Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

** spoiler alert ** I warmed to this in the last quarter of it; it was as if Cusk finally found some nugget of passion or warmth to nestle into. It became worth it. But most of the time I felt impatient with the long line of droning voices telling their little anecdotes. Almost self-parodying. Something in it switches over after the plane neighbour makes a pass at her. Shit gets real, or something. Like she can’t avoid the physical, or the impact of people on each other any more. Cusk pretends she’s taking oral histories, not looking for her own story, but she’s really REALLY looking for her own story. Trying to understand something that’s really dreadful, somehow. No one can be this detached - and she’s not. It’s all in the last story, Anne, who is seeking connection and sensation in real things after trauma. I found her insights on not being able to write after finding the summary of each idea inhibits her very true. Is that why the book is so elliptical (hidden behind silence, yeah?) - she’s trying to avoid creating something with a neat summary that will then stop it being able to be written? She needs to lull herself into a false sense of security to be able to write it. It’s not about me, it’s all these other stories, sure, that I can face. Oh, oops it’s about me and my terrible traumatic divorce.

I actually think this was really good, despite being cold and difficult. It’s hard to find a me to write with if you feel you don’t know who you are any more. The family life that’s gone is what this book is about. I think.