The Swimmers

“It’s just like flying. The pure pleasure of being in motion. The dissipation of all want. I’m free. You are suddenly aloft. Adrift. Ecstatic. Euphoric. In a rapturous and trancelike state of bliss. And if you swim for long enough you no longer know where your own body ends and the water begins and there is no boundary between you and the world. It’s nirvana.”

This quote demonstrates Julie Otsuka’s vivid narrative voice and her use of mixed points of view to create an intimate and emotionally charged narration. The imagery in the quote also evokes the idea of a womb, incorporating symbolism into the pool’s description.

“[O]ne of the best things about the pool is the brief respite it offers us from the noisy world above: the hedge trimmers, the weed whackers, the horn honkers, the nose blowers, the throat clearers, the page rustlers, the incessant music that is playing wherever you go—at the dentist’s office, at the drugstore, in the elevator taking you up to see the audiologist about that strange ringing in your ears.”

This catalog of aboveground noises encapsulates one of the novel’s structural devices—telling a story through a series of detailed lists. It also illustrates a subtle humor that permeates much of the narrative. The details in this quote convey the swimmers’ sense of burden and stress when they’re away from the pool.

“But to all of those who have left us—willingly, unwillingly, or under duress—we just want to say: you can come back anytime and slip back into your old lane. We won’t ask you any questions (‘Where were you?’). We won’t hold your absence against you. We promise to greet you warmly, but respectfully, and with a minimum of fuss. ‘Nice to see you again,’ we’ll say, or ‘Been a while.’ But keep in mind that the second time you leave us, there is no coming back.”

This message from the swimmers to those who have left the community exemplifies how seriously they take their bond. This is no casual attachment. The parenthetical aside offers an example of the novel’s unique narrative voice.

“But until that day comes you keep your eyes focused on that painted black line on the bottom of your lane and you do what you must: you swim on.”

The coming day in question refers to the inevitability of death, a motif in the novel. This directive sums up one of the story’s messages about this concept: Don’t wallow in despair at the prospect of death. Use the time you have before then to do what is needed and find joy where you can. Resilience is represented by the choice to keep swimming.

“Someone else suggests that the crack is not a crack at all but a wound that will eventually close up and heal, leaving behind only the faintest trace of a scar. For now, however, it just needs to breathe. ‘Give it some time,’ we are told.”

Symbolism appears again and again in this story. Here, the crack in the pool represents trauma and relates to the book’s discussion of mental health. This example of swimmer wisdom illuminates the profound insight hidden in the detritus of their neuroses.

“Can you be said to have seen something if you can’t remember what it was you just saw?”

Memory’s role in shaping and maintaining identity is an important thematic concept in Alice’s story. Hints of its relevance are sprinkled among the minimally related observations in Part 2, like in this quote, which sets up a meaningful question about Alice’s identity after the onset of dementia. Her daughter must grapple with whether Alice’s memories are still part of her if she no longer remembers events or people from her life.

“Others have heard that the crack opens up onto a second and deeper world that lies just beneath the surface of ours. An alternate and perhaps truer world with its own underground pool filled with faster, more attractive people in less-stretched-out suits who nail their flip turns every time.”

The pool already symbolizes an alternate, better reality to the one the swimmers occupy aboveground. In this meta-theory, another alternate, even better reality than the pool exists beneath the crack. Such musings from the swimmers are part of what makes their narrative fascinating and enjoyable to read. The idea of more attractive people in the world beneath the crack suggests the swimmers, like anyone else, have room for improvement in their self-acceptance.

“But most of the time it is simply there in the background, a faint but indelible razor-thin presence on the periphery of our world. So accustomed, in fact, have we become to the crack, that after a while we cease to see it at all.”

The swimmers eventually adapt to the crack’s presence, despite the panic and distraction it caused for several months. In the context of the crack symbolizing any major rupture in life, this end result represents an important concept explored in the book; human adaptiveness and resilience.

“The crack, he tells us, has not been altered or enhanced in any meaningful way and any changes we may detect in its appearance are solely due to minute errors in our own perception. If you stare at anything for long enough, you begin to see things that aren’t there.”

The Aquatics Director is responding to the swimmers’ personifying—and perhaps paranoid—observations about the crack, which has just returned after a brief disappearance. His comment about the crack speaks to the subjective nature of reality as any one person perceives it, which suggests the nature of identity may be subjective and changing as well.

“‘And those “experts”,’ says new member Alex, ‘do they even really exist?’ (‘And for that matter,’ asks metaphysician Gwen, ‘do we?’)”

The culture and conversations in her real-life pool’s locker room fascinated Otsuka and inspired her to write about them. These swimmers’ comments on the so-called experts who have proven to be no help at all reflect the book’s satirical portrayal of experts and expertise.

“She remembers thinking she had all the time in the world.”

In this brief sentence, Otsuka makes the challenges that face her characters relatable. Regardless of the specific circumstance, every reader has dealt with regret, a mood that permeates this quote and several scenes in the narrative. Such intimate glimpses into the characters’ inner thoughts and feelings help Otsuka build pathos in her writing.

“She remembers the words for ‘I’m sorry’ in Japanese, which you have not heard her utter in years. She remembers the words for ‘rice’ and ‘toilet.’ She remembers the words for ‘wait.’ Chotto matte kudasai. She remembers that if you dream of a white snake it will bring you good luck.”

The things Alice retains of her Japanese heritage remind the reader of all she stands to lose. Her identity is multifaceted, containing within it the ethos of multiple cultures and languages. The sum of what makes up an individual identity is staggering, and the thought of that loss can feel tragic.

“She remembers that today is Sunday, which six days out of seven is not true.”

This line calls into question the reliability of the details in the narrative, which are formed from what Alice remembers. It simultaneously points out that the nature of reality is subjective and is influenced by the human mind’s strengths and weaknesses.

“She remembers that she is forgetting. She remembers less and less every day.”

This summation of Alice’s memory loss makes it clear she is aware of what’s happening to her but powerless to stop it. It evokes the fear and despair a person with this diagnosis must experience, eliciting sympathy for Alice as a character and honoring her struggle.

“A few facts about your condition. It is not temporary. It is progressive, intractable, and irreversible. Ultimately, like life itself, it is terminal.”

This message to Alice from Belavista’s persona comes off as cold and uncaring, unwilling to nourish Alice’s hope or help her stave off despair. This creates a tone of condemnation toward the system of commercialized health care Belavista represents. At the same time, this line can be viewed simply as a true statement, one of the novel’s recurring references to death’s inevitability.

“There is no ‘meaning’ or ‘higher purpose’ to your affliction. It is not a ‘gift’ or a ‘test’ or an opportunity for personal growth and transformation. It will not heal your angry, wounded soul or make you a kinder, more compassionate person who is less judgmental of others.”

A tone of bitterness becomes apparent in this line about Alice’s dementia. It serves as a reminder of Otsuka’s personal connection to Alice’s struggle with this diagnosis and carries the weight of her emotional pain surrounding the subject. This line also helps establish one of the story’s conflicts, with aging and disease as antagonists against human life and dignity.

“Your main activity, of course, will be waiting. For the medication to kick in. […] Your birthday (a single candle on a frosted cupcake at lunch). […] For the next phone call from your daughter (“I’m fine!” you will tell her). For any small act of kindness. A hand on your shoulder. A tap on your wrist. A hug. A squeeze. A wink. A nod. [...] And last, but not least, for the sweet oblivion of sleep.”

Alice’s stay at Belavista is portrayed almost wholly as a negative experience. The images this line evokes go a long way in showing what she will go through and how little meaning and enjoyment will be left for her. Death is shown not only as inevitable but as a relief after one’s life is deprived of value.

“You may worry that you are in the wrong room. The wrong bed. The wrong life. That life outside is rolling right along without you (it is). That you are not wanted (you are wanted). That you are not well (you are not well). That you are not missed (but you are, more than you will ever know).”

Apart from epitomizing Otsuka’s narrative voice, this line shows her creative license with point of view. This part of the novel is narrated by the voice of Belavista, yet the final parenthetical aside in this line is clearly not the same. It seems to be the voice of Alice’s daughter, interrupting Belavista’s monologue with an urgent need to assure Alice she’s missed, and that she will not be lost or forgotten.

“And with each memory shed you will feel lighter and lighter. Soon you will be totally empty, a void, and, for the first time in your life, you will be free. You will have attained that state of being aspired to by mindful meditators across the planet—you will be existing utterly and completely ‘in the now.’”

Belavista’s comment to Alice employs irony to point out the important and perhaps underappreciated role of memory. Efforts to be “in the now” aim to mitigate or erase the influence of trauma. The Swimmers examination of trauma in the form of loss, however, posits that good and bad experiences—and memories—are inseparable parts of a person’s identity.

“Her first few days there, the nurse tells you, your mother wandered up and down the halls, knocking on doors, peering into closets, looking under beds, calling out for your father. Her panic, at being left alone. After a while, though, she began to settle down. Every day now she says the same thing: ‘My husband is coming to pick me up tomorrow.’”

This description of Alice at Belavista uses evocative imagery to create a mood of sadness and fear and a tone of guilt. It touches on several of the book’s motifs and thematic concepts, including anxiety, adaptiveness, and denial.

“When she asked you why you weren’t closer you said you didn’t know. You closed the door. You turned your back. You grew quiet and still, like an animal. You broke her heart. And you wrote.”

Alice’s daughter is effectively developed and characterized in this line about her relationship with her mother, which helps makes sense of her guilt and her desire to make amends.

“The last complete sentence she ever utters is ‘It’s a good thing there’s birds.’”

Due to neglect and deteriorating health, Alice stops speaking years before she dies. Her final sentence is meaningful to her character arc and the book’s themes of loss and identity. Though her cognitive and physical decline progress in one direction, toward disintegration, there is reason to believe her spirit is unchanged and that she hasn’t lost her capacity for joy and optimism.

“You have not heard the sound of her voice, now, in almost two years. Suddenly, she reaches out and grasps your arm. Her grip is strong but gentle. Her hand is unexpectedly warm. Your mother, you realize, is holding you. And for the first time in weeks you feel calm. Don’t stop. You stay like that, she with her hand on your arm, you on the sofa beside her, not moving, barely breathing, for several minutes, until it is time to wheel her into the Dining Room for lunch. The best five minutes of your life.”

Moments like this one allow Alice’s daughter to find some peace and approach acceptance in the wake of her mother’s death. Remembering and writing about these moments preserves them and honors their relationship.