Items related to Kyra: A Novel
An unforgettable novel about love–and the first work of fiction by the author of the groundbreaking nonfiction bestseller In a Different Voice
Kyra is an architect, involved in a project to design a new city. Andreas, a theater director, is staging an innovative production of the opera Tosca. Both have come through political upheaval and personal loss. Neither wants to fall in love. Yet when she asks him, “What is the opposite of losing?” and he says, “Finding,” it galvanizes a powerful attraction, and they risk opening themselves to love once again.
When their love affair leads to a shocking betrayal, Kyra’s fierce determination to see under the surface, to know what was true and real, brings her to Greta, a remarkable therapist. As the therapy itself repeats the themes of love and loss, Kyra challenges its structure, and the struggle that ensues between the two women opens the way to a larger understanding.
Passionate and revolutionary, Kyra is an exquisitely written love story, imbued with gentle humor. This is an extraordinary work of fiction by one of the most brilliant writers of our time.
“A triumph. Carol Gilligan has always dazzled and moved us with her brilliant mind, visionary wisdom, and compassionate heart. Now she gives us, as well, an irresistible novel about the power of history to hurt us, but the power of love to heal these wounds and redeem us. She is amazing.”
–Catharine R. Stimpson
Kyra is an architect, involved in a project to design a new city. Andreas, a theater director, is staging an innovative production of the opera Tosca. Both have come through political upheaval and personal loss. Neither wants to fall in love. Yet when she asks him, “What is the opposite of losing?” and he says, “Finding,” it galvanizes a powerful attraction, and they risk opening themselves to love once again.
When their love affair leads to a shocking betrayal, Kyra’s fierce determination to see under the surface, to know what was true and real, brings her to Greta, a remarkable therapist. As the therapy itself repeats the themes of love and loss, Kyra challenges its structure, and the struggle that ensues between the two women opens the way to a larger understanding.
Passionate and revolutionary, Kyra is an exquisitely written love story, imbued with gentle humor. This is an extraordinary work of fiction by one of the most brilliant writers of our time.
“A triumph. Carol Gilligan has always dazzled and moved us with her brilliant mind, visionary wisdom, and compassionate heart. Now she gives us, as well, an irresistible novel about the power of history to hurt us, but the power of love to heal these wounds and redeem us. She is amazing.”
–Catharine R. Stimpson
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Carol Gilligan is a writer best known for her book In a Different Voice. She was a member of the Harvard faculty for thirty-four years and held the university’s first chair in gender studies. She is currently University Professor in the Humanities and Applied Psychology at New York University, and she lives with her husband in New York City and the Berkshires. Kyra is her first novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Chapter One
What is the opposite of losing?
It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and we were playing chess. Felicia Blumenthal had invited the strays to her home on Francis Avenue—an old habit, hospitality to strangers, made urgent for her generation by the war. He was her cousin, “much removed,” she said, laughing, as she brought him over to where I was standing in the blue dining room balancing a plate of turkey, and when I asked him what he was thankful for, his eyes registered surprise and he said, “This,” meaning the lunch. He had come in from London the night before, he was leaving the next morning for Chicago. I had come from my studio wearing a long black skirt and white shirt. He stepped back and looked at me. “A flutist or an oboe player?” he asked. I had always wanted to play the oboe. He asked if I was cold, the dining room shaded on the north side of the house, Felicia too European to turn up the heat. We left our plates on the sideboard and crossed the hall into the living room, skirting the group standing around the fireplace —men in gray suits, a woman in a red sari—and gravitating instead to the sunny bay window. He sat on one antique blue-velvet chair, I sat on the other, the marble chessboard on the table between us.
I reached into the diagonal of sunlight, my hand momentarily translucent as I moved the white knight into position to capture the black bishop.
Andreas looked, saw, and moved his bishop away. The black bishop glided to safety, the inner recesses of black and white squares. Instead he would sacrifice a pawn: out of the many, this one.
“Your turn,” he said, looking up, his eyes blue-gray, the color of river stones.
My half brother, Anton, had taught me to play, long afternoons at the table in front of the high window looking out to the sea, his face grim. He was the child of our mother’s brief early marriage, the half in half brother a splinter under his skin. “Checkmate,” he would say, explaining that it came from the Arabic sha¯h ma¯t, meaning the king is dead. I said it meant he was her mate, the queen more elusive, more inventive, the one who moves freely in all directions. Who invented this game, I wondered, Andreas waiting. I touched the castle, its evenly chiseled turrets saying harmony, symmetry, even as its straight-line moves—up, down, across—concealed the darker purposes of alignment, the closing in of castle and knight on the unsuspecting (did she know, how did she know, why didn’t she know) queen.
Andreas leaned forward, the lines of his face deepening in concentration, and then he swept his queen across the board. “Check.”
The sun, horizontal now, ignited the yellow leaves on the maple tree outside the window.
He sat back, watching my face.
“Do you know how green your eyes are in this sun?” his voice quiet, as if to himself.
I looked at him, surprised, and at his hand at the edge of the board.
“What is the opposite of losing?” I asked him.
“Finding,” he said.
And so it began.
The next morning it snowed, unexpectedly. Huge flakes hung suspended in a yellow-gray haze, revealing the air, its density, and also gravity, as tumbling slowly and then for a moment resisting, they were pulled inexorably down. The leaves of late fall mingled with the snow of oncoming winter as I crossed the yard holding the university buildings apart, each building standing alone, discrete. This was Puritan New England. No touching, no leaning on one another. It was more or less how I’d been living since Simon was killed, my husband shot by my half brother. I stared at the buildings, stony like Anton’s face, memory rising, anger propelling me through the iron gates and out onto Quincy Street. The morning traffic was stalled, drivers peering through half-moons of windshield, marooned in their iron shells. I threaded my way between the cars, crossed Broadway, and headed for the concrete overhang of the Design School, my wet footsteps trailing me up the stairs to my office, where the phone was ringing.
“I found you,” the voice triumphant.
It took me a moment: “My chess partner,” I said, dropping my keys on the desk, my bag puddling on the floor beside me. Wasn’t he going to Chicago?
We had left Felicia’s together, he saying he wanted to walk, his legs still stiff from the overseas flight. He wanted to know how I knew Felicia, he wanted to know what I was doing. I told him I was an architect, working on a project to design a new city, on a small scale, on an island. It was something of an experiment, I said. He was trying to do operas in a new way, also on a small scale. He had trained as a conductor, was working mostly now as a director. The light faded across the river, the traffic picked up, people returning after the long weekend. We went into Harvard Square looking for coffee. Not much was open. We settled into the bar at Casablanca, at a table in the far corner, relieved to be out of the dankness that had set in with the end of the day.
We talked about our work, how we each were trying in our own way, he with operas, I with cities, to wrest a tradition into the unexpected, so people would actually see what they were seeing, hear what they were hearing. The island, Nashawena, off the coast of Massachusetts, was the site of my project. Richard Livingston, whose family owned it, had been taken by the idea that the structures people live in shape their lives. Andreas’s face lit up, his dark hair and black sweater accentuating the color in his cheeks. I couldn’t quite place him. Felicia was Viennese. He said he was Hungarian. Someone from the Lyric Opera had seen his production of Lulu in London, and he was on his way now to Chicago to meet with their board.
A loud noise from the kitchen. I jumped. I felt him watching me, puzzled. I looked around, no one seemed perturbed.
I told him I had been born on Cyprus, and except for university had lived there until the summer of ’75. I left at the beginning of the civil war, I said, if such a term makes sense.
He raised his eyebrows. It doesn’t, he said. He knew about war, he said.
Suddenly it was late. We ordered steak sandwiches from the bar menu.
Finally I said, “I really have to go.” I stood up and reached for my coat. He stood as well. “It’s been . . .” I began. Our eyes met. “Let’s leave it there,” he said softly, his long face creasing into a smile, then shadowed by a look of concern.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. He didn’t know that a woman professor had been murdered in Longfellow Park, a few blocks away. Or that a graduate student in anthropology was killed just around the corner, in her apartment on Mount Auburn Street, red ochre on her body suggesting a ritual slaying. But I was going in the opposite direction, and anyway, in my life it wasn’t the women who were slain.
I came back to the apartment, saw my face in the mirror, the flush on my cheeks, and said, “I’m not doing this.” I threw my clothes in the hamper, showered quickly, turned off the light, and closed my eyes.
“Where are you?” I asked now, peering through the horizontal pane of plate glass that in this office passed for a window. The snow fell thickly.
“I’m at the airport,” he said, “standing in a phone booth, calling you.”
I retrieved the new drawings from the clutter on my desk and rolled them into a tube, cradling the phone.
“All the flights have been canceled,” he said. “There is no way for me to get to Chicago in time for the meeting. So I was wondering. Do you want to play chess?”
Snow batted against the not-window. Who designed this Design School? A honeycomb of offices stretched out on either side of mine, the concrete walls radiating dampness. I had come in just to pick up the drawings, I was on my way to the island. I checked my watch: twenty to eight. I was wearing old jeans and a black sweater. I ran my fingers through my hair.
“Look,” I said, “I have to meet the surveyor on Martha’s Vineyard, and then we’re going to Nashawena, but why don’t you come. You can see the site, and then afterward, we can get oysters.” What was I thinking? But the answer is, I was thinking just that. He was intrigued by the project, he would like the adventure, I was sure he liked oysters. Why not?
I picked him up at the Aquarium stop on the Blue Line, he wearing a leather jacket, Italian loafers, and gray slacks, his bag slung over his shoulder. He was born in Budapest, had lived with rivers, studied in conservatories, a tall man at ease in his body, impervious to the weather. He threw his bag in the backseat and folded his long frame into the front. The smell of leather infused the car.
We drove south along the expressway, snow gusting against the windshield, erasing everything except a small stretch of road. The intimacy of the car was unsettling, lending a gravity to what had seemed a lighthearted adventure. I turned on the radio—Mozart in the morning. The slow movement of a piano concerto vied with the whirr of the defroster. Andreas took out his handkerchief and wiped the windshield. “Can you see?”
“Much better.” I found myself telling him my dream about driving blindly. In the dream, my eyes are literally shut, but my hands are on the steering wheel, my foot on the gas pedal, and the car is moving forward. I realize in the dream that this is wildly dangerous. I’m bound to hit something, kill someone. And yet nothing bad happens. The car moves ahead, the road goes uphill, the light is dim, sometimes it’s night. Farmhouses line the road. It’s somewhere in the country. I keep having this dream.
“Do yo...
What is the opposite of losing?
It was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, and we were playing chess. Felicia Blumenthal had invited the strays to her home on Francis Avenue—an old habit, hospitality to strangers, made urgent for her generation by the war. He was her cousin, “much removed,” she said, laughing, as she brought him over to where I was standing in the blue dining room balancing a plate of turkey, and when I asked him what he was thankful for, his eyes registered surprise and he said, “This,” meaning the lunch. He had come in from London the night before, he was leaving the next morning for Chicago. I had come from my studio wearing a long black skirt and white shirt. He stepped back and looked at me. “A flutist or an oboe player?” he asked. I had always wanted to play the oboe. He asked if I was cold, the dining room shaded on the north side of the house, Felicia too European to turn up the heat. We left our plates on the sideboard and crossed the hall into the living room, skirting the group standing around the fireplace —men in gray suits, a woman in a red sari—and gravitating instead to the sunny bay window. He sat on one antique blue-velvet chair, I sat on the other, the marble chessboard on the table between us.
I reached into the diagonal of sunlight, my hand momentarily translucent as I moved the white knight into position to capture the black bishop.
Andreas looked, saw, and moved his bishop away. The black bishop glided to safety, the inner recesses of black and white squares. Instead he would sacrifice a pawn: out of the many, this one.
“Your turn,” he said, looking up, his eyes blue-gray, the color of river stones.
My half brother, Anton, had taught me to play, long afternoons at the table in front of the high window looking out to the sea, his face grim. He was the child of our mother’s brief early marriage, the half in half brother a splinter under his skin. “Checkmate,” he would say, explaining that it came from the Arabic sha¯h ma¯t, meaning the king is dead. I said it meant he was her mate, the queen more elusive, more inventive, the one who moves freely in all directions. Who invented this game, I wondered, Andreas waiting. I touched the castle, its evenly chiseled turrets saying harmony, symmetry, even as its straight-line moves—up, down, across—concealed the darker purposes of alignment, the closing in of castle and knight on the unsuspecting (did she know, how did she know, why didn’t she know) queen.
Andreas leaned forward, the lines of his face deepening in concentration, and then he swept his queen across the board. “Check.”
The sun, horizontal now, ignited the yellow leaves on the maple tree outside the window.
He sat back, watching my face.
“Do you know how green your eyes are in this sun?” his voice quiet, as if to himself.
I looked at him, surprised, and at his hand at the edge of the board.
“What is the opposite of losing?” I asked him.
“Finding,” he said.
And so it began.
The next morning it snowed, unexpectedly. Huge flakes hung suspended in a yellow-gray haze, revealing the air, its density, and also gravity, as tumbling slowly and then for a moment resisting, they were pulled inexorably down. The leaves of late fall mingled with the snow of oncoming winter as I crossed the yard holding the university buildings apart, each building standing alone, discrete. This was Puritan New England. No touching, no leaning on one another. It was more or less how I’d been living since Simon was killed, my husband shot by my half brother. I stared at the buildings, stony like Anton’s face, memory rising, anger propelling me through the iron gates and out onto Quincy Street. The morning traffic was stalled, drivers peering through half-moons of windshield, marooned in their iron shells. I threaded my way between the cars, crossed Broadway, and headed for the concrete overhang of the Design School, my wet footsteps trailing me up the stairs to my office, where the phone was ringing.
“I found you,” the voice triumphant.
It took me a moment: “My chess partner,” I said, dropping my keys on the desk, my bag puddling on the floor beside me. Wasn’t he going to Chicago?
We had left Felicia’s together, he saying he wanted to walk, his legs still stiff from the overseas flight. He wanted to know how I knew Felicia, he wanted to know what I was doing. I told him I was an architect, working on a project to design a new city, on a small scale, on an island. It was something of an experiment, I said. He was trying to do operas in a new way, also on a small scale. He had trained as a conductor, was working mostly now as a director. The light faded across the river, the traffic picked up, people returning after the long weekend. We went into Harvard Square looking for coffee. Not much was open. We settled into the bar at Casablanca, at a table in the far corner, relieved to be out of the dankness that had set in with the end of the day.
We talked about our work, how we each were trying in our own way, he with operas, I with cities, to wrest a tradition into the unexpected, so people would actually see what they were seeing, hear what they were hearing. The island, Nashawena, off the coast of Massachusetts, was the site of my project. Richard Livingston, whose family owned it, had been taken by the idea that the structures people live in shape their lives. Andreas’s face lit up, his dark hair and black sweater accentuating the color in his cheeks. I couldn’t quite place him. Felicia was Viennese. He said he was Hungarian. Someone from the Lyric Opera had seen his production of Lulu in London, and he was on his way now to Chicago to meet with their board.
A loud noise from the kitchen. I jumped. I felt him watching me, puzzled. I looked around, no one seemed perturbed.
I told him I had been born on Cyprus, and except for university had lived there until the summer of ’75. I left at the beginning of the civil war, I said, if such a term makes sense.
He raised his eyebrows. It doesn’t, he said. He knew about war, he said.
Suddenly it was late. We ordered steak sandwiches from the bar menu.
Finally I said, “I really have to go.” I stood up and reached for my coat. He stood as well. “It’s been . . .” I began. Our eyes met. “Let’s leave it there,” he said softly, his long face creasing into a smile, then shadowed by a look of concern.
“I’ll be fine,” I said. He didn’t know that a woman professor had been murdered in Longfellow Park, a few blocks away. Or that a graduate student in anthropology was killed just around the corner, in her apartment on Mount Auburn Street, red ochre on her body suggesting a ritual slaying. But I was going in the opposite direction, and anyway, in my life it wasn’t the women who were slain.
I came back to the apartment, saw my face in the mirror, the flush on my cheeks, and said, “I’m not doing this.” I threw my clothes in the hamper, showered quickly, turned off the light, and closed my eyes.
“Where are you?” I asked now, peering through the horizontal pane of plate glass that in this office passed for a window. The snow fell thickly.
“I’m at the airport,” he said, “standing in a phone booth, calling you.”
I retrieved the new drawings from the clutter on my desk and rolled them into a tube, cradling the phone.
“All the flights have been canceled,” he said. “There is no way for me to get to Chicago in time for the meeting. So I was wondering. Do you want to play chess?”
Snow batted against the not-window. Who designed this Design School? A honeycomb of offices stretched out on either side of mine, the concrete walls radiating dampness. I had come in just to pick up the drawings, I was on my way to the island. I checked my watch: twenty to eight. I was wearing old jeans and a black sweater. I ran my fingers through my hair.
“Look,” I said, “I have to meet the surveyor on Martha’s Vineyard, and then we’re going to Nashawena, but why don’t you come. You can see the site, and then afterward, we can get oysters.” What was I thinking? But the answer is, I was thinking just that. He was intrigued by the project, he would like the adventure, I was sure he liked oysters. Why not?
I picked him up at the Aquarium stop on the Blue Line, he wearing a leather jacket, Italian loafers, and gray slacks, his bag slung over his shoulder. He was born in Budapest, had lived with rivers, studied in conservatories, a tall man at ease in his body, impervious to the weather. He threw his bag in the backseat and folded his long frame into the front. The smell of leather infused the car.
We drove south along the expressway, snow gusting against the windshield, erasing everything except a small stretch of road. The intimacy of the car was unsettling, lending a gravity to what had seemed a lighthearted adventure. I turned on the radio—Mozart in the morning. The slow movement of a piano concerto vied with the whirr of the defroster. Andreas took out his handkerchief and wiped the windshield. “Can you see?”
“Much better.” I found myself telling him my dream about driving blindly. In the dream, my eyes are literally shut, but my hands are on the steering wheel, my foot on the gas pedal, and the car is moving forward. I realize in the dream that this is wildly dangerous. I’m bound to hit something, kill someone. And yet nothing bad happens. The car moves ahead, the road goes uphill, the light is dim, sometimes it’s night. Farmhouses line the road. It’s somewhere in the country. I keep having this dream.
“Do yo...
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- PublisherRandom House
- Publication date2008
- ISBN 10 140006175X
- ISBN 13 9781400061754
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages256
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