Your Memberships & Subscriptions
Download the free Kindle app and start reading Kindle books instantly on your smartphone, tablet, or computer - no Kindle device required.
Read instantly on your browser with Kindle for Web.
Using your mobile phone camera - scan the code below and download the Kindle app.
OK
Audible sample Sample
The Mermaid Chair: The No. 1 New York Times bestseller Kindle Edition
'Highly charged . . . full of sexual and spiritual desire. Every bit as moving and convincing as The Secret Life of Bees' Mirror
The Mermaid Chair: The No. 1 New York Times bestseller and award-winning novel, from the celebrated author of The Secret Life of Bees and The Invention of Wings. A beautiful and haunting exploration of human relationships, personal fulfilment and spirituality.
'Beautiful writing . . . Kidd's characters cherish storytelling' USA Today
'It's hard to put this book down for little things like sleeping and eating'Elle
In her forties, and married for half her life, Jessie Sullivan honestly believes that she is happy. She has a lovely home, a dependable husband and an accomplished and adored teenage daughter. But when shocking news about her mother compels Jessie to visit the island where she grew up, she finds herself drawn to Brother Thomas, a Benedictine monk on the verge of taking his final vows.
Amidst the seductive beauty of the South Carolina salt marshes, Jessie is torn between powerful new longings and her enduring marriage. After all these years she is finally beginning to understand who she really is and where she belongs. But she has still to discover how much of her old life has a place in the new one.
What readers are saying about The Mermaid Chair:
'I was drawn in from the first sentence and felt emotionally attached to each and every one of the characters. Couldn't put it down; loved it' Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars
'The telling of the tale was thoughtful and very beautiful and I felt that I'd shared Jessie's journey' Amazon reviewer, 5 stars
'This is a wonderful novel, spellbinding with characters that you can wholly visualise and want to know. The writing is very strong and not for a long time have I remembered the style, flavour and feeling of a novelist's writing long after I've finished it' Amazon reviewer, 5 stars
'This book spoke right to my heart, right to the pull and tug of what it is to be a woman, a wife, a mother. This book is beautifully written and has become my favourite amongst the Sue Monk Kidd novels that I have devoured' Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherTinder Press
- Publication dateFebruary 3, 2011
- File size4544 KB
Popular titles by this author
Editorial Reviews
From the Back Cover
USA Today
"The pages all but turn themselves."
Parade
"Soulful in its probing of the human heart."
San Francisco Chronicle
"Kidd draws connections from the feminine to the divine to the erotic that a lesser writer wouldnt see, and might not have the guts to follow."
Time
"Its hard to put this book down for things like eating and sleeping."
Elle --This text refers to the paperback edition.
Amazon.com Review
While Kidd places an obvious importance on the role of mysticism and legend in this tale, including the mysterious mermaid's chair at the center of the island's history, the relationships between characters is what gives this novel its true weight. Once she returns to her childhood home, Jessie is forced to confront not only her relationship with her estranged mother, but her other emotional ties as well. After decades of marriage to Hugh, her practical yet conventional husband, Jessie starts to question whether she is craving an independence she never had the chance to experience. After she meets Brother Thomas, a handsome monk who has yet to take his final vows, Jessie is forced to decide whether passion can coexist with comfort, or if the two are mutually exclusive. As her soul begins to reawaken, Jessie must also confront the circumstances of her father's death, a tragedy that continues to haunt Jessie and Nelle over thirty years later.
By boldly tackling such major themes as love, betrayal, grief, and forgiveness, The Mermaid Chair forces readers to question whether moral issues can always be interpreted in black or white. It is this ability to so gracefully present multiple sides of a story that reinforces Kidd's reputation as a well-respected modern literary voice. --Gisele Toueg
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.Review
Richly rewarding. -- Chicago Tribune
What saves The Mermaid Chair from the curse of the second-novel blues is its warmhearted, resilient heroine. -- The Baltimore Sun --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Booklist
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Bookmarks Magazine
Copyright © 2004 Phillips & Nelson Media, Inc.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.From Publishers Weekly
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
February 17, 1988, I opened my eyes and heard a procession of sounds: first the phone going off on the opposite side of the bed, rousing us at 5:04 a.m. to what could only be a calamity, then rain pummeling the roof of our old Victorian house, sluicing its sneaky way to the basement, and finally small puffs of air coming from Hughís lower lip, each one perfectly timed, like a metronome.
Twenty years of this puffing. Iíd heard it when he wasnít even asleep, when he sat in his leather wing chair after dinner, reading through the column of psychiatric journals rising from the floor, and it would seem like the cadence against which my entire life was set.
The phone rang again, and I lay there, waiting for Hugh to pick up, certain it was one of his patients, probably the paranoid schizophrenic whoíd phoned last night convinced the CIA had him cornered in a federal building in downtown Atlanta.
A third ring, and Hugh fumbled for the receiver. ìYes, hello,î he said, and his voice came out coarse, a hangover from sleep.
I rolled away from him then and stared across the room at the faint, watery light on the window, remembering that today was Ash Wednesday, feeling the inevitable rush of guilt.
My father had died on Ash Wednesday when I was nine years old, and in a convoluted way, a way that made no sense to anyone but me, it had been at least partially my fault.
There had been a fire on his boat, a fuel-tank explosion, theyíd said. Pieces of the boat had washed up weeks later, including a portion of the stern with Jes-Sea printed on it. Heíd named the boat for me, not for my brother, Mike, or even for my mother, whom heíd adored, but for me, Jessie.
I closed my eyes and saw oily flames and roaring orange light. An article in the Charleston newspaper had referred to the explosion as suspicious, and there had been some kind of investigation, though nothing had ever come of itóthings Mike and Iíd discovered only because weíd sneaked the clipping from Motherís dresser drawer, a strange, secret place filled with fractured rosaries, discarded saint medals, holy cards, and a small statue of Jesus missing his left arm. She had not imagined we would venture into all that broken-down holiness.
I went into that terrible sanctum almost every day for over a year and read the article obsessively, that one particular line: ìPolice speculate that a spark from his pipe may have ignited a leak in the fuel line.î
Iíd given him the pipe for Fatherís Day. Up until then he had never even smoked.
I still could not think of him apart from the word ìsuspicious,î apart from this day, how heíd become ash the very day people everywhereóme, Mike, and my motherógot our foreheads smudged with it at church. Yet another irony in a whole black ensemble of them.
ìYes, of course I remember you,î I heard Hugh say into the phone, yanking me back to the call, the bleary morning. He said, ìYes, weíre all fine here. And how are things there?î
This didnít sound like a patient. And it wasnít our daughter, Dee, I was sure of that. I could tell by the formality in his voice. I wondered if it was one of Hughís colleagues. Or a resident at the hospital. They called sometimes to consult about a case, though generally not at five in the morning.
I slipped out from the covers and moved with bare feet to the window across the room, wanting to see how likely it was that rain would flood the basement again and wash out the pilot light on the hot-water heater. I stared out at the cold, granular deluge, the bluish fog, the street already swollen with water, and I shivered, wishing the house were easier to warm.
Iíd nearly driven Hugh crazy to buy this big, impractical house, and even though weíd been in it seven years now, I still refused to criticize it. I loved the sixteen-foot ceilings and stained-glass transoms. And the turretóGod, I loved the turret. How many houses had one of those? You had to climb the spiral stairs inside it to get to my art studio, a transformed third-floor attic space with a sharply slanted ceiling and a skylightóso remote and enchanting that Dee had dubbed it the ìRapunzel tower.î She was always teasing me about it. ìHey, Mom, when are you gonna let your hair down?î
That was Dee being playful, being Dee, but we both knew what she meantóthat Iíd become too stuffy and self-protected. Too conventional. This past Christmas, while she was home, Iíd posted a Gary Larson cartoon on the refrigerator with a magnet that proclaimed me worldís greatest mom. In it, two cows stood in their idyllic pasture. One announced to the other, ìI donít care what they say, Iím not content.î Iíd meant it as a little joke, for Dee.
I remembered now how Hugh had laughed at it. Hugh, who read people as if they were human Rorschachs, yet heíd seen nothing suggestive in it. It was Dee whoíd stood before it an inordinate amount of time, then given me a funny look. She hadnít laughed at all.
To be honest, I had been restless. It had started back in the fallóthis feeling of time passing, of being postponed, pent up, not wanting to go up to my studio. The sensation would rise suddenly like freight from the ocean flooróthe unexpected discontent of cows in their pasture. The constant chewing of all that cud.
With winter the feeling had deepened. I would see a neighbor running along the sidewalk in front of the house, training, I imagined, for a climb up Kilimanjaro. Or a friend at my book club giving a blow-by-blow of her bungee jump from a bridge in Australia. Oróand this was the worst of allóa TV show about some intrepid woman traveling alone in the blueness of Greece, and Iíd be overcome by the little river of sparks that seemed to run beneath all that, the blood/sap/wine, aliveness, whatever it was. It had made me feel bereft over the immensity of the world, the extraordinary things people did with their livesóthough, really, I didnít want to do any of those particular things. I didnít know then what I wanted, but the ache for it was palpable.
I felt it that morning standing beside the window, the quick, furtive way it insinuated itself, and I had no idea what to say to myself about it. Hugh seemed to think my little collapse of spirit, or whatever it was I was having, was about Deeís being away at college, the clichÈd empty nest and all that.
Last fall, after weíd gotten her settled at Vanderbilt, Hugh and Iíd rushed home so he could play in the Waverly Harris Cancer Classic, a tennis tournament heíd been worked up about all summer. Heíd gone out in the Georgia heat for three months and practiced twice a week with a fancy Prince graphite racket. Then Iíd ended up crying all the way home from Nashville. I kept picturing Dee standing in front of her dorm waving good-bye as we pulled away. She touched her eye, her chest, then pointed at usóa thing sheíd done since she was a little girl. Eye. Heart. You. It did me in. When we got home, despite my protests, Hugh called his doubles partner, Scott, to take his place in the tournament, and stayed home and watched a movie with me. An Officer and a Gentleman. He pretended very hard to like it.
The deep sadness I felt in the car that day had lingered for a couple of weeks, but it had finally lifted. I did miss Deeóof course I didóbut I couldnít believe that was the real heart of the matter.
Lately Hugh had pushed me to see Dr. Ilg, one of the psychiatrists in his practice. Iíd refused on the grounds that she had a parrot in her office.
I knew that would drive him crazy. This wasnít the real reason, of courseóI have nothing against peopleís having parrots, except that they keep them in little cages. But I used it as a way of letting him know I wasnít taking the suggestion seriously. It was one of the rare times I didnít acquiesce to him.
ìSo sheís got a parrot, so what?î heíd said. ìYouíd like her.î Probably I would, but I couldnít quite bring myself to go that faróall that paddling around in the alphabet soup of oneís childhood, scooping up letters, hoping to arrange them into enlightening sentences that would explain why things had turned out the way they had. It evoked a certain mutiny in me.
I did occasionally, though, play out imaginary sessions with Dr. Ilg in my head. I would tell her about my father, and, grunting, she would write it down on a little padówhich is all she ever seemed to do. I pictured her bird as a dazzling white cockatoo perched on the back of her chair, belting out all sorts of flagrant opinions, repeating itself like a Greek chorus: ìYou blame yourself, you blame yourself, you blame yourself.î
Not long agoóI donít know what possessed me to do itóIíd told Hugh about these make- believe sessions with Dr. Ilg, even about the bird, and heíd smiled. ìMaybe you should just see the bird,î he said. ìYour Dr. Ilg sounds like an idiot.î
Now, across the room, Hugh was listening to the person on the phone, muttering, ìUh-huh, uh-huh.î His face had clamped down into what Dee called ìthe Big Frown,î that pinched expression of grave and intense listening in which you could almost see the various pistons in his brainóFreud, Jung, Adler, Horney, Winnicottóbobbing up and down.
Wind lapped over the roof, and I heard the house begin to singóas it routinely didówith an operatic voice that was very Beverly ìShrill,î as we liked to say. There were also doors that refused to close, ancient toilets that would suddenly decline to flush (ìThe toilets have gone anal- retentive again!î Dee would shout), and I had to keep constant vigilance to prevent Hugh from exterminating the flying squirrels that lived in the fireplace in his study. If we ever got a divorce, he loved to joke, it would be about squirrels.
But I loved all of this; I truly did. It was only the basement floods and the winter drafts that I hated. And now, with Dee in her first year at Vanderbilt, the emptinessóI hated that.
Hugh was hunched on his side of the bed, his elbows balanced on his knees and the top two knobs of his spine visible through his pajam...
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.From AudioFile
Product details
- ASIN : B00590YJ0S
- Publisher : Tinder Press; New e. edition (February 3, 2011)
- Publication date : February 3, 2011
- Language : English
- File size : 4544 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Sticky notes : On Kindle Scribe
- Print length : 420 pages
- Best Sellers Rank: #1,247,992 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #828 in Southern United States Fiction
- #5,727 in Women's Literary Fiction
- #9,666 in Women's Friendship Fiction
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Sue Monk Kidd's debut novel, The Secret Life of Bees, spent more than one hundred weeks on the New York Times bestseller list, has sold more than six million copies in the United States, was turned into both an award-winning major motion picture and musical, and has been translated into thirty-six languages. Her second novel, The Mermaid Chair, was a number one New York Times bestseller and was adapted into a television movie. The Invention of Wings, Kidd's third novel, was an Oprah's Book Club 2.0 pick, and also a number one New York Times bestseller.
Her most recent novel, The Book of Longings, was published in paperback on March 23, 2021. Released in 2020 to widespread critical and reader acclaim, it was an immediate bestseller and book club favorite. It has been translated into 17 languages thus far.
Sue is also an acclaimed memoirist, with titles including The Dance of the Dissident Daughter, her groundbreaking work on religion and feminism, as well as the New York Times bestseller Traveling with Pomegranates, written with her daughter, Ann Kidd Taylor. She lives in North Carolina.
Customer reviews
Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them.
To calculate the overall star rating and percentage breakdown by star, we don’t use a simple average. Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon. It also analyzed reviews to verify trustworthiness.
Learn more how customers reviews work on AmazonReviews with images
-
Top reviews
Top reviews from the United States
There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later.
You can taste the salty sea air and smell the murky island scents of Egret Island. You feel every horrific and blessed thing that Jessie experiences.
I have never fallen so completely in love with a book before. Her writing is beyond beautiful. It's startling and humbling. I found myself nodding and rereading lines, thinking YES that is exactly how it feels but how did she capture it so perfectly?
The book is brimming with brilliance. Some of my favorite lines are:
"The mind is so good at revising reality to suit its needs."
"There's release in knowing the truth no matter how anguishing it is."
"Sometimes the heart wanted what the soul demanded."
The story felt like a mid-life crisis crossed with a finding oneself journey.
Sue Monk Kidd's website describes the story as "the transendent tale explores the lush, unknown region of the feminine soul where the thin line between the spiritual and the erotic exists. Here is an unforgettable love story, between a woman and a monk, a woman and her family, and ultimately a woman and her own soul."
I think of it as a spiritual journey that leaves Jessie and the reader forever changed by calling into question the bonds of love and commitment. By reminding us that everything is a choice. Whether to leave a husband, to reunite with a parent, to be fully alive.
Sue Monk Kidd is a master of the writing craft. Her ability to set the scene is breathtaking and realistic. Her dialogue is poignant. Her character's internal thoughts vivid and engaging. There was not one point in the book where I wanted to put it down. Every aspect of the writing was engaging. I will be rereading this book for years to come, hoping to gain insight into how she does it.
Kidd's heroine in this, her sophomore effort, is Jessie Sullivan, a middle aged artist who is restless and feels cut off from both her family (husband and college-age daughter) after the trio has been exceptionally close during Dee's life as a child, and her own family roots. Her mother still lives on the fictional barrier island, Egret, off the coast of South Carolina, amongst colorful friends and near a monastery steeped in tradition. Jessie, however, has not been to the island in many years.
Called home by a tragic act of her mother (who has cut off her own finger, by design, and not by accident), Jessie uses the excuse of going to Egret to escape the doldrums of a marriage to Hugh, who has no idea that she is restless and unhappy.
Kidd gives us the rural traditions of life on the island, steeped in the culture of a mysterious and gaudy mermaid chair, upon which the tourist trinkets are based. Her mother's oldest friends, Kat and Hepzibah, are still there on the island, and her mother, up until the accident, has continued to cook for the monks at the Benedictine monastery. Jessie's memories, however, skip lightly over her mother, and are full of her brother Mike and her father, who died in a boat tragedy when the two were still young. Jessie and Mike had watched their mother fall further and further into religious fervor after his death, and both had avoided the island as much as possible when becoming adults.
Over the course of the next months, Jessie sort of absent-mindedly cares for her mother, whose emotional state is frailer than her physical problem. But her real goals seem to be getting to the bottom of the real reason her father died, along with pursuing a relationship with Brother Thomas (formerly an attorney named Whit, whose wife and unborn child also died in a tragic accident). Drawn together by physical chemistry and shared sorrow, Jessie and Thomas have an affair that resonates through Thomas' belief in God and the path he has chosen.
Interrupted by another senseless act of her mother's, Jessie is led to the truth about her father's death, led to face up to the destruction she has wreaked on her marriage, and finally led to really paying attention to what type of guilt and legend is causing her mother to behave so erratically.
Kidd's description of Egret Island, and her flashbacks to the tales of Jessie and Mike's childhood are written beautifully. The intimacy between Thomas and Jessie is tasteful and evocative. But Kidd cannot use the charm of Jessie's character to overcome the self-absorption she portrays, nor can she draw us into the Mermaid legend in the way that she used the spirit of beekeeping in the former novel. The ending to her tale is likewise, unsatisfying. And it is unforgiveable that the lovely people on this island, who all know the secret of Jessie's father's death, would keep enough of it from her to let her believe that the fire in which he died was caused by the pipe that she gave him. In this senseless act, they allow her to live with the guilt throughout most of her adolescent and adult life. One cannot believe that any of the islanders, who obviously care about Jessie, would do so, no matter that this is what her mother wants.
And so, Kidd gives us a flawed tale -- one, it's true, in which her ability to weave words and describe settings of real southern beauty and charm is unmatched. But the characters in the book play false, and the love affair, and its ending, leave a sense of shabbiness. The central myths of the tale, of strong and Catholic faith surrounding the tale of the Mermaid, are not really believable as written.
The Mermaid Chair draws you in and keeps your interest, but the vague sense of unease that the reader has throughout the tale of an unsettled, middle-aged woman, are not in keeping with the beauty of the writing.
Somewhere between 3 and 4 stars (when not comparing it to the Secret Life of Bees!), this book was perhaps conceived too quickly for Monk Kidd to find human themes that fit her mystical premise.
Top reviews from other countries
A painful and sensual journey full of imagery, interesting characters and human emotion.
Many women will relate. Very easy to lose yourself in this story.
Jessie goes home to an island off the Carolina coast after her mother, who cooks for the monks in the monastery next door, chops off her right forefinger. What compelled Nelle to do it? Nelle had been a normal, fun-loving woman till her husband Joe died in a boating accident, whereupon she became extremely, overbearingly religious. Jessie was nine at the time and has always felt the loss of her father keenly. As she was the one who gave her dad the pipe that supposedly ignited the leaking fuel, she has also carried a burden of guilt.
Jessie, now 42, and long-married to psychiatrist Hugh, is met by the eccentric Kat, Kat's simple daughter Benne, and Hepzibah, who has researched the Gullah culture (the descendants of African slaves). Kat, Hepzibah and Nelle have long been a trio. You could almost say: the three wise crones of myth and legend. Jessie finds her mother burying the severed finger by the statue of St Senara in the monastery grounds but is unforthcoming about the "why". They meet Brother Thomas, who is soon to take his final vows.
Suffice to say that things unspool from there. Jessie and Thomas experience an out-of-this-world love which is healing but destructive. The truth of Joe's death finally emerges. The symbology of mermaids plays a powerful role, and Jessie begins to paint them. The analytical Hugh is shocked into a new plane of understanding, as are Jessie and Thomas, and indeed, all concerned. The path to individuation never does run smooth.
This is a beautiful and wise book, with much to teach us. The salt marsh landscapes of the island are beautifully evoked, as is island life in general, including the indefatigable dog Max, who is owned by no one and everyone. A joy.