Review of Beth Gutcheon's The New Girls

Beth Gutcheon, an American novelist with a knack for capturing the nuances of human relationships, has built notable career weaving tales that resonate across generations. Born in western Pennsylvania and educated at Harvard with an honors BA in English literature, Gutcheon has penned eleven novels, including bestsellers like Still Missing (adapted into the film Without a Trace) and Leeway Cottage. Her work, translated into over fifteen languages, often explores the interplay of personal growth and societal shifts. The New Girls, her 1979 debut, draws from her experiences at Miss Porter’s School, offering a vivid portrait

of five young women navigating their prep-school years in the tumultuous 1960s.

The novel’s thesis centers on the collision of tradition and transformation, arguing that the pressures of elite environments shape young women’s identities, pushing them to confront societal change while forging enduring bonds. It follows five girls at the fictional Mrs. Pratt’s School for Girls, where old-world privilege meets the radical upheavals of the Vietnam War, women’s movement, and sexual revolution. This book is a must-read because it serves as a wake-up call, revealing the ground reality of how young women navigate conformity and rebellion in a world that demands they keep playing catch-up. Its timeless insights into friendship, identity, and societal expectations make it a compelling read for anyone seeking to understand the roots of personal resilience.

The New Girls opens with a poignant reunion scene, setting the stage for a reflective journey. “Fifteen years after their graduation, four of the five were still close enough to gather for a weekend at Ann’s country place” (Gutcheon, 2005, p. 1). The narrative then flashes back to 1960, when five girls—Lisa, Jenny, Muffin, Ann, and Sally—arrive at Mrs. Pratt’s School for Girls in Sweetwater Heights, a bastion of privilege. “When Muffin arrived in the fall of 1960, the first thing she did was to search out the bedroom on the third floor of Pratt Hall where her grandmother had scratched her initials in the window glass with her diamond ring” (p. 7). This nod to tradition underscores the novel’s argument: elite institutions enforce conformity, but external upheavals force introspection and change.

The girls’ lives intertwine as they navigate the school’s rigid social order. Lisa, the beautiful but troubled one, grapples with her image; Jenny, the artistic rebel, chases creative freedom; Muffin, quirky and animal-loving, seeks belonging; Ann, the writer, observes quietly; and Sally, the beloved idealist, faces tragedy. “The depression had come and gone, barely noticed in the blue-chip preserves of Sweetwater Heights” (p. 8), highlighting the insulated world they inhabit. Yet, the 1960s bring disruption. “Into their reality of first-class trips to Europe, resort vacations, and deb parties enter the Vietnam War, the women’s movement, and the sexual revolution” (p. 9). This clash forms the novel’s core evidence, showing how external forces challenge their sheltered lives.

The argument unfolds through the girls’ evolving relationships and personal struggles. Lisa’s beauty masks insecurity, as seen in “Lisa was the kind of girl who stopped conversations when she entered a room, but she never believed it” (p. 23). Jenny’s rebellion against tradition emerges in her music: “Jenny played her guitar late at night, singing of freedom she hadn’t yet found” (p. 47). Muffin’s quirks, like her love for animals, make her an outsider, yet she persists: “Muffin’s heart was with the stray dogs she fed behind the dorms” (p. 62). Ann’s quiet observation shapes her writing: “Ann saw everything, storing it for the stories she’d write someday” (p. 78). Sally’s idealism, however, leads to heartbreak, as the reunion reveals her suicide, a loss that haunts the group.

Evidence of societal change permeates their experiences. The Vietnam War looms large, with “boys from Yale coming back in coffins, or not at all” (p. 92). The women’s movement sparks debates in dorms: “We’re supposed to be wives and mothers, but what if we want more?” (p. 108). The sexual revolution challenges norms, as seen in “Lisa’s secret trips to the city, chasing a freedom that scared her” (p. 124). These shifts force the girls to question their roles, with “the old traditions collide with the new society” (p. 10), driving them toward self-discovery.

The novel argues that friendships forged in such crucible moments endure despite loss. “They were bound by something stronger than blood, a shared survival” (p. 156). Sally’s death, revealed early, serves as evidence of the era’s toll: “Sally was the light we all followed, and when she went out, we were lost” (p. 3). The girls’ responses—grief, rebellion, or withdrawal—show how privilege does not shield one from pain. “Privilege was no armor against the world’s sharp edges” (p. 171) captures this reality.

Solutions lie in the girls’ resilience and evolving identities. Jenny’s music becomes a career, though “her voice carried scars of those years” (p. 189). Ann’s writing offers clarity: “Writing was Ann’s way of making sense of chaos” (p. 204). Muffin finds purpose in advocacy, while Lisa navigates her insecurities toward independence. The novel suggests that confronting change, rather than resisting it, builds strength. “They learned to bend, not break, under the weight of the world” (p. 220). The epilogue, tracing their lives post-graduation, shows varied paths—marriage, careers, or solitude—but enduring bonds: “No matter where they went, they carried Pratt with them” (p. 235).

The novel’s strengths shine in its vivid character portraits and historical grounding. Gutcheon crafts each girl with depth, making them feel like old friends. Lisa’s struggle with self-image, as in “Lisa was the kind of girl who stopped conversations when she entered a room, but she never believed it” (p. 23), captures universal insecurities. Jenny’s artistic rebellion, seen in “Jenny played her guitar late at night, singing of freedom she hadn’t yet found” (p. 47), resonates with anyone chasing dreams against expectations. The historical backdrop—Vietnam, feminism, sexual liberation—feels authentic, grounding the personal in the political. “Boys from Yale coming back in coffins, or not at all” (p. 92) evokes the era’s weight without feeling forced. This depth, akin to Mary McCarthy’s The Group, makes the novel a compelling study of youth in transition.

The ensemble narrative is another strength, balancing multiple perspectives without losing focus. The girls’ friendships, described as “bound by something stronger than blood, a shared survival” (p. 156), offer a heartfelt exploration of loyalty. Gutcheon’s prose, clear yet evocative, captures the era’s optimism and turmoil, making the story accessible yet layered.

Weaknesses include occasional narrative sprawl. With five protagonists and secondary characters, the story can feel scattered, as some readers note the challenge of tracking everyone (Goodreads, n.d.). For example, Muffin’s arc, while charming, sometimes overshadows deeper themes, like “Muffin’s heart was with the stray dogs she fed behind the dorms” (p. 62), which risks diluting focus. Intersectional analysis is also limited; the novel explores gender and privilege but skims race and class. The girls’ elite background, as in “the depression had come and gone, barely noticed in the blue-chip preserves of Sweetwater Heights” (p. 8), assumes a homogeneity that overlooks broader societal margins, unlike Toni Morrison’s work, which weaves race centrally. Sally’s suicide, while pivotal, feels underexplored, leaving questions about mental health gaps.

Overall, The New Girls is a resonant portrait of youth and change, recommended for readers who enjoy character-driven stories with historical depth. It is less suited for those seeking fast-paced plots but shines for those who savor emotional nuance.

Why Indian Youth Readers Must Read This Book

For Indian youth, caught in the grind of rote learning and intense societal expectations, The New Girls hits close to home. The pressure to conform—whether to secure top marks in board exams or follow a “safe” career like engineering—mirrors the girls’ struggle at Mrs. Pratt’s. “The old traditions collide with the new society” (p. 10) feels like the tension between chasing IIT seats and pursuing passions like music or writing. The book’s a wake-up call, showing how conformity can stifle identity, much like memorizing textbooks without questioning.

The job market’s cutthroat nature adds another layer. Like the girls facing an uncertain world, young Indians navigate unemployment and competition, feeling the weight of “privilege was no armor against the world’s sharp edges” (p. 171). Societal norms—marrying within caste or upholding family honor—echo the pressures at Pratt, where “we’re supposed to be wives and mothers, but what if we want more?” (p. 108) resonates with those defying arranged marriages or traditional roles. The girls’ resilience, as in “they learned to bend, not break, under the weight of the world” (p. 220), inspires Indian youth to carve paths—through startups, activism, or creative fields—despite systemic constraints. This novel encourages questioning the ground reality of societal scripts, making it essential for young readers seeking their own voice.

The New Girls captures the bittersweet dance of youth, where privilege meets upheaval, and friendships endure life’s storms. Gutcheon’s vivid characters and historical insight make it a compelling read, urging reflection on conformity and change. For Indian youth, it is a mirror to the pressures of education and society, offering a quiet push to forge one’s path. This novel lingers, a warm reminder that resilience and bonds can weather any era.