The Glass Hotel

Jonathan Alkaitis is distinct, in part, for his curious, almost complete disinterest in Vincent. His heart clearly belongs to his birth family, and to his first wife, Suzanne. Vincent, on the other hand, is an attractive ornament. He does not pursue her. Like other supposedly precious things in his life, he buys her outright in a hassle-free arrangement. He does not long to possess immaterial things he cannot have, and in this sense, he is unlike other rich men in classic literature. The tension within Jonathan Alkaitis’s character arises from his capacity for self-delusion, and his ability to retain a weak lucidity.

In a novel with a more authoritative point of view, Alkaitis’s guilt would be firmly established, and justice would either be served or evaded accordingly. In The Glass Hotel, however, Alkaitis’s apposite punishment is to be haunted by ghosts he finds vexing, just as he found their living counterparts. His prison is a minimum-security haven, offering him more security and stability than his victims, who must piece together their lives in the free-market hell of constant compromise and looming houselessness. Nevertheless, the pity Alkaitis evokes from others is paradoxically greater than any pity shown to his victims, as he is granted a rich inner life by his author. The roles of victim and perpetrator are obfuscated in Mandel’s world.

Paul’s character exists almost entirely in relation to Vincent. He has very few thoughts which are not about her, inasmuch as his life is told in relation to hers. When he is young, his first failed responsibility is towards his younger half-sister. When he is in trouble, it is to Vincent he turns for help. When he achieves success as an adult, it is by stealing Vincent’s work. When he later talks to his therapist, the subject centers exclusively on Vincent.

Like Vincent, the core of his self is a void of eventual annihilation. In Paul’s case, this void is filled in part by substance abuse, and in part by patching together the work of others for his own benefit. As a composer, his ideas are stolen from Baltica (the band whom Paul’s careless behavior destroyed). As a visual artist, his work is directly stolen from his estranged sister. Yet, as an antagonist, Paul is strangely unmotivated. The novel suggests that his continued survival is symptomatic of a society which nurtures and protects the appearance of male genius without scrutinizing its sources.

Olivia represents the humanity of the people Alkaitis has victimized. She also represents faded glamour, and the consequence of beauty’s premature departure. Vincent does not train her eye on many of the people who surround her, but she takes a keen momentary interest in Olivia, only to size her up as a lesser person, uncharitably perceiving her as overeager: “You’re showing your hand,” thinks Vincent, as she sees Olivia try a little too hard to impress Alkaitis (147). Olivia’s importance to Vincent is instructive. In a patriarchal society, a woman is only valued for her aesthetic qualities for so long before being discarded and replaced. The only escape from this pattern, Vincent decides, through hard-fought independence—without which, one may find herself in a bad position, at the mercy of a predatory fantasist like Alkaitis.