral theme kept my mind spinning. I couldn’t stop feeling like I desperately wanted to discuss this book with somebody. I wanted—no, I needed—to talk about obesity…in general, and also within the context of this book. That’s when the book moved in my mind from four to five stars. Obesity is an important issue and we need to weigh our individual moral responsibility to help resolve what has become a national epidemic. There’s no doubt about it: Big Brother would make a first-rate book club selection.

[sarahstenhouse · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

From the author of We need to talk about Kevin - but much more believable. Story about family relationships, the extent of our responsibilities to each other and the the writing of the story itself. Read on ebook from Waimak library.

[gypsysmom_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

What do you do when your beloved older brother shows up at the airport and you don't recognize him because he is morbidly obese? Do you pretend nothing has changed? Do you confront him about his weight? Do you try to figure out why he gained so much weight? Do you offer to coach him into losing weight at the risk of losing your spouse and family? If you are Pandora Halfdnarson you do all of those things in succession.Pandora and her brother Edison move into an apartment and go on a strict liquid only diet. Pandora has about 40 pounds to lose but Edison has over 200. Obviously, it is going to take Edison much longer but Pandora figures a year should be sufficient.It's rather ironic that Lionel Shriver took on obesity as the subject of this book; Shriver is thin and from what I have read she always has been. I must say that her portrayal is mostly sympathetic but there were times when I said to myself "No way." For instance, she has Edison cook for Pandora once Pandora is down to her ideal weight but Edison continues on the liquid diet and never tastes a morsel of what he cooks. I just don't think that is possible. I also didn't like the whole concept of the liquid diet because I felt it did not teach either of the dieters how to eat properly. Most people who lose weight and keep it off do it gradually and by changing their habits.Still, I enjoyed listening to this book and it even got me re-dedicated to losing weight myself.

[casualfriday_1 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

I doubt anything will ever have the impact for me of We Need to Talk About Kevin, but Big Brother was a very good book, hard to put down, with that wonderfully arch and honest voice that I recognized from Shriver's most popular book. It is about a successful business owner whose morbidly obsese brother disrupts her life and her marriage. Pandora, whose company makes customized talking dolls that mock their recipient, is married to a slightly fussy, health conscious and conspicuously unsuccessful furniture maker when her brother Eddie, a failed jazz musician, pops in for a visit and is almost unrecognizably fat. Pandora decides, to her husband's understandable consternation, to move to an apartment with her brother and help him lose the weight.What struck me most about the book was not the issue of Fat but of Family, and how entangled we all are with family loyalties and guilt, no matter how independent and separate we suppose ourselves. I see that many readers objected to the book's ending, and for a minute I was disappointed myself, but Shriver won me over with Pandora's emotionally truthful explanation for what might pass for a narrative trick.

[pdebolt_1 · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Lionel Shriver is a gifted author as evidenced by We Need To Talk About Kevin. Big Brother is the story of a morbidly obese man who visits his sister in Iowa after having worn out his welcome in New York with friends from his career as a jazz pianist. The first part is brilliant, the second part makes the characters less than likeable on many levels, and the third part is the abrupt reality. I am impressed with Shriver's skills as a writer, but this one cannot compare with We Need To Talk About Kevin in its plot and believability.

[sleahey_3 · Calificación: 4 de 5 estrellas]

This is a novel about family and food, and toxic interactions among them. Pandora, who lives with her husband and two step-children in Iowa, provides a place for her adored brother to stay when he's down and out. His surprise obesity, gargantuan appetite, and inconsiderate habits take a toll on Pandora's household and test everyone's tolerance and commitment to each other. The musings on food's dominance in our culture and individual wrestling with food issues are a strong aspect of this book. My annoyance with the behavior of the main characters stood in the way of my appreciation of the novel, though, and I had to force myself to finish it. In case anyone else is inclined not to finish it, the ending is strong and important. Or is it a cop-out?

[markmeg · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

The "realness" of the conclusion is overridden by the romance of the body of the story --which I found more appealing.Brother comes to vist--huge--sister takes on task of helping him lose almost 200 pounds. He loses it. She almost loses her marriage, and he instantly gains it all back. Reality--after 2 months of a difficult visit she puts him on a plane. He ultimately dies of the results of being overweight. Intriguing for a while, but the end twist was the sorry reality.

[nivramkoorb · Calificación: 5 de 5 estrellas]

This is the 3rd novel I have read by Shriver and they have all been excellent. She has a great way with words and she takes an important topic and builds her book around it. In this case it is eating on both the obesity and the strict food intake side. Both extremes are examined in this very entertaining book. In addition to the food issue, Shriver gets into sibling, marital, step-children, parents, and friend relationships. She deals with L.A. versus Iowa. The basic story has Pandora a successful entrepreneur who has a marriage to Fletcher that is 7 years old and comes with 17 and 13 year old children. They live in Iowa. Into her life comes her jazz piano playing brother Edison who she hasn't seen for 4 years. They are close because of their upbringing with a TV star father. Turns out Edison has gained over 200 pounds since she last saw him and is having a hard economic downturn. Fletcher is a food fanatic and avid cyclist who makes custom furniture that doesn't sell. The clash between the obese Edison and Fletcher is one of the many stories in this book. Shriver does a great job of making it all work while also making an important statement about our relationship to food. This book helped me realize that as a reader we always tend to question the plausibility of plot lines in novels. Especially, if it is going to be a reasonable tale. This book did stretch my belief that all of the actions could occur, but then I realize that this is fiction and the higher purpose of this book was achieved through Shriver's plot. There is a twist at the end that many people had trouble with. For me it did not impact the overall value of the book. Shriver is a great writer that deals with big issues. If you have not read anything by her, then this is a good place to start.

[gayla.bassham · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Big Brother It's hard to know what to say about a book in which the author is so obviously laying out her own personal issues. (As described here.) I can't help but wonder if she would have been better off just talking about some of this with a therapist. It's an interesting (if odd) book, not badly written, but some of the characters who are supposed to be attractive and sympathetic just seem like asses. And the author seems to want us to approve of the protagonist's unkind, even punitive treatment of her brother--which makes some psychological sense given the backstory, but very little sense within the world of the novel.

[corioreo · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

SO, I really, really liked this book. Until the end. I'm not sure why the author chose to go that way with the ending (I won't spoil it), but it changed my outlook on the entire book.

Really well written, but it lost me in Part 3.

[sparemethecensor · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I found the set-up so artificial that it was harder for me to get into the story than any of her other novels I've read. Sometimes things would happen -- capital of which is the siblings moving in together -- that I just couldn't believe, and that jerked me out of the story. She always brought me back, but it was a tougher road than I expected. So, I also felt jerked out of the story by the "twist." And I completely agree with other reviewers about the narrator being a light sketch of Shriver herself. All that said, I didn't dislike the book. There were so many tidbits of philosophy, not to mention that the way characters interact with each other (in this and all of her books) is so compelling and real to me. I would not recommend Big Brother over others of her books, but I still am glad I read it.

[bibleblaster · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

I enjoyed the way this book investigated the responsibilities of family and the uncertainty, confusion and regret that often accompanies our best intentions. How do we help? Are we enabling? What sort of boundaries are reasonable? What can we actually control about the life of another person? The story itself felt a little rough, the dialogue clunky in many spots, but I was able to forgive some of these things as I finished the book (and you'll understand why if you read it).

[infjsarah · Calificación: 3 de 5 estrellas]

Can't say I liked this much but then I hated "Kevin" and wouldn't have read Shriver again if it hadn't been a reading group book.She does have some interesting things to say about our obsession with food, diet and exercise. And I wondered if the twist ending was meant to point out to us how easily we are fooled by the promises of magic diets. Reality isn't like that. I was annoyed with myself that I didn't spot the clues.But as a writer she comes across as annoyingly superior - "I'm so clever compared to you stupid lot" - yeah, right.