Love Dying on the Walls

A few years ago, I read an article in Vogue about a socialite of sorts who had fallen in love and married a man whom she later divorced. Asked what she thought had gone awry in the seemingly fairy-tale setup, she said that marriage stuffs you up so close, you could practically see the "love dying on the walls." I must have read that phrase a million times. In 1961, Richard Yates's first novel, Revolutionary Road, was published. An alcoholic, modestly successful short story writer, Yates drew upon the stark reality of his own marriage to craft a masterpiece of an indictment of suburbia and matrimony in 1950s America. Yates lived part of his own married life in Connecticut, and the book's descriptions of Route Twelve, cottage houses, and commuter rail lines landing in Grand Central Station, seem eerily contemporary, even 50 years later. In finishing the book, I've found that I've had an experience that is increasingly rare (but perhaps hoped for by every novelist): The plot lingers. It's been hard to shake the bitter aftertaste. A couple, Frank and April Wheeler, comes together, love blooms, expectations are set then left unmet. ... The love gathers moss - as the two gradually destroy each other. For those who can't be bothered to read the book, the film (above, which I haven't seen) is in theaters now.