Florence Gordon: A Novel

by Brian Morton Narrated by Nan McNamara

Overview

In this award-winning novel that Maureen Corrigan of NPR's ""Fresh Air"" deems “exquisitely crafted...witty, nuanced, and ultimately moving,” a wise, septuagenarian woman who has lived life on her own terms finds herself thrust into the center of her family's various catastrophes. ¶ A Best Book of the Year by NPR, the San Francisco Chronicle, Salon, The Millions, the Christian Science Monitor · Finalist for the Kirkus Prize · A Chicago Tribune Editor's Choice · An Indie Next Pick ¶ Meet Florence Gordon, a blunt, brilliant feminist. At seventy-five, Florence wants to be left alone to write her memoir and shape her legacy. But when her son and his family come to visit, they embroil Florence in their dramas, threatening her coveted solitude. Marked with searing wit, sophisticated intelligence, and a tender respect for humanity, Florence Gordon is cast with a constellation of unforgettable characters. Chief among them is Florence herself, who can humble fools with a single barbed line, but who eventually finds that there are some realities even she cannot outwit. ¶ “Smart, funny, and compassionate...[Florence Gordon] is a treat.” -People ¶ “Hilarious and addictive.”-San Francisco Chronicle ¶ “It's such a cliché to say a book makes you laugh and cry, but this one does, in the deftest way.""-Emily Gould, Paste ¶ “Deliciously sharp and deeply sympathetic . . . a truly gifted novelist.”-Adam Kirsch, Tablet

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

★ 06/02/2014
Morton (Starting Out in the Evening) offers up a fascinating family presided over by the irascible Florence Gordon, a 75-year-old New York City intellectual and feminist activist who likes to surprise, argue, and criticize. Florence never sought public adoration during her long career committed to women’s empowerment, but, now that she has been touted as “an American classic” by her young new editor, she finds she likes the attention. Her pending memoir will be her crowning literary achievement, but her family’s temporary relocation to New York from Seattle interferes with her process: she considers it an unwelcome intrusion into her well-established routine. Florence’s son, Daniel, is a Seattle policeman, an apparently disappointing career choice for the son of a famous feminist, and she cannot understand why she feels so little affection for him. She thinks his wife, Janine, is a vacuous suck-up and also has a difficult time connecting with her inquisitive teenage granddaughter, Emily, although the two eventually develop a tentative rapport. Florence never sees the disaster looming in her son’s marriage after an unexpected, life-altering medical diagnosis causes her to make two fateful decisions about her own future. As a strong-willed, independent woman, Florence is comfortable with herself and the manner in which she deals with others—“one of the fine things in life is the difference between what goes on inside you and what you show to the world.” Morton’s characters are sharply drawn, vivid in temperament and behavior, and his prose smartly reveals Florence’s strength and dignity. (Sept.)

Booklist (starred review)

Morton’s intelligent, layered portrait of a feisty, independent older woman is an absolute joy to read, not only for its delightful wit but also for its dignified appraisal of aging and living life on one’s own terms.”

Christian Science Monitor

A heartfelt paean to a ‘gloriously difficult woman.”

From the Publisher

Finalist for the inaugural Kirkus Fiction Prize “Florence Gordon is one of those extraordinary novels that clarifies its readers' sense of things, rather than cozying up to our conventional pieties. Morton's ending is straight out of a Chekov story: It's up in the air and brave; a closing vision of a life in all its messy contradictions, just limping down the street.” — Maureen Corrigan, NPR's Fresh Air "What a treat it is to read Brian Morton's latest novel, populated with the prickly, civic-minded liberal intellectuals we've come to expect from him...self-aware and humorous...Morton doesn't insult us with cheesy, sentimental break-throughs, but he does offer this comfort — characters who are so believable you expect to run into them ordering from the deli counter at Zabar's." —NPR.org "Angular and comic." —The New Yorker  "Lovely...Mr. Morton crafts an ending that is partly sad, partly hopeful and, like life, inconclusive." —Wall Street Journal “Florence is one feisty 75-year-old. A brilliant ‘feminist icon,’ she’s also a cranky pain the neck, forever resisting her family’s attempts to corral her. In this smart, funny and compassionate book, Morton brings the whole endearing bunch to life as they struggle with surprising events and get ambushed by unruly emotions. It’s a treat.” –Kim Hubbard, People Magazine "Hilarious and addictive...[Morton] manages to be moving without ever being sappy, showing how people can affect each other deeply while remaining stubbornly — wonderfully — themselves." —San Francisco Chronicle "It's such a cliché to say a book makes you laugh and cry, but this one does, in the deftest way. Morton is that rarest of birds: a dude who's really, truly a feminist. His characters live and breathe, and I still miss hanging out with them." —Emily Gould, Paste Magazine "Morton is a quietly confident writer, who imbues even throwaway lines of dialogue with crackling wit, and whose characters banter like actors in a screwball comedy...Morton, without ever seeming to worry about it, is a terrific counterargument to those who claim that men can’t write believable female characters...With 'Florence Gordon,' Morton has written a heartfelt paean to a 'gloriously difficult woman.'" —Christian Science Monitor "Morton treats the material with a light touch and a dry sense of humor...He is compassionate without being sentimental, even when his characters face life-changing challenges. His take on the relationship between grandmother and granddaughter is particularly refreshing...Morton creates individuals, not types, and makes what could be a familiar story fresh." —The Columbus Dispatch "That Brian Morton has made an engaging and appealing novel with this difficult septuagenarian at its heart is no small accomplishment...warm, funny and always deeply human...[Morton] develops characters worth knowing...Florence Gordon, for all her fine qualities, never ends up being lovable. But Brian Morton’s novel certainly is." —Buffalo News "Morton has artfully constructed the novel." —Chicago Tribune "Deliciously sharp and deeply sympathetic...[Morton] is one of the most unostentatiously intelligent novelists at work today...Morton proves that in the hands of a truly gifted novelist, as in real life, a person’s likability matters less than her sheer power of being." —Tablet Magazine “[Morton] has consistently demonstrated a respect for the humanity of even his most flawed characters...Witty and sophisticated." —Haaretz "Always a ple —

MAY 2024 - AudioFile

Nan McNamara gives a nuanced performance of this audiobook revolving around a well-known feminist writer whose ordered existence in New York City becomes compromised by a medical diagnosis. The imposing 75-year-old Florence Gordon lives an independent life and has little contact with her family. Then her son, Daniel, a Seattle police officer, travels with his wife, Janine, and their teenage daughter to New York. McNamara seamlessly meets the novel's shifts in point of view, precisely expressing the characters' struggles with aging, identity, career, romance, marriage, and each other. She keeps the plot flowing despite the pauses necessitated by short chapter breaks. This audiobook will be savored by those who enjoy contemplative character-driven stories. M.J. © AudioFile 2024, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

★ 2014-06-05
Unexpected celebrity and long-absent family members distract a heroically cantankerous 1960s-era activist in the summer of 2009 as she reluctantly confronts the challenges of age.Morton (Breakable You, 2006, etc.) returns to the world of writers with Florence Gordon, a feisty literary lioness of the U.S. feminist movement. At 75, she has a just-published book that’s languishing, and despite years away from the limelight, she's embarked on a memoir only to learn that her longtime editor is retiring. No matter: She treasures her solitude and “having fun trying to make the sentences come right.” Yet fame befalls her in the form of a top critic’s review of her book in the New York Times. Family matters also intrude. Her ex-husband, a vicious burned-out writer, demands that she use her contacts to get him a job. Her son and his wife are back in New York after years in Seattle. Their daughter, Emily, helps Florence with research and almost warms up the “gloriously difficult woman.” Then the matriarch’s health begins to nag her with strange symptoms. While Florence dominates the book, “each person is the center of a world,” as Emily thinks, and Morton brings each member of the small Gordon clan to life at a time when there is suddenly much to discover about their world. He’s also strewn the novel with references to books and writers and the craft itself, which is appropriate for the somewhat rarefied setting—Manhattan’s historically liberal, bookish Upper West Side, where Morton’s characters often dwell—and a treat for anyone keen on literary fiction.Always a pleasure to read for his well-drawn characters, quiet insight and dialogue that crackles with wit, Morton here raises his own bar in all three areas. He also joins a sadly small club of male writers who have created memorable heroines.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940160442846
Publisher:	HarperCollins
Publication date:	04/16/2024
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

1

Florence Gordon was trying to write a memoir, but she had two strikes against her: she was old and she was an intellectual. And who on earth, she sometimes wondered, would want to read a book about an old intellectual?
   Maybe it was three strikes, because not only was she an intellectual, she was a feminist. Which meant that if she ever managed to finish this book, reviewers would inevitably dismiss it as “strident” and “shrill.”
   If you’re an old feminist, anything you say, by definition, is strident and shrill.
   She closed her laptop.
   Not much point, she thought.
   But then she opened it up again.

2

She didn’t feel strident or shrill. She didn’t even feel old.
   And anyway, old age isn’t what it used to be — or at least that’s what she kept telling herself.
   This was her reasoning. Florence was seventy-five years old. In an earlier era, that would have made her an old lady. But not today. She’d been a young woman during the 1960s, and if you were young in the sixties — “bliss was it in that dawn to be alive” — there’s a sense in which you can never grow old. You were there when the Beatles came to America; you were there when sex was discovered; you were there when the idea of liberation was born; and even if you end up a cranky old lady who’s proud of her activist past but who now just wants to be left alone to read, write, and think — even if you end up like that, there’s something in your soul that stays green.
   She wasn’t — this seems important to say — a woman who tried to look younger than she was. She didn’t dye her hair; she had no interest in Botox; she didn’t whiten her teeth. Her craggy old-fashioned teeth, rude and honest and unretouched, were good enough for her.
   She wasn’t a woman who wanted to recapture her youth. In part this was because she found the life she was living now so interesting.
   So she was a strong proud independent-minded woman who accepted being old but nevertheless felt essentially young.
   She was also, in the opinion of many who knew her, even in the opinion of many who loved her, a complete pain in the neck.

3

She was writing a memoir that began with the early days of the women’s movement — the modern women’s movement; her own women’s movement, the one that had been born in the 1970s. If she could finish it, it would be her seventh book.
   Each book had posed its own difficulties. The difficulty with this one was that she was finding it impossible to bring the past to life. Her memory was efficient; she could recall the dates and the acts and the actors. But she was finding it hard to remember the texture of the past.
   Tonight she had finally begun, she thought, to crack the code. She’d remembered a moment that she hadn’t thought about in years. It was just a moment, not important in itself. But precisely because she hadn’t thought about it in so long, she was able to remember it now with a sense of freshness, and she was hoping she might have finally found the door that would lead her back into the past.
   She was glad that she was free for the rest of the night. It was seven o’clock on a Friday in early May; she was through with her academic obligations and her mind was clear. And this evening, in which she’d finally, finally, finally, begun to make some progress — this evening was the happiest one she’d had in a long time.
   Except that Vanessa kept calling.
   Her friend Vanessa kept calling, and Florence kept not picking up. After the fifth call, she thought that Vanessa might be in some sort of trouble, and on the sixth, she finally answered.
   “Thank God you’re home,” Vanessa said. “I’ve got a problem.”
   “What’s wrong?”
   “Nothing big. Nothing terrible. It’s just that I got pickpocketed, evidently, and I don’t have anything except my phone. I need some money to get back home.”
   “Where are you?”
   “That’s why I called you. I’m three blocks away.”
   She named a restaurant.
   “Well I’m right here,” Florence said. “Just come up.”
   “That’s nice of you. But it’s a little bit complicated.”
   “Why?”
   “The people I was having dinner with had to run, and I stayed to pay the check, and that’s when I found out my purse was gone. So the owner doesn’t want me to leave. He wants to be sure I’m not going to skip out on him.”
   “Vanessa, you’re a very respectable-looking woman. You’re a very old woman. You’re obviously not skipping out on him. Tell him you’re not Bonnie Parker.”
   “That’s just what I told him. That’s exactly what I told him, in fact. I told him I’m not Bonnie Parker. But he’s not being very understanding. I think he thinks I am Bonnie Parker. I’m really sorry. But it’ll just take a minute.”
   People, Florence thought as she put on her shoes. What do I need them for again?
   He’s afraid she’ll skip out on him. As Florence waited for the elevator, she was muttering to herself. She reminded herself of Popeye
the Sailor Man.
   She crossed the street, still muttering. Muttering, and clenching and unclenching her fists.
   She was doing this with her fists because she’d been having some trouble with her left hand. Carpal tunnel syndrome. Her fingers sometimes jumped around as if they had five little minds of their own. A neurologist had told her to get an ergonomic keyboard and an ergonomic mouse and an ergonomic splint for her wrist; she’d gotten all of it, and she’d faithfully done the exercises he prescribed, but none of it was working so far.
   Muttering, clenching, unclenching: I must look, she thought, like a madwoman.

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