Award-winning poet, author and teacher Maggie Smith shot to international fame with her short poem ‘Good Bones’ and the last line of that poem is the title of her much-anticipated memoir, YOU COULD MAKE THIS PLACE BEAUTIFUL (Simon and Schuster Canongate 2024), a fiercely observed, brutally rageful story of the breakdown of her marriage, that manages to also convey levity, wit, humour and the light to be found in love, commitment, children and language.
The book is comprised of a series of literary vignettes, most with an engaging chapter heading, some of which repeat as a theme throughout, such as Some People Ask or A Friend Says Every Book Begins With An Unanswerable Question, or A Note on Setting or A Note on Plot. Some of these scenes are as short as one line, some read for several pages. But all are sharply delivered, taut, and as concise with words as you would expect from a talented poet.
But the memoir begins with three simple objects: a pinecone, a postcard and a hand grenade. These three items were the beginning of the end of her marriage, and she writes about them, literally and metaphorically, in the most beautiful ways.
Throughout, she quotes Emily Dickenson: ‘I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.’ She returns to this image repeatedly, as she searches her life for the meaning she is uncertain she can find. She addresses the reader from the first line, making it clear that this is a story told from her point of view (as opposed to a tell-all memoir, because she cannot speak for others) and she often interrupts her prose by posing a question or poignant comment to herself or directly to the reader, as she attempts to make sense of what happened and why.
Smith moves from magical thinking to pragmatic observations, from rueful or regretful disparages on her own imperfections to the inappropriate or disloyal behaviour of others. She has an incredible eye for detail and for structuring a short but perfect portrait of a particular situation. This is a memoir with more questions than answers. But it does move forward. The loosely interconnected scenes or meditations chart her story from where she decides to begin – the gift of a pinecone from her husband to her young son – and finishes several years after her marriage has dissolved, her life very different to how she thought it would be. Over those years, she has discovered things about herself, about her children, about her husband, about her friends and about her readers that were not apparent to her earlier. She also has many of her previous suspicions or theories confirmed, particularly in relation to her work as a poet and author.
Her love and devotion to her children shine most brightly throughout this memoir. From journal notes on funny and interesting comments they made when they were younger, to anxieties about how they are coping now as a separated family, her dedication to them is never in question.
And she is so funny! Her sparkling wit and humour punctuate even the darkest corners of her story so that the reader is buoyed and lifted while simultaneously being confronted and challenged. And while this memoir feels like something she inevitably had to write, it is obvious that she struggled with inconsistencies, the number of truths to tell and the amount of private information to keep to herself, and the hurt she might cause versus her need to vent. She has carefully curated this information, knowing (and very openly) doing so and advising the reader to interpret accordingly.
This is such a beautiful, thought-provoking, poignant, sad, furious, nostalgic, wise, generous, playful and bittersweet account of grief and joy in equal measure. I was incredibly moved by her writing which resonated in a most powerful way.