The Passage of Time

This morning I was reading "The New Yorker" magazine (May 30, 2011) and my attention got caught on a book review on page 83. The novel was We Had It So Good, by Linda Grant. I've never read her work, so what caught my interest wasn't about the novel itself, it was about the review. The review said this: "There is no plot---only the passage of time, which forces the characters through history...life loses its immediate heat; the past is reduced to a series of nouns, black words arranged on a cold white background."
I've been meditating on that this morning. Would someone say that about my novel? Daftwooly (on Amazon.com) gave me a very good reading, which translated into 4 stars. He or she must be a gentle soul. I'm so lucky to have this review. And (not "but," and) his last two sentences said, " The book has much in the way of post-modernity about it, and I didn't quite get how it all added up in the end. But it is nonetheless an excellent read."
So here is my response to Daftwooly: In one sense, it doesn't add up in the end; no life does. Think of the architect who conceived the Twin Towers, only a twinkle in his/her mind's-eye at first. Think of all the "heavy lifting" to bring that project to conclusion. And finally, his life all added up! Until. Or maybe it added up as a disaster? But not necessarily. We are left with the passage of time, and perhaps with jaded spirits (who have lost their immediate heat"). And now all that's left are words, a poor representation of reality. Words like dead plants?
I can imagine that Linda Grant's novel was more than "forcing the characters through history." If I was writing a novel about the passage of time (I did), I would be making the word "passage" contemplative. I would make the passage carry them, as in God carrying us. I would make each moment a moment in eternity, a living in eternity right now, a destiny perhaps, a moment with wonders to explore.
I get it about language. It can be cold and false. That's why I chose song, because it has something beautifully divine about it, even when it's expressing the ways of beings who are hugely inadequate. Writing to my mind is alchemy; we keep going for the gold, and I don't mean money.
I would add up my novel [Blacktime Song by Rosalie Wolfe] this way if I had to right at this very moment: The grown woman protagonist made it through many changes, and still loved God. Her daughter, at the moment the novel ends, is thriving in a life full of possibilities. Both characters still live in gratitude, a virtue that matters to me. I hope God's eye has a twinkle in it for these two characters. I do. I can't help it.
As for Mark Twain's Afterword, he speaks for me, even if I'm not yet beyond the veil.