The Correspondent

“[I]t was wonderful to read such a complex woman of her vintage, bold with her intelligence and dignity as well as her errors, and the layers upon layers of her. […] I saw some reflection of myself in her.”

Here, Sybil demonstrates how profound her relationship to words is, as she allows herself to be swept away in a narrative and finds part of herself within its characters. Evans, however, also signals how Sybil deliberately looks for herself in the adventures of others as she confines herself to remain stationary in her home. The self-recognition in fiction functions as a safe proxy for risk, reinforcing The Stagnation Within Fear while foreshadowing later travel.

“I [Sybil] live alone, and furthermore, I only ever go upstairs to clean after I’ve had company, so it’s completely private.”

In this excerpt, Evans heavily implies Sybil’s denial of how lonely she feels, as she does not realize she isolates herself even from parts of her own house. Likewise, Sybil does not recognize that her invitation to a complete stranger (the author Ann Patchett) is in fact a desperate desire for company and companionship. The upstairs becomes a spatial emblem of self-sequestration, an architecture of fear disguised as preference.

“I’m [Sybil] sitting down at the desk to write, and there is the stack of letter writing paper, there are my pens, there are the envelopes, and I’m pawing at them like a cat, but I cannot pick them up.”

Here, the author outlines one of the main character developments that will occur over the course of the narrative. As Sybil begins to lose her eyesight, so the fear of losing the meaning she attributes to her life is established, and she must reconsider how she connects to the world if she can neither read nor write. Material details—paper, pens, envelopes—mark the impending collapse of her primary coping system.

“She [Fiona] has not one single thing to do with my [Sybil’s] life, might as well live on another planet, sees me once a year if I’m lucky, and thinks it’s time for me to move into a brand new nursing home in Falls Church! Well. I will do no such thing.”

In this excerpt, Sybil’s accusatory and bitter tone is indicative of the miscommunication that has festered between her and Fiona. Though Sybil appears dismissive and angry, her vexation is a mask for her true feelings: that she misses her daughter and wishes they had a better relationship. The rupture anticipates The Trials of Parenthood, where fear of dependency distorts care into conflict.

“It’s a hell of a thing, to lose one’s mental faculties. Guy never forgot a case, not ever, but then this series of strokes and a heart attack last year.”

Here, Evans draws a parallel between Sybil and her deceased work partner, Guy: much like how Guy lost the faculty that defined him in his last years, so too does Sybil. While she may pity him, there is nevertheless an underlying tension that she too will become a shell of who she once was when she completely loses her eyesight. The comparison frames decline as professional unmaking, sharpening the stakes of identity loss.

“I [Sybil] don’t know of another woman my age who was afforded that opportunity professionally [to work in law with Guy]. In the seventies, when I was really starting out, it was women as secretaries, or if they climbed up from there, some limited scope of what men were doing, and with an ongoing through line of what is now termed sexual harassment at the very best.”

In this excerpt, the author foregrounds the historical moment that informs and shapes Sybil’s character. While she may have had an illustrious career, she is an exception among the vast numbers of women who attempted a career in the 1970s and was lucky to find a respectful partner. She thus underlines a vein of feminism in her character, which recognizes the plight women have had to endure in the workplace.

“But I [Sybil] think of life rather like a long road we walk in one direction. By and large a lonesome walk out in the wildness of hills and wind. […] And sometimes there is someone to come along and walk with you for a stretch, and sometimes […] some lights and it heartens you […] and you come into the warmth of that stopover and go inside.”

Here, Evans draws a parallel to the eventual letter Sybil would write to Larry McMurtry about his bravery in showing characters who, while not achieving a happily ever after, still find a life worth living. Though Sybil has not yet gone through the character growth necessary to be at peace with this idea of deception and grief as part of life’s package, her notion of life as a road predisposes her to understand it. The “stopover” metaphor forecasts restorative ties with Theodore, Harry, and Hattie as temporary shelters on a difficult route.

“I [Rosalie] certainly did not see this coming—caring for husband and son as if they were toddlers or less until the end of time.”

As both Sybil and Rosalie reflect upon their old age, the narrative demands that they reckon with the regrets they’ve accumulated over the years and still find meaning beyond them. Each endures a different kind of impossible hardship, and yet, inadvertently, still cultivate the sweetness of a decades-long friendship amid their harsh realities.

“[I]sn’t there something wonderful in that [having letters as a tome], to think that a story of one’s life is preserved in some way, that this very letter [to Mick] may one day mean something, even if it is a very small thing, to someone?”

In this passage, Sybil’s hope that her letters may one day mean something to another person echoes her own childhood and the letter she received from her birth mother, which monumentally affected her life. It is a means to ensure connection, even if one encounters death. The imagined future reader doubles as a bid for absolution and an antidote to erasure.

“Why would you [Harry] think I’m [Sybil] lonely? I am not. I have you, and my children and grandchildren, and several friends with whom I keep correspondence, as well as my church and two wonderful friends in town, Trudy and Millie. I could never be lonely.”

In this instance, Evans adds on to Sybil’s unreliability as a narrator by showcasing her denial about her loneliness. Though she certainly has people with whom she can speak, she does not yet realize that the people she names are people she keeps at bay and generally do not live close by.

“As if one’s family horror is some kind of spectacle the rest of us have a right to observe. Let the family [of the man who killed his child by accident] print an obituary for the poor child if it’s what they choose.”

In this passage, the author foreshadows the events that led to Gilbert’s death. Though Sybil is an empathetic character, her reaction to the article is disproportionately emotional and gestures to a personal recognition of the man’s pain. The moment anticipates Perpetuating Cycles of Grief, since public spectacle converts private loss into ongoing harm.

“But a child of fourteen months, what could possess a person to do that [put the child up for adoption]? These are thoughts I’ve [Sybil] had, but not in an urgent sense, just a little bruise I’d press on every once in a while.”

This excerpt speaks to Sybil’s ill relationship with her past and her adoption. Though Sybil is well aware she had a privileged childhood with her adoptive parents, there remains a sense of abandonment that remains unresolved. She credits this trauma for her social awkwardness and many of her shortcomings in parenthood, but fundamentally, it is implied that the issue was never the adoption itself but rather her inability to know the reason behind it.

“I [Sybil] do not want to know [what her lineage is]. I am perfectly content.”

This passage reinforces how Sybil’s denial about her longing for the truth of her birth is a self-inflicted occurrence born out of her self-isolation. It is implied that after Gilbert’s death, Sybil is unable to handle relationships or knowledge that may cause her to be vulnerable and harmed. As a defense mechanism, therefore, she simply avoids any direct confrontation with her past. The stance performs The Stagnation Within Fear by substituting claimed contentment for risk.

“When Gill died I [Sybil] went very far inside myself, and I suppose Daan was doing the same thing, though it was Daan who continued to raise the remaining children, while I rather disappeared from the family for some time.”

Sybil’s perception of events in this moment attests to the wisdom she has garnered with age. As Daan would later apologize and try to explain his version of this time period, Sybil is now able to recognize the grief he must have suffered and his way of coping in a way she hadn’t then. Withdrawal is named, not excused, preparing the ground for later accountability to Dezi and Fiona.

“I [Sybil] was sabotaging us. I wanted it to be over. It was so painful, you see, because Daan was—the children, he was Gill, they were all tied up together.”

Much like her letter to Fiona, wherein she tried to honestly explain herself, and the unsent letter she wanted to send Daan, here, Sybil’s writing is visibly troubled as she comes closer to being honest about her feelings. Her lack of proper syntax and grammar is a reflection of her mental state and demonstrates that she is not yet able to communicate fully.

“Dear Sybil, I [Daan] do love you. The children are fortunate it’s not you they’re losing. You’ve been a wonderful mother to them. The first thing I will do is kiss Gilbert for you.”

In Daan’s first and only letter in the narrative, Evans showcases the truth of what ended his and Sybil’s marriage. While Sybil herself might believe she sabotaged it, their love was simply not enough to conquer the depths of their despair. Gilbert’s death, however, never invalidated the love, respect, and understanding they shared; it simply showed their relationship wasn’t invulnerable. The letter articulates Perpetuating Cycles of Grief while modeling grace that Sybil later extends to Dezi.

“[M]y [Sybil’s] letters have been far more meaningful to me than anything I did with the law. The letters are the mainstay of my life, where I was only practicing law for thirty years or so.”

In this excerpt, the author ascribes a different notion to the letters’ meaning in Sybil’s life. Though they hold the meaning of her life’s heritage and her connection to others, here, Evans implies that they also represent the only barometer by which to measure her sense of fulfillment.

“I’m [Sybil] not sure if I can stomach that image of him [Daan] leaving that last day […] being replaced by the shriveled, disease-ravaged corpse of an old man. […] I’m terrified. However, one must attend the funeral. There is nothing I can think of more important than the prioritization of attendance to a funeral.”

Here, the author cultivates a sense of tragic irony in Sybil’s statement that she can think of nothing “more important than the prioritization of attendance” at Daan’s funeral. Given that she will go so far as to purchase the plane ticket, her intent to attend is real. Yet such is her debilitating fear of travelling and leaving her isolation that she goes against the very sense of priority she’s espoused all her life.

“How can I [Sybil] put this without sounding like an airless girl? I have been doing things with Theodore Lüdbeck.”

In this quote, Evans challenges the general tendency in literature of displaying elderly characters as having no romantic impulses, interests, and/or possible affairs of their own. While Sybil and Theodore’s romance does not feature heavily within the novel, the possibility of a love triangle with Mick Watts nevertheless nuances their characters as individuals who are as much subject to their desires and emotions as anyone else.

“From his [Harry’s] letters I’d [Sybil] assumed he would be more talkative, but either these past months have killed off something in him or all along he was finding confidence behind the veil of ink on the page, as many people do.”

Evans draws a parallel between Harry and Sybil in this passage, as, though Sybil dismissively alludes to the “many people” who find confidence in writing, she is, in fact, speaking of herself. The quote, however, also implies a third possibility for Harry’s quietness, which is that their letters are not necessarily the most accurate providers of insight on his personality. Though she knows a great deal about Harry, the formalized structure of a letter can erase the individuality of a person when meeting them beyond the page. The observation links to The Trials of Parenthood by showing how mediums can misrepresent needs and feelings.

“The vision declines. Do you [Harry] think my [Sybil’s] penmanship is worsening?”

Though Sybil’s question appears innocuous upon first glance, it nevertheless highlights her growing anxiety about losing her sight. As she has shown to be a character who hides rather than seeks support, her question shows a rare moment where she searches for comfort—small though it may be—from one of the only people she trusts implicitly. Dependence is rehearsed here in miniature, a practice run for later disclosures that repair The Trials of Parenthood.

“[T]he fact of the matter is that Mick is really rather a lot. I’ve lived a quiet life for so long I’ve gotten out of practice with the way people can be, I own, but my goodness he’s loud and with some massive opinions.”

In this instance, Sybil offers a rare acknowledgement of her self-isolation and a minor effect it has caused her. Though Sybil eventually declines Mick’s proposal for spending the remainder of her life with Theodore, his presence and persistence in courtship nevertheless reawaken a part of her that has been dormant since Gilbert died and Daan left: her ability to fall in love.

“My [Felix’s] work, my routines, my friendships, meals, movie watching, book reading, walking, waking up, drinking coffee. Makes you wonder what any of it was for. What it meant. Casts every good thing in an ugly green, doesn’t it?”

In this instance, Evans creates a culmination of existential questioning that resonates among all of her elderly characters, as Sybil would later espouse a similar line of questions: “What has my life been, really? I’ll go blind, and then? I wonder—the letters. All the letters. I wonder if all of it was a waste” (217). Though both characters have these questions in moments of grief and despair, they nevertheless imply an authorial message on the importance of addressing regrets and finding fulfillment within one’s life. Felix’s “ugly green” melancholia converses with Perpetuating Cycles of Grief, but also frames choice between bitterness or renewal.