Jersey Bookshelf: ‘Blonde’ by Joyce Carol Oates
Blonde (2000)
by Joyce Carol Oates
(Ecco Books)
Joyce Carol Oates once said Blonde is the book she’ll most likely be remembered for. Its 700+ pages are a fascinating descent into the mind of Marilyn Monroe who died at age 36 in 1962. It is, though, a work of complete fiction as Oates has repeatedly said. In Blonde, she envisions just what Monroe might’ve been thinking at key intervals of her life. The subject matter is ripe for invention as there are just as many conspiracy theories on her death as there are on the death of one of her lovers, President Kennedy. There have always been theories about how the President’s brother, Robert F. Kennedy (another one of her lovers) might’ve had her killed as she just knew too damn much. Nobody will ever know.
Oates lived and taught at Princeton from 1978 to 2014. She’s written 58 novels, plays, novellas, short stories, poetry, non-fiction (1987’s On Boxing is one of best books ever written about pugilism) and literary criticism. We covered her Zero-Sum earlier this year on Aug 5.
Blonde, her 34th book, was published in 2000. It begins when Norma Jean Baker is six. Her transformation into one of America’s most intense icons comes complete with self-doubt, a passionate innocence, an always searching and learning mind, an uninhibited libido and a flair for winning over hearts and minds in the few motion pictures she appeared in. The abortion, the miscarriage, the suicide attempts, the casting couch and the drugs makes her story an All-American nightmare. Along the way, Marlon Brando fell in love with her. But she married baseball superstar Joe DiMaggio instead, as well as playwright Arthur Miller and a cop, James Dougherty, when she was 16. With a paranoid schizophrenic mother and a husband (Joe) who pushed her to name names to the government of those flirting with Communism, she was constantly being stretched in all directions.
It got to the point where she didn’t even recognize the entity that America knew as “Marilyn Monroe.” She knew that wasn’t her. Oates brilliantly captures this confusion-of-self to the point where the reader should just accept that these thoughts in Marilyn’s head just might be pinpoint accurate.
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