4-COLOR / GLOSS LAMINATE with SPOT MATTE
F L O R E N C E
G O R D O N
BRI AN MORTON
F
L
O
R
E
N
C
E
G
O
R
D
O
N
BRI AN
MORTON
A N O V E L
A marvelous creation. VI VI AN GORNI CK
Always a pleasure to read for his well-drawn
characters, quiet insight and dialogue that crack-
les with wit, Morton here raises his own bar in all
three areas . . . [Florence Gordon is] a treat.
KI RKUS REVI EWS, starred review
Meet Florence Gordon: blunt, brilliant, cantan-
kerous, passionate, feminist icon to young women,
invisible to almost everyone else. At seventy-ve,
Florence has earned her right to set down the bur-
dens of family and work and shape her legacy at
long last. But just as she is beginning to write her
long-deferred memoir, her son Daniel returns to
New York from Seattle with his wife and daughter,
and they embroil Florence in their dramas, cloud-
ing the clarity of her days and threatening her
well-defended solitude. And then there is her left
foot, which is starting to drag . . .
With searing wit, sophisticated intelligence, and
a tender respect for humanity in all its aws, Brian
Morton introduces a constellation of unforgettable
characters. Chief among them Florence, who can
humble the fools surrounding her with one barbed
line, but who eventually nds there are realities
even she cannot outwit.
$25.00
Higher in Canada
0914
$25.00
ISBN 978-0-544-30986-9
Higher in Canada
Early Praise for Florence Gordon
Combining a rigorous intellect and a deep humanity, this is the story of a feminist hero,
a family coming together and apart, and the ways we interpret the past and attempt to
face the future. Most of all, Florence Gordon shows how passion of one type or the
other shapes a heart. ALI CE SEBOLD
Florence Gordon belongs on the very short list of wonderful novels about older women.
Florence, the brilliant, cranky, solitude-craving feminist writer, is an indelible char-
acter, and her New York the fading city of books and writers and melancholy odd-
balls lives on in these immensely pleasurable pages. KATHA POLLI TT
Morton offers up a fascinating family presided over by the irascible Florence Gor-
don . . . [His] characters are sharply drawn, vivid in temperament and behavior, and
his prose smartly reveals Florences strength and dignity.
PUBLI SHERS WEEKLY, starred review
A wise, compassionate, funny, rueful and altogether winning novel. Brian Morton
knows inside out this tribe of witty, thoughtful people who, for all their decent val-
ues and good intentions, cant seem to narrow the unbridgeable distance between
men and women, young and old, pride and compromise, solitariness and community.
Florence Gordon is his most ample, humane and vital book. PHI LLI P LOPATE
Florence Gordon is one of contemporary literatures most wondrous characters: awed
and brilliant, funny and serious, totally unforgettable. DARI N STRAUSS
Perceptive isnt a strong enough word to describe Brian Mortons insight into family
dynamics; psychic is more like it. From the nuances of a long marriage to the inevitable,
innitely sad divisions and tender connections between grandparents and parents and
children, Morton nails it all. And somehow he still manages to be funny, even as he
breaks your heart. EMI LY GOULD
Florence Gordon is a marvelous creation. Like many great characters in English lit-
erature, she is a sacred monster, fully realized and richly present in the pages of this
thoroughly enjoyable book. VI VI AN GORNI CK
Jacket design by Brian Moore
Jacket photograph Hiroyuki Matsumoto / Getty Images
Author photograph David Kumin
H
o
u
g
h
t
o
n
M
i
f
i
n
H
a
r
c
o
u
r
t
P
u
b
l
i
s
h
i
n
g
C
o
m
p
a
n
y
HOUGHTON MI FFLI N HARCOURT
www.hmhco.com
BRI AN MORTON is the author of four pre-
vious novels, including Starting Out in the Evening,
which was a nalist for the PEN / Faulkner Award
and was made into an acclaimed feature lm, and
A Window Across the River, which was a book club
selection of the Today show. He teaches at New
York University, the Bennington Writing Seminars,
and Sarah Lawrence College, where he also directs
the writing program. He lives in New York.
1581231
Morton_FLORENCE GORDON_jkt_mech.indd 1 7/8/14 3:28 PM
Florence Gordon
Brian Morton
Houghton Mifin Harcourt
BOSTON NEW YORK
201 4
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 3 6/30/14 12:07 PM
Copyright 2014 by Brian Morton
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,
write to Permissions, Houghton Miffin Harcourt Publishing Company,
215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhco.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
isbn 978-0-544-30986-9
Book design by Brian Moore
Printed in the United States of America
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 4 6/30/14 12:07 PM
1
Florence Gordon was trying to write a memoir, but she had two
strikes against her: she was old and she was an intellectual. And
who on earth, she sometimes wondered, would want to read a book
about an old intellectual?
Maybe it was three strikes, because not only was she an intellec-
tual, she was a feminist. Which meant that if she ever managed to
fnish this book, reviewers would inevitably dismiss it as strident
and shrill.
If youre an old feminist, anything you say, by defnition, is stri-
dent and shrill.
She closed her laptop.
Not much point, she thought.
But then she opened it up again.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 1 6/30/14 12:07 PM
2
She didnt feel strident or shrill. She didnt even feel old.
And anyway, old age isnt what it used to be or at least thats
what she kept telling herself.
This was her reasoning. Florence was seventy-fve years old. In
an earlier era, that would have made her an old lady. But not to-
day. Shed been a young woman during the 1960s, and if you were
young in the sixties bliss was it in that dawn to be alive theres
a sense in which you can never grow old. You were there when the
Beatles came to America; you were there when sex was discovered;
you were there when the idea of liberation was born; and even if
you end up a cranky old lady whos proud of her activist past but
who now just wants to be left alone to read, write, and think even
if you end up like that, theres something in your soul that stays
green.
She wasnt this seems important to say a woman who tried
to look younger than she was. She didnt dye her hair; she had no
interest in Botox; she didnt whiten her teeth. Her craggy old-fash-
ioned teeth, rude and honest and unretouched, were good enough
for her.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 2 6/30/14 12:07 PM
f l o r e n c e g o r d o n 3
She wasnt a woman who wanted to recapture her youth. In
part this was because she found the life she was living now so in-
teresting.
So she was a strong proud independent-minded woman who ac-
cepted being old but nevertheless felt essentially young.
She was also, in the opinion of many who knew her, even in the
opinion of many who loved her, a complete pain in the neck.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 3 6/30/14 12:07 PM
3
She was writing a memoir that began with the early days of the
womens movement the modern womens movement, her own
womens movement, the one that had been born in the 1970s. If she
could fnish it, it would be her seventh book.
Each book had posed its own diffculties. The diffculty with
this one was that she was fnding it impossible to bring the past to
life. Her memory was effcient; she could recall the dates and the
acts and the actors. But she was fnding it hard to remember the tex-
ture of the past.
Tonight she had fnally begun, she thought, to crack the code.
Shed remembered a moment that she hadnt thought about in years.
It was just a moment, not important in itself. But precisely because
she hadnt thought about it in so long, she was able to remember it
now with a sense of freshness, and she was hoping she might have
fnally found the door that would lead her back into the past.
She was free for the rest of the night. Shed had dinner plans
with friends, but with a secret glee shed canceled so she could stay
home and work. It was seven oclock on a Friday in early May; she
was through with her academic obligations and her mind was clear.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 4 6/30/14 12:07 PM
f l o r e n c e g o r d o n 5
And this evening, in which shed fnally, fnally, fnally begun to
make some progress this evening was the happiest one shed had
in a long time.
Except that Vanessa kept calling.
Her friend Vanessa kept calling, and Florence kept not picking
up. After the ffth call, she thought Vanessa might be in some sort
of trouble, and on the sixth, she fnally answered.
Thank God youre home, Vanessa said. Ive got a problem.
Whats wrong?
Nothing big. Nothing terrible. Its just that I got pickpocketed,
evidently, and I dont have anything except my phone. I need some
money to get back home.
Where are you?
Thats why I called you. Im three blocks away.
She named a restaurant.
Well Im right here, Florence said. Just come up.
Thats nice of you. But its a little bit complicated.
Why?
Ruby and Cassie had to run, and I stayed to pay the check, and
thats when I found out my purse was gone. So the owner doesnt
want me to leave. He wants to be sure Im not going to skip out
on him.
Vanessa, youre a very respectable-looking woman. Youre a
very old woman. Youre obviously not skipping out on him. Tell him
youre not Bonnie Parker.
Thats just what I told him. Thats exactly what I told him, in
fact. I told him Im not Bonnie Parker. But hes not being very un-
derstanding. I think he thinks I am Bonnie Parker. Im really sorry.
But itll just take a minute.
People, Florence thought as she put on her shoes. What do I
need them for again?
Hes afraid shell skip out on him. As Florence waited for the el-
evator, she was muttering to herself. She reminded herself of Pop-
eye the Sailor Man.
She crossed the street, still muttering. Muttering, and clenching
and unclenching her fsts.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 5 6/30/14 12:07 PM
6 b r i a n m o r t o n
She was doing this with her fsts because shed been having some
trouble with her left hand. Carpal tunnel syndrome. Her fngers
sometimes jumped around as if they had fve little minds of their
own. A neurologist had told her to get an ergonomic keyboard and
an ergonomic mouse and an ergonomic splint for her wrist; shed
gotten all of it, and shed faithfully done the exercises he prescribed,
but none of it was working so far.
Muttering, clenching, unclenching: I must look, she thought,
like a madwoman.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 6 6/30/14 12:07 PM
4
The restaurant was on Sixty-seventh Street, between Columbus
and Central Park West. She went inside, couldnt see Vanessa.
It was a fancy, expensive, somewhat full-of-itself restaurant. It
didnt seem like the kind of place where the owner would hold you
hostage.
The greeter, a somber-looking man, asked her if she needed
help.
Im looking for a friend. Woman my age? Couldnt pay her
bill?
Oh, yes. I know who you mean. Shes in the back room.
Theyve got her in the back room, Florence thought. Theyre
working her over.
He led Florence down a hall and gestured toward an entryway,
behind which the room was unaccountably dark. She stepped in,
and the lights went on, and the room was flled with people shout-
ing Surprise!
Surprise.
Friends from NYU, friends from the movement, friends from
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 7 6/30/14 12:07 PM
8 b r i a n m o r t o n
the writing world. Even her family was there: her daughter-in-law,
her granddaughter.
Vanessa was embracing her.
This was the only way we thought wed be able to celebrate you.
Its not my birthday.
I thought if we did it too close to your birthday, wed lose the
element of surprise. Youd know what was coming and youd never
show up. It was a delicate operation. Like trapping the mythical
yeti. We wanted to celebrate you. And we wanted to get you out of
your apartment so you could have some fun.
It was astonishing how little people know each other, even old
friends. I was having fun, Florence thought. I was having fun sit-
ting in my apartment and trying to understand our life, our collec-
tive life. I was having fun trying to make the sentences come right.
I was having fun trying to keep a little moment in time alive.
And now that was gone. She had been so close to seeing things
clearly, but it had felt so precarious, so fragile. Who could know
whether that little ficker of clarity would still be there in the
morning.
Janine, her daughter-in-law, and Emily, her granddaughter, were
at her side. Theyd been in New York for months now, and she
hadnt arranged to see them. She felt guilty for a moment, then re-
alized that the guilt was merely a sort of tribute she was paying to
convention in fact, she simply hadnt wanted to see them and
she stopped feeling guilty.
Happy birthday, more or less, Janine said.
Not that you look that happy, Emily said.
I wish someone had nipped this in the bud.
I tried. I tried to nip it, Janine said. I told them it was a bad
idea. But . . . Vanessa. Shes almost as much of a force of nature as
you are.
Oh Christ. Even Saul was here.
He put his arm around her shoulder. He seemed to be half drunk.
I couldnt not be here, he said. And I mean that literally. Your
friend wouldnt take no for an answer.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 8 6/30/14 12:07 PM
f l o r e n c e g o r d o n 9
Someone Florence half remembered materialized at her side
and told a long story about how hard it had been to get there from
Rockland County. Someone else told Florence a story about how
hard it was to tear herself away from her adorable but not yet house-
broken puppy. As Florence smiled and nodded and pretended to lis-
ten, all she was trying to do was hold on to the moments of clarity
shed experienced at her desk, and all she wished for was to go back
home.
In the womens room, she looked at the window. It was ten feet
off the ground. Maybe if I stood on the toilet seat I could lift myself
up to the top of the stall . . .
No. Too craven. Too undignifed.
She returned to the room where the celebration was in progress,
picked up a glass, and tapped a knife against it until she had every-
ones attention.
My friends, she said, Im touched that you decided to do this.
Im touched, and Im honored. What was it Yeats said? Something
like Think where our glory begins and ends, and say my glory was,
I had such friends.
There was a murmur of appreciation.
One of the things that I fnd beautiful about you all is that
you understand me. I know Im not easy to be with. Im a diffcult
woman.
Youre a gloriously diffcult woman, Vanessa said she always
gushed too much and others made noises of agreement.
Well, thank you. But whether Im gloriously hard to get along
with or just plain hard to get along with, each of you has found ways
to get along with me. Which is a tribute to your generosity, toler-
ance, and ingenuity. Because Ive asked you to put up with a lot.
And now Im going to ask you to put up with one more thing.
Im delighted by this surprise party, but Im going to leave you now,
because I need to get back to my desk. I hope you know that I truly
do appreciate this, and that Ill be here in spirit. And I hope you
have a wonderful evening.
She turned and left. It would have been nice to avoid meeting
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 9 6/30/14 12:07 PM
10 b r i a n m o r t o n
anyones eyes, but it was more important to keep her head up, and
therefore she saw the faces of several friends as she passed them.
They looked as if they werent sure whether she was serious.
Shed left her computer on, and as soon as she got home she
sat back down in front of it. It took a while for the fog to burn
away the fog of embarrassment or ambivalence or whatever she
was feeling but after a time she found that she was not so far
from where shed left off. She worked for the rest of the night with
satisfaction, and didnt give her friends and well-wishers another
thought.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 10 6/30/14 12:07 PM
5
After she left, no one knew what to say. Nobody even seemed to
want to look at anyone else.
Now you understand why I divorced her, Saul said.
People laughed, and went back to eating and drinking.
What the hell, Vanessa said. Lets have a party. Lets celebrate
Florence in absentia.
I think Ill celebrate her some other time, Saul said. Im out
of here.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 11 6/30/14 12:07 PM
6
Did he divorce her? Emily said to her mother.
Other way round, Janine said.
Thats what I thought. I cant even imagine them married.
Why?
Shes so independent. And he seems like he needs somebody
needy.
Janine was constantly surprised by the things her daughter came
out with. But parents always are.
For a parent, time is not a one-way street. In Janines mind, the
nineteen-year-old Emily was accompanied, shadowed, by the infant
Emily, and the toddler Emily, and Emily in all her other incarna-
tions. So when she came out with a shrewd perception or a sophisti-
cated thought, it was always something to marvel at, because it was
as if the fve-year-old Emily were saying it too. A parent is perpetu-
ally thinking, Where did she learn that?
Weve got the evening free, at least, Janine said. Wanna go to
the movies?
But can we not see anything self-improving tonight? Can we go
to something fun?
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 12 6/30/14 12:07 PM
f l o r e n c e g o r d o n 13
Only if you promise . . .
But Janine couldnt think of anything to make her daughter
promise. There was nothing she wanted Emily to change. This
hadnt always been true, and wouldnt always remain true, but it
was true right now.
Morton_FLORENCE-GORDON_F.indd 13 6/30/14 12:07 PM
