I picked up this book because I love the poem the title is based on. I put it back down because it looked like a (trashy) romance book. I picked it back up because Jacobson had won a Booker and far be it from me to be a snob based on genre. I should have left it where I found it.
This book was awful to read. Initially, I resigned myself to the meandering, verbose and clearly trying to be ‘literary’ writing style but by the last 100 pages, I could not hack another profound maxim about love, or some deliberately disorienting indirect speech that was supposed to make me swoon at these awful, self-obsessed characters who were completely boring in the second half of the book.
Neither actually good love story nor literary fiction, this felt like an incredibly sex obsessed self indulgent exploration of the writer’s own fantasies- fantasies which he seemed to not even have a very nuanced view of by the end (how many times do you need to use the word perverse?!).
Like, come on, the “illness” the blurb alludes to is VAGINAL ATROPHY which comes out in the last 50 pages and makes them both weep so much despite the fact we were told about half way through that they ended up together and weren’t having sex. So why did I care? And why was I reading this utter ridiculousness?
Honestly, the novel felt quite claustrophobic because neither Lily nor Sam had any real relationships or conflict outside of each other and apparently the ubiquitous number of books they read (the time for reading they found is beyond me because 90% of their story is trying to find time to see each other outside of their respective marriages or getting ready for their ‘masquerades’ where I kid you not I had to read multiple passages about them WAITING doing nothing in anticipation to go to sex dungeons).
Jacobson used a lot of big words which made the novel overly literary without having any real meaningful engagement with these texts (I haven’t read any Lawrence so I may be slack) other than to show the cleverness of author and characters.
And don’t get me started on the characters. Why on earth did I never learn Lily’s last name but every two seconds it was Quaid this Quaid that?! It felt sexist. Written in 2024, set in 1995, it seemed really dated. Get over yourself, Byronic hero has been done. And for all of Lily’s control, she doesn’t even get a last name.
For what it’s worth I thought the dynamic of their relationship early on (before the ball in Amsterdam) was quite interesting, when it was just the belt, Quaid as submissive as they navigated their affair. Interesting for his character, until it became my masculinity this my manhood that my maleness bla bla bla. Particular highlight was Quaid’s one interaction with another man, Tim, who had come out as gay and he implicitly insults both his friend and Lily by saying, like Tim, their relationship destabilises him as a male. And while there’s some recognition of how self conscious this is, it’s never really challenged or actually resolved other than that at the end he doesn’t lust for Lily? After she almost kills someone he’s finally sick of the ‘perversion’ (no longer any nuance at all) and then they basically never have sex again? All while this flowery, obnoxious language continues? Okay?
The only emotion I felt at Sam’s death was relief.
Maybe a reminder I should be skeptical of ‘romance’ books. Noting 1 star is that I didn’t like it. Maybe it wasn’t that bad but I really struggled.
Why did I continue reading it? Because I didn’t have anything else to read and at the 200 page mark although I was over it I wanted to check off something else on my goodreads.