Whenever I really struggle with a book, I try to start from a place of authorial intent: what did the writer wish to accomplish with their writing? I find this particularly useful with postmodern + experimental work, as it lets me divorce my reaction to the form from my reaction to the work itself. Sometimes the answer is onanistic delight (If On A Winter's Night A Traveler, Pale Fire); sometimes it is meant to conjure a certain thesis about the exultatory power of art itself (Cloud Atlas, Ship of Theseus); sometimes it is meant to discuss the subjectivity of perspective and importance of interiority (Rashomon, The Hunting Gun).
Diaz' message with Trust is a melange of the latter two: art and capital are more similar forms of power than you suspect, he argues, and power has a tendency to occlude itself.
This is a bold organizing ethos — it is no wonder this book contended for and won a Pulitzer! — but it is hard to find much supporting material in the prose and character work.
We open Trust with a novella called Bonds, which we later understand to be considered not just (to quote the book itself!) a literary achievement that could have come from Edith Wharton or Henry James but a scathing exposé akin to those of Sinclair Lewis. Instead, it reads like a Wikipedia summary of the Carnegie family, with flat prose and characters sanded down to one-sentence flash cards.
This is what I've grown to call the Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip problem: it's really hard to depict diegetically what the reader must consider "a great work", whether its sketch comedy (in Studio 60's case) or bold, brilliant early twentieth century writing (in Trust's).
And once we've escaped the meta-fictional world of Bonds into the world of the Bevels, on whom Bonds is purportedly based, things are no better. Much post-Pulitzer hay has been made of Trust's desire to understand capital and patriarchy; this desire, if extant, is bloodless. Many sums, movements, and theories about capital, financialization, and soft power are discussed — they all seem as though Diaz spent his time trawling through Investopedia, and assuming his readers are more interested in vibes than barbs. (This inattention to detail transcends the financial aspects of Trust. Diaz also, not thinking readers of a memoir from a New Yorker writer would know what the Voynich Manuscript is, dedicates a two page exegesis to it; he also deploys gaslighting as a verb even though that phrasology only began in recent decades.)
The final section of the book — in which we are revealed that more than anything Trust is a murder mystery, and we get to hear from the woman behind the mask — is both the most controversial and the most interesting. Diaz is most interested in a sort of meta-feminism, revealing that Mildred orchestrated (really) the Great Depression. From an interview:
Mildred was not a victim, was not a sacrificial lamb. And I think the passage that you just quoted shows her agency and with agency comes responsibility, mistakes or the possibility of making mistakes.
I think this is where Trust succeeded the most — the visceral joy you get when suddenly you get to recontextualize all that came before, and various puzzle pieces lock into place.
But it's a shame about all the other stuff along the way.
★★
Highlights
Today's gentleman is yesterday's upstart.
I am a financier in a city ruled by financiers. My father was a financier in a city ruled by industrialists. His father was a financier in a city ruled by merchants. His father was a financier in a city ruled by a tight-knit society, indolent and priggish, like most provincial aristocracies. These four cities are one and the same, New York.
"There is a better world,” a man said. “But it's more expensive."
