It ends with the same feeling with which it begins: Yearning. At first, it was a yearning to know what happens next and at last a yearning for it not to end. Page after page, Alexandria Andrews guides the story along. The stitching holding the pages together is a yearning to know why the dual protagonist act the way they do.
Florence Darrow is identifiable because she seems like that girl from high school who quickly lost touch after graduation – smart, quiet, a little awkward, and way too mature for weekend shenanigans. Florence, however, isn’t that girl. As the story unfolds, Florence brandishes an increasingly complex set of ideals. Her obsession with her own significance drives the narrative as she seeks to establish an identity.
After wading through a stale life working for a publishing company in New York City, Florence breaks away and lands a job as an assistant for a famous writer. Her path brightens for a while, as she works with a heavy weight writer and the journey lands her in Morocco. From there it darkens and her desire to make something of herself finds shelter beneath the shade of a foreign, untethered land. Her habits keep between the lines for a while, but eventually her “id” ceases control and her passion for significance takes over.
On its face, Who is Maud Dixon? is a well told mystery. Weaved into the story, however, it seems Andrews begs more eternal questions: Who am I? What is my identity? In a world full of me, me, me, struggling families, and distant communities, are most people sure of who they have become? Identity theft only compounds fears, as does social media. Most people know much more about who they follow on social media than actual friends or family. How does that inform identity or help someone answer, “Who am I?”
The drive for significance in life is hardly new. Finding identity in influence, control, and power is an ancient theme because it’s part of human nature. The Greek philosophers studied these themes, the Bible has a prescription for them, Shakespeare wrote about them, and virtually all psychology is tied to these individual desires. Andrews explores strains of human nature in a modern way – an all-female cast, social media and technology, and a publishing caste system all play into the themes. The fear of identity theft, plays on readers too. The story is drenched with passion for power, control, and self-importance, but the essential connection comes from the exploration for the inner motives of two young women and dueling desires. Who are they? What is their identity?
Who is Maud Dixon? carves a path though exciting extremes to drive home a larger view. Andrews runs past the low hanging fruit of the artificial online life to the psychotic extreme of a woman willing to do anything to gain the identity she wants; a relevant identity. Florence may not represent the lengths actual people will go to gain the identity they want, but the problem with identity is real because many people don’t feel a sense of importance – and the self-help aisle of any bookstore proves the point. It’s hard not to identify with some of the less psychotic characteristics of Florence.
Andrews pitches a wonderfully written story, full of twists and turns. Some are expected, you know what’s going to happen and when it does, it’s easier to buy into the plot. Other parts are totally unexpected. In that way, after it starts going, it’s hard to find a stopping place.
Part of the enjoyment is Andrews writing. Her sentences are fine tuned. Her metaphors are wonderful like when Florence pushes her boss to “mark him a little bit” not harm him, but like “a scratch on the lens of his glasses.” Later she writes, “like a dead toenail forced to cede its position to a new one growing underneath.”
Some of the other characters depict the publishing and editing world as a stuffy club or click – closed minded, opinionated, based on barely more than arbitrary social status. One character in particular mocks the loud liberal know-it-alls people love to hate – we all know them and stay clear. This is part of what annoys Florence. She’s not the upper crust, Ivy leaguer who brandishes insults and sarcasm to keep everyone scared of pushing back.
The book resists the contemporary proclivity for diving into diatribes of virtue signaling. Unlike many books in the past couple years, Andrews realizes readers don’t care about her politics or social agenda – so she prudently mentions politics, but refuses to distract readers by taking sides. Politics is part of our culture, constantly in the background, so she appropriately lets it stay there and puts it in its place by not glorifying it.
Conspicuously absent from Andrew’s novel is any notion of moral certainty. There is no morally upstanding character, voice of reason, or notion of goodness by which to measure Florence. Is that a reflection of the publishing industry and Andrews, or is it an illustration of our society’s floundering morality. Long held views on good and evil, right and wrong, and even manners have been under assault recently. It’s no wonder Andrews fails to articulate what’s right and good. In a world of moral uncertainty, where everything is fluid, a moral anchor would help define the story and its characters. Michael Corleone and Hannibal Lector were both bad dudes, and audiences knew it even as they rooted on them.
Who is Maud Dixon? is a good mystery novel on the surface. In the depths it is a modern exposé on human nature and perennial motives. Descartes would be pleased to know Andrews is spinning tales that make us think, even if just a little, about important issues. She may not provide answers as to “Who am I”, but she does reveal the innerworkings of one very complex figure.
