No contemporary author more precisely captures the hardscrabble spirit of blue collar workers in America's mill towns than Richard Russo. His characters may rail against change and their triumphs seem pale against the garish Technicolor of our tin plated times. If they occasionally falter, they persevere and that alone is a kind of victory. They never loose the sense of caring that they have for each other, something that seems to be fading from our culture like the image on a photograph left too long in the sun. Some degree of condescension always seems to find its way into the term "blue collar." It overlooks the fact that it was the spirit and determination of these people that, among other things, built this country, won two world wars, and still represents what is worth cherishing in America. Without them, white collars couldn't remain nearly as white.

All of these facets are expanded upon in Russo's Mohawk, Nobody's Fool, Empire Falls, and Bridge of Sighs. The author maintains a sense of optimism that ultimately prevails over the technological traumas that threaten the livelihoods, and thus the lives, of his vital, flesh and blood characters.

The chief dispenser of optimism in Bridge of Sighs is Louis Patrick Lynch -- "Big Lou" to his friends. His friends include just about everyone he encounters in Thomaston, New York, a mill town located not far from Albany. Lou is reluctant to concede the fact that his days as a milkman, delivering his product in shiny bottles as the sun begins to inch its way over the horizon, are numbered.

If Lou's indomitable spirit might be likened to a helium balloon, it falls to his wife, Tessa (as it does to many wives), to keep that balloon more or less tethered to the ground. She is something less than pleased when Lou buys a faltering neighborhood grocery store with the unlikely name of Ikey's. Typically, Lou is determined to make the place a great success, despite the ominous appearance of an A&P supermarket in the area. Just as typically, Tessa, while vowing never to set foot in the place, nevertheless applies her bookkeeping skills in an effort to put off what she regards as Ikey's almost divinely ordained failure.

There are a multitude of memorable characters in Bridge of Sighs, but the story basically revolves around three of them. Louis Charles Lynch, Jr. has his father's abiding good nature, but it is tempered with a healthy dose of his mother's pragmatism. Saddled with the stigma of being called "Lucy" after his kindergarten teacher read his name as Lou C. to the delight of his classmates, the boy was later the victim of a hateful prank inflicted upon him by other children. Although the incident leaves scars that never completely heal, Lou finds a guardian angel of sorts in Bobby Marconi, a cryptic tough kid from a very troubled family. The friendship assures Lou safe passage over previously treacherous bridges, in both literal and metaphorical terms. The relationship between them lasts a lifetime, despite Bobby's eventual flight from Thomaston and the fact that both men love Sarah Berg, the woman who becomes Lou's wife.

Bobby is the book's most atypical character and he was also, in my estimation, the one whose life was ultimately the saddest. Adopting his mother's maiden name of Noonan, he achieves world recognition as a painter and consequent success on a level that most people would sell their souls to attain. I sensed Russo's constant admonition that the women, the fame, and the money were all exacted at a tremendous cost. If there is one word that I would use to describe Bobby's life, it is solitary, a condition that is anathema to this particular author's vision of a worthwhile existence. Bridge of Sighs occasionally travels to Bobby's home in Venice, Italy, one of the most classically beautiful cities in the world, but its heart remains firmly implanted in Ikey's. I suspect that Mr. Russo's own heart has never wandered too far from places exactly like it.

Being a cynic by nature, I was waiting for this consistently marvelous book to take a wrong turn. That opportunity presented itself towards the conclusion, with the introduction of an African American child into the extended Lynch family. Suddenly, the iceberg of sentimentality loomed directly ahead. I shouldn't have worried. Mr. Russo deftly avoided collision and Kayla assumed an honored place among the others.

I had the very great pleasure of introducing Richard Russo when he presented a reading from Bridge of Sighs here at the Northshire Bookstore recently. He was gracious and open, conspicuously free of the important author affectations that I, perhaps unfairly, expected from a Pulitzer prize-winner. He told a standing room only audience that he writes books for the same reason that he reads them -- to find out what happens to the characters.

I remember when it occurred to me that I was nearing the end of the trail reading Larry McMurtry's epic western, Lonesome Dove. I had devoured the huge book up to that point, held spellbound by the adventures of Gus and Woordrow. I deliberately slowed my reading pace to postpone the unhappy, if inevitable, moment when they rode off into the last sunset. With the prospect of saying a final goodbye to the Lynch family, I did the same thing while I was reading Bridge of Sighs. It really is that good.

Richard Russo is the author of Mohawk, The Risk Pool, Straight Man, Nobody's Fool, and Empire Falls, which won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, and a collection of stories, The Whore's Child. He and his wife live in coastal Maine.

Berman Court

First, the facts.

My name is Louis Charles Lynch. I am sixty years old, and for nearly forty of those years I’ve been a devoted if not terribly exciting husband to the same lovely woman, as well as a doting father to Owen, our son, who is now himself a grown, married man. He and his wife are childless and likely, alas, to so remain. Earlier in my marriage it appeared as if we’d be blessed with a daughter, but a car accident when my wife was in her fourth month caused her to miscarry. That was a long time ago, but Sarah still thinks about the child and so do I.

Perhaps what’s most remarkable about my life is that I’ve lived all of it in the same small town in upstate New York, a thing unheard of in this day and age. My wife’s parents moved here when she was a little girl, so she has few memories before Thomaston, and her situation isn’t much different from my own. Some people, upon learning how we’ve lived our lives, are unable to conceal their chagrin on our behalf, that our lives should be so limited, as if experience so geographically circumscribed could be neither rich nor satisfying. When I assure them that it has been both, their smiles suggest we’ve been blessed with self-deception by way of compensation for all we’ve missed. I remind such people that until fairly recently the vast majority of humans have been circumscribed in precisely this manner and that lives can also be constrained by a great many other things: want, illness, ignorance, loneliness and lack of faith, to name just a few. But it’s probably true my wife would have traveled more if she’d married someone else, and my unwillingness to become the vagabond is just one of the ways I’ve been, as I said, an unexciting if loyal and unwavering companion. She’s heard all of my arguments, philosophical and other, for staying put; in her mind they all amount to little more than my natural inclination, inertia rationalized. She may be right. That said, I don’t think Sarah has been unhappy in our marriage. She loves me and our son and, I think, our life. She assured me of this not long ago when it appeared she might lose her own and, sick with worry, I asked if she’d regretted the good simple life we’ve made together.

Though our pace, never breakneck, has slowed recently, I like to think that the real reason we’ve not seen more of the world is that Thomaston itself has always been both luxuriant and demanding. In addition to the corner store we inherited from my parents, we now own and operate two other convenience stores. My son wryly refers to these as “the Lynch Empire,” and while the demands of running them are not overwhelming, they are relentless and time-consuming. Each is like a pet that refuses to be housebroken and resents being left alone. In addition to these demands on my time, I also serve on a great many committees, so many, in fact, that late in life I’ve acquired a nickname, Mr. Mayor—a tribute to my civic-mindedness that contains, I’m well aware, an element of gentle derision. Sarah believes that people take advantage of my good nature, my willingness to listen carefully to everyone, even after it’s become clear they have nothing to say. She worries that I often return home late in the evening and then not in the best of humors, a natural result of the fact that the civic pie we divide grows smaller each year, even as our community’s needs continue dutifully to grow. Every year the arguments over how we spend our diminished and diminishing assets become less civil, less respectful, and my wife believes it’s high time for younger men to shoulder their fair share of the responsibility, not to mention the attendant abuse. In principle I heartily agree, though in practice I no sooner resign from one committee than I’m persuaded to join another. And Sarah’s no one to talk, serving as she has, until her recent illness, on far too many boards and development committees.

Be all that as it may, the well-established rhythms of our adult lives will soon be interrupted most violently, for despite my inclination to stay put, we are soon to travel, my wife and I. I have but one month to prepare for this momentous change and mentally adjust to the loss of my precious routines—my rounds, I call them—that take me into every part of town on an almost daily basis. Too little time, I maintain, for a man so set in his ways, but I have agreed to all of it. I’ve had my passport photo taken, filled out my application at the post office and mailed all the necessary documents to the State Department, all under the watchful eye of my wife and son, who seem to believe that my lifelong aversion to travel might actually cause me to sabotage our plans. Owen in particular sustains this unkind view of his father, as if I’d deny his mother anything, after all she’s been through. “Watch him, Ma,” he advises, narrowing his eyes at me in what I hope is mock suspicion. “You know how he is.”

Italy. We will go to Italy. Rome, then Florence, and finally Venice.

No sooner did I agree than we were marooned in a sea of guidebooks that my wife now studies like a madwoman. “Aqua alta,” she said last night after she’d finally turned off the light, her voice near and intimate in the dark. She found my hand and gave it a squeeze under the covers. “In Venice there’s something called aqua alta. High water.”

“How high?” I said.

“The calles flood.”

“What’s a calle?”

“If you’d do some reading, you’d know that streets in Italy are called calles.”

“How many of us need to know that?” I asked her. “You’re going to be there, right? I’m not going alone, am I?”

“When the aqua alta is bad, all of St. Mark’s is underwater.”

“The whole church?” I said. “How tall is it?”

She sighed loudly. “St. Mark’s isn’t a church. It’s a plaza. The plaza of San Marco. Do you need me to explain what a plaza is?”

Actually, I’d known that calles were streets and hadn’t really needed an explanation of aqua alta either. But my militant ignorance on the subject of all things Italian has quickly become a game between us, one we both enjoy.

“We may need boots,” my wife ventured.

“We have boots.”

“Rubber boots. Aqua alta boots. They sound a siren.”

“If you don’t have the right boots, they sound a siren?”

She gave me a swift kick under the covers. “To warn you. That the high water’s coming. So you’ll wear your boots.”

“Who lives like this?”

“Venetians.”

“Maybe I’ll just sit in the car and wait for the water to recede.”

Another kick. “No cars.”

“Right. No cars.”

“Lou?”

“No cars,” I repeated. “Got it. Calles where the streets should be. No cars in the calles, though, not one.”

“We haven’t heard back from Bobby.”

Our old friend. Our third musketeer from senior year of high school. Long, long gone from us. She didn’t have to tell me we hadn’t heard back. “Maybe he’s moved. Maybe he doesn’t live in Venice anymore.”

“Maybe he’d rather not see us.”

“Why? Why would he not want to see us?”

I could feel my wife shrug in the dark, and feel our sense of play running aground. “How’s your story coming?”

“Good,” I told her. “I’ve been born already. A chronological approach is best, don’t you think?”

“I thought you were writing a history of Thomaston,” she said.

“Thomaston’s in it, but so am I.”

“How about me?” she said, taking my hand again.

“Not yet. I’m still just a baby. You’re still downstate. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“You could lie. You could say I lived next door. That way we’d always be together.” Playful again, now.

“I’ll think about it,” I said. “But the people who actually lived next door are the problem. I’d have to evict them.”

“I wouldn’t want you to do that.”

“It is tempting to lie, though,” I admitted.

“About what?” She yawned, and I knew she’d be asleep and snoring peacefully in another minute or two.

“Everything.”

“Lou?”

“What.”

“Promise me you won’t let it become an obsession.”

It’s true. I’m prone to obsession. “It won’t be,” I promised her.

But I’m not the only reason my wife is on guard against obsession. Her father, who taught English at the high school, spent his summers writing a novel that by the end had swollen to more than a thousand single-spaced pages and still with no end in sight. I myself am drawn to shorter narratives. Of late, obituaries. It troubles my wife that I read them with my morning coffee, going directly to that section of the newspaper, but turning sixty does that, does it not? Death isn’t an obsession, just a reality. Last month I read of the death—in yet another car accident—of a man whose life had been intertwined with mine since we were boys. I slipped it into the envelope that contained my wife’s letter, the one that announced our forthcoming travels, to our old friend Bobby, who will remember him well. Obituaries, I believe, are really less about death than the odd shapes life takes, the patterns that death allows us to see. At sixty, these patterns are important.

“I’m thinking fifty pages should do it. A hundred, tops. And I’ve already got a title: The Dullest Story Ever Told.”

When she had no response to this, I glanced over and saw that her breathing had become regular, that her eyes were closed, lids fluttering.

It’s possible, of course, that Bobby might prefer not to see us, his oldest friends. Not everyone, Sarah reminds me, values the past as I do. Dwells on it, she no doubt means. Loves it. Is troubled by it. Alludes to it in conversation without appropriate transition. Had I finished my university degree, as my mother desperately wanted me to, it would have been in history, and that might have afforded me ample justification for this inclination to gaze backward. But Bobby—having fled our town, state and nation at eighteen—may have little desire to stroll down memory lane. After living all over Europe, he might well have all but forgotten those he fled. I can joke about mine being “the dullest story ever told,” but to a man like Bobby it probably isn’t so very far from the truth. I could go back over my correspondence with him, though I think I know what I’d find in it—polite acknowledgment of whatever I’ve sent him, news that someone we’d both known as boys has married, or divorced, or been arrested, or diagnosed, or died. But little beyond acknowledgment. His responses to my newsy letters will contain no requests for further information, no Do you ever hear from so-and-so anymore? Still, I’m confident Bobby would be happy to see us, that my wife and I haven’t become inconsequential to him.

Why not admit it? Of late, he has been much on my mind.


From the Hardcover edition.

Louis Charles Lynch (also known as Lucy) is sixty years old and has lived in Thomaston, New York, his entire life. He and Sarah, his wife of forty years, are about to embark on a vacation to Italy. Lucy's oldest friend, once a rival for his wife's affection, leads a life in Venice far removed from Thomaston. Perhaps for this reason Lucy is writing the story of his town, his family, and his own life that makes up this rich and mesmerizing novel, interspersed with that of the native son who left so long ago and has never looked back.

Bridge of Sighs, from the beloved Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Empire Falls, is a moving novel about small-town America that expands Russo's widely heralded achievement in ways both familiar and astonishing.

"A magnificent, bighearted new novel [and] an astounding achievement. . . . A masterpiece."
—The Boston Globe

"A story of constantly evolving complexity and depth. . . . [Bridge of Sighs is] Russo's most intricate, multifaceted novel . . . enormous and enormously moving."
—The Washington Post Book World

"A novel of great warmth, charm and intimacy . . . richly evocative and beautifully wrought."
—The New York Times

"[Russo's] most ambitious and best work."
—USA Today

Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Distributor: Random House, Inc.
Publication Date: 08-12-2008
Pages: 656
Measurements: 8in X 5.2in X 1.15in X 1lb