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The Hotel Caiette—the secluded, glass-walled, luxury hotel of the novel’s title—is a multifaceted symbol. As an image of 21st-century wealth, it both speaks to the characters' unattainable desires, and represents a purposeful narrative obfuscation.
As for unattainable desires, the hotel gives an illusory promise. So often, the wealthy aspire to separate themselves from the messy realities of modern life, and this glass hotel would seem to provide them that opportunity. It is a location to which the characters return continually, either physically or mentally.
Part of the hotel’s symbolic character, however, lies in its most salient aesthetic features. Some of the wealthiest early 20th-century architecture celebrated expansive, opaque surfaces, employing gothic ornament and substantive materials like marble and iron. Such a style may partly comprise the novel’s setting, with its stately, multi-generational stories of wealthy families. In contrast, the architectural earmark of wealth in the 21st century is the appearance of transparence—whether by glass skyscrapers or tech-firm campuses secluded in wilderness retreats. The Hotel Caiette, too, is secluded in the deep wilderness, accessible only by rarified transportation and formed using large sheets of glass that reflect its surroundings. As a “glass hotel” itself, the novel is composed of shifting perspectives and transparent overlays, constantly diverting the viewer from a fixed point of view. Deflection is a principal action of the novel's protean narration, thwarting the reader’s witness to root causes for the central characters’ unhappiness.
Marie Prevant muses, “We move through this world so lightly” (267). She and her husband Leon leave behind everything they knew in order to live in a recreational vehicle, in the “shadow country” of American poverty (267). In the word of the novel, disembodied ghosts may be real, at least to some of the characters; Vincent, Alkaitis, and Paul all hallucinate images of the dead in broad daylight, just as if they were in a ghost story. In the novel, ghostliness stands as a metaphor for the characters’ emotional and social states.
This motif becomes literal for many of the characters, who witness daylight hallucinations of the dead people who most affect their consciousnesses. Alkaitis is visited not by Suzanne, who was most sympathetic to him, but by Faisal and Olivia, his victims. Early on, Paul is haunted by the ghost of Charlie Wu, the musician to whom he gave fatally tainted Ecstasy. Vincent sees her spectral mother on the eve of her financial collapse. These ghosts share a common victimhood at the hands of a cruel world’s predatory schemes; in the end, Vincent joins their ranks, haunting her brother and husband before sinking away to join her deceased mother. Yet the living haunt their aggressors in a functionally identical way, exiled to the margins of society but still present in their aggressor’s peripheral vision. Marie Prevant may move through the world lightly, but she weighs heavily on the conscience of those who have wronged her.
In 1958, Olivia turns the tables on Lucas by offering to be his model in exchange for him doing the same for her. In 1958, one might assume that the relationship of subject and object would be one-sided, with an active male observer in control, and a passive female as mere matter and inspiration for the male artistic genius; Olivia’s proposition defies that assumption. Presumably, Lucas would have portrayed Olivia as any honest painter would, presenting her flaws and all—yet his outrage is fierce when Olivia does the same, presenting the track marks from heroin abuse on his arms for the world to see.
This reversal of social norms could represent a democratic leveling of the playing field. In the conservative imagination, however, it is an invitation to disorder—and, regardless of her intention, disorder follows Olivia’s bold portraiture. Lucas overdoses soon after the painting is complete, and Olivia’s work goes unrecognized for its power, leaving her in a years-long decline that makes her vulnerable to Alkaitis’s scheme. Such pessimistic narratives of decline represent a reactive cultural mindset that resists change in favor of strong traditional authority.
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