A bunch of books we had forgotten we had set aside about a decade and a half ago suddenly resurfaced, and for the most part, it has been a pleasant surprise. This one though … not so sure. I thought the author was someone else, a male who had written books I only vaguely remembered, but remembered as enjoyable. So when the style felt completely different I checked the brief bio. I wish I could remember who I had thought Pat Barker was, but it was not this woman. At first I thought I must have gotten this book because of my confusion, but then I discovered that we have several other books by this woman (how did I not know that), so my wife must have recognized her name and if was she who picked it out (wonder if she has read those other books).
Unfortunately my initial confusion has colored by over reaction to the book itself, which is really unfair to this author. But still, having finished I see again the review on the front cover: tremendous piece of writing, sad and terrifying.’ Sad? Yes, somewhat. Terrifying? Except for one brief period about two thirds in, not at all. I think I have figured out the problem lies in two areas.
One is the main character; he seemed so detached; Barker even tells us so: ‘But he was used to switching off, to living his life in separate compartments.’ (13) If he couldn’t get involved, why should I? The second is my impression of the whole story. It felt to me to be a river, a river that split almost before it began, with one branch disappearing underground, to the point of being forgotten altogether. It did appear a couple of times, but usually the closest we got to that branch was a gurgle or two under the rocks.
The main branch glided along, mostly unconcerned by the events surrounding it. Then it suddenly rushed furiously downhill, threatening to fall off a cliff and take us all with it, but … it doesn’t. Instead it too disappears underground and when it comes back it is again ambling to the sea, where it spreads out in an alluvial fan and slides into the ocean.
The End.
Quotes that caught my eye
Clouds sagged over the river, and there was mist like a sweat over the mud flats. (1)
But he was used to switching off, to living his life in separate compartments. He’d learnt early, in his first few months of practice. That those who take the misery home with them burn out and end up so use to anybody. He’s learnt to value detachment: the clinician’s splinter of ice in the heart. Only much later had he learnt to distrust it too – its capacity to grow and take over the personality. Splinter of ice? He’s had colleagues who could have sunk the Titanic. (13-14)
‘It amuses me sometimes to think about the talking cure, and how it’s become a whole bloody industry, and how little evidence there is that it does a scrap of good.’
‘If you mean counselling, there’s quite a bit of evidence that it’s harmful, or can be. People who get counselling immediately after a traumatic event seem to do rather less well on average than those who don’t…. My guess would be that people are meant to go numb, and anything that interferes with that is … potentially dangerous. Equally, of course, the numbness eventually ears off.’ (200)
All these simple actions were so heavily invested with memories that he felt like a priest celebrating Mass. He searched for some way of making the handing over of a glass of red wine seem less sacramental, and failed to find it. (217)
The sun hung over the water, a dull red without rays and without heat, as it might look in the last days of the planet. (220)