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Ripeness
It is the 60s and, just out of school, Edith finds herself travelling to rural Italy. She has been sent by her mother with strict instructions: to see her sister, ballet dancer Lydia, through the final weeks of her pregnancy, help at the birth and then make a phone call which will seal this baby’s fate, and his mother’s.
Decades later, happily divorced and newly energized, Edith is living a life of contentment and comfort in Ireland. When her best friend Maebh receives a call from an American man claiming to be her brother, Maebh must decide if she will meet him, and she asks Edith for help.
Ripeness by Sarah Moss is an extraordinary novel about familial love and the communities we create, about migration and new beginnings, and about what it is to have somewhere to belong.
Decades later, happily divorced and newly energized, Edith is living a life of contentment and comfort in Ireland. When her best friend Maebh receives a call from an American man claiming to be her brother, Maebh must decide if she will meet him, and she asks Edith for help.
Ripeness by Sarah Moss is an extraordinary novel about familial love and the communities we create, about migration and new beginnings, and about what it is to have somewhere to belong.
304 pages, Hardcover
First published May 22, 2025
248 people are currently reading
5881 people want to read
About the author
Sarah Moss
33 books1,880 followersSarah Moss is the award-winning author of six novels: Cold Earth, Night Waking, selected for the Fiction Uncovered Award in 2011, Bodies of Light, Signs for Lost Children and The Tidal Zone, all shortlisted for the prestigious Wellcome Prize, and her new book Ghost Wall, out in September 2018.
She has also written a memoir of her year living in Iceland, Names for the Sea, which was shortlisted for the RSL Ondaatje Prize in 2013.
Sarah Moss is Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Warwick in England.
She has also written a memoir of her year living in Iceland, Names for the Sea, which was shortlisted for the RSL Ondaatje Prize in 2013.
Sarah Moss is Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Warwick in England.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 324 reviews
September 30, 2025
In 1967, our protagonist, Edith, is 17, fresh from completing school, and is instructed by her mother to travel to Italy for the summer to help her ballet dancer sister, Lydia, with her final weeks of pregnancy, the delivery, and the duties that follow. Edith's relationship with Lydia is complicated. The whole arrangement proves to be awkward and isolating for her.
In 2023, Edith is energetic at 73, divorced, and contentedly living alone in Ireland for some years. Her Irish friend, Maebh, has asked for help after receiving a phone call from an American man who claims to be her brother...
Ripeness began slowly, but the music of Moss's gorgeous prose hooked me in, and it soon became an addictive and memorable read. The two timelines alternate by chapter, with a third-person narrative in 2023, and in 1967, the narrative is primarily Edith's first-person voice, with a deliberate purpose.
An immersive reading experience, the audiobook is narrated by Flora Montgomery, who uses multiple accents to reflect the authenticity of the characters and better complement the recounting of this story. The audiobook is my preference, and a lovely compliment to the print and digital versions.
Ripeness has meaningful, challenging, and resonating themes of belonging and relocation, what it feels like to be an outsider, and the complexity of making a home in new places. Initially, the timelines felt disconnected, but Moss's clever way of weaving similar themes through both timelines gives a hungry reader food for thought!
4⭐
Thank you to Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Macmillan Audio, and Sarah Moss for the gifted DRC and ALC through NetGalley. This is my honest and voluntary review.
In 2023, Edith is energetic at 73, divorced, and contentedly living alone in Ireland for some years. Her Irish friend, Maebh, has asked for help after receiving a phone call from an American man who claims to be her brother...
Ripeness began slowly, but the music of Moss's gorgeous prose hooked me in, and it soon became an addictive and memorable read. The two timelines alternate by chapter, with a third-person narrative in 2023, and in 1967, the narrative is primarily Edith's first-person voice, with a deliberate purpose.
An immersive reading experience, the audiobook is narrated by Flora Montgomery, who uses multiple accents to reflect the authenticity of the characters and better complement the recounting of this story. The audiobook is my preference, and a lovely compliment to the print and digital versions.
Ripeness has meaningful, challenging, and resonating themes of belonging and relocation, what it feels like to be an outsider, and the complexity of making a home in new places. Initially, the timelines felt disconnected, but Moss's clever way of weaving similar themes through both timelines gives a hungry reader food for thought!
4⭐
Thank you to Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Macmillan Audio, and Sarah Moss for the gifted DRC and ALC through NetGalley. This is my honest and voluntary review.
July 28, 2025
This is my first read of this author.
Edith is narrating this story, she is in her early seventies and lives in Ireland….she tells her story in two strands.. one present day not long after the pandemic, and of herself at 17 living in rural England, the family farm., and being sent to Italy to be with her 19 yr old pregnant sister.
Lydia, the sister, is a ballerina and Edith will stay with her until after the baby is born and nuns come and take the baby to be adopted as prearranged and then Edith will go to Oxford.
Present day .. Edith is happily divorced quite some years now and spends time with her lover, Gunter.. and she also has a close friend Meabh.
Edith is writing the story down (to be opened upon her death) to that baby nephew of hers (a grown man now) in case he ever comes looking.
I really enjoyed this story and it is also filled with thoughts on nationalism, displacement, belonging…where is your place in this world?
It gives you a lot to think about.
Thank you to Netgalley and Farrar, Straus and Giroux for the ARC!
May 12, 2025
I've read a number of this author's novels now, plus her memoir, so I was already a fan, but for me Ripeness is a step up. More than a week after finishing it, I can't stop thinking about it, and I'm not even sure I can articulate why - it definitely struck a chord.
In alternating chapters we follow the main character Edith in the present day as an elderly divorcée living on the west coast of Ireland, and as a 17 year old in the 1960s spending part of her enforced gap year (by her parents; too immature to take her place at Oxford just yet) in the north of Italy. She feels like an outsider in both places, for different reasons, and this is one of the strong themes of the novel.
Young Edith has been sent to Italy to support her older sister, Lydia, through the final weeks of her unplanned pregnancy. No initiative or decision-making will be required; the professional ballet dancer will give birth, hand the child over to a French convent, then return to work with her ballet company in London. All Edith has to do is to make the phone call when the baby is born. She does not expect to be so affected by the event or by the child.
Years later in Ireland, Edith has had a good life including a relatively good divorce. She loves her (now adult) child Pat, but had never wanted to give him a sibling. Now living in the former marital holiday cottage, Edith has emerged from the COVID lockdowns back into a life of swimming, long walks, catching up with good friends and sharing regular intimacies with an undemanding lover. Her small village community and simple life suit her and how she wants to live. It's only when the stakes are raised that she's reminded that, despite living in Ireland for 30 or so years, she's still an outsider. An Englishwoman and a Jew in a land of Irish Catholics.
A very subtle change in the literary point of view about one third of the way through made my head spin - questioning what I had already read, and why. In fact I had to turn back a few short chapters to see whether my brain had taken a wrong turn! But no, it was real, and it gradually dawned on me that there was more to this story than meets the eye. Very topical, very current, very clever.
With thanks to NetGalley and Pan Macmillan for a digital advance copy to read and review.
In alternating chapters we follow the main character Edith in the present day as an elderly divorcée living on the west coast of Ireland, and as a 17 year old in the 1960s spending part of her enforced gap year (by her parents; too immature to take her place at Oxford just yet) in the north of Italy. She feels like an outsider in both places, for different reasons, and this is one of the strong themes of the novel.
Young Edith has been sent to Italy to support her older sister, Lydia, through the final weeks of her unplanned pregnancy. No initiative or decision-making will be required; the professional ballet dancer will give birth, hand the child over to a French convent, then return to work with her ballet company in London. All Edith has to do is to make the phone call when the baby is born. She does not expect to be so affected by the event or by the child.
Years later in Ireland, Edith has had a good life including a relatively good divorce. She loves her (now adult) child Pat, but had never wanted to give him a sibling. Now living in the former marital holiday cottage, Edith has emerged from the COVID lockdowns back into a life of swimming, long walks, catching up with good friends and sharing regular intimacies with an undemanding lover. Her small village community and simple life suit her and how she wants to live. It's only when the stakes are raised that she's reminded that, despite living in Ireland for 30 or so years, she's still an outsider. An Englishwoman and a Jew in a land of Irish Catholics.
A very subtle change in the literary point of view about one third of the way through made my head spin - questioning what I had already read, and why. In fact I had to turn back a few short chapters to see whether my brain had taken a wrong turn! But no, it was real, and it gradually dawned on me that there was more to this story than meets the eye. Very topical, very current, very clever.
With thanks to NetGalley and Pan Macmillan for a digital advance copy to read and review.
August 9, 2025
" You'll belong by caring for people and places. You come from where you were last."
This is a story of love and belonging- identity - who we are..what connects us and how we define ourselves.
Ripeness is a story which alternates between two times; the life today of Edith living in rural Ireland and her friendship with Méabh who is contacted by an American claiming to be her brother - given up for adoption when her mother was 15.
The juxtaposing part of the book is set in Italy in the 1960s when a young Edith ( prior to going to study in Oxford) goes to spend the summer with her sister Lydia who is due to give birth to a baby whilst living in a lakeside villa surrounded by friends from a dance entourage.
Lydia's reflects up her life and loves - marriage and divorce -and her mother who is often absent as she lives in Paris ( a survivor of the holocaust) and her jewish identity.
Sarah Moss' prose is poetic, subtle but so full of depth- the adjacent tales build gradually bringing the full realisation and connection of the circumstances to the fore as the denouement approaches.
Edith's teenage conflict as she witnesses the events and aftermath of her sister's life in Italy and the emotions for her friend Méabh when the news of an unknown sibling arrives are palpable as she tries to understand what we mean by family, genetics and defining yourself.
Moving, exquisitely crafted- Sarah Moss is at the top of her game.
Quotes: There's something Fascist , don't you see, in the idea that your genes are your story?
I have learnt this: there are no border guards at the chambers of your heart. It's only the immigration officers who might care, where your mother was born, what passport your father carried.
If history grants you the chance, be free of all that, that's my advice
This is a story of love and belonging- identity - who we are..what connects us and how we define ourselves.
Ripeness is a story which alternates between two times; the life today of Edith living in rural Ireland and her friendship with Méabh who is contacted by an American claiming to be her brother - given up for adoption when her mother was 15.
The juxtaposing part of the book is set in Italy in the 1960s when a young Edith ( prior to going to study in Oxford) goes to spend the summer with her sister Lydia who is due to give birth to a baby whilst living in a lakeside villa surrounded by friends from a dance entourage.
Lydia's reflects up her life and loves - marriage and divorce -and her mother who is often absent as she lives in Paris ( a survivor of the holocaust) and her jewish identity.
Sarah Moss' prose is poetic, subtle but so full of depth- the adjacent tales build gradually bringing the full realisation and connection of the circumstances to the fore as the denouement approaches.
Edith's teenage conflict as she witnesses the events and aftermath of her sister's life in Italy and the emotions for her friend Méabh when the news of an unknown sibling arrives are palpable as she tries to understand what we mean by family, genetics and defining yourself.
Moving, exquisitely crafted- Sarah Moss is at the top of her game.
Quotes: There's something Fascist , don't you see, in the idea that your genes are your story?
I have learnt this: there are no border guards at the chambers of your heart. It's only the immigration officers who might care, where your mother was born, what passport your father carried.
If history grants you the chance, be free of all that, that's my advice
September 12, 2025
"You'll belong by caring for people and places. You come from where you were last."
In the 1960s, 17-year-old Edith is dispatched by her mother from her home in Britain to rural Italy. Her task is simple but weighty: support her pregnant sister Lydia through the final weeks of pregnancy, witness the birth, and make a phone call that will alter both mother and child’s future. Decades later, in 2023, Edith - now seventy-three - is a mother herself, divorced, and living contentedly in Ireland, yet still always confronting questions of family, belonging, and the choices that shape a life.
Interestingly, author Sarah Moss never situates Edith - the daughter of a Jewish French mother and a British farmer - in her native Britain. Instead, we encounter her first as a young woman in Italy, recently accepted to Oxford University but deemed too immature by her parents to attend straight away, and later as an older émigré in Ireland. This framing underscores the novel’s central concern: (how) is it possible to find one’s place in the world, and how do we carry the past with us?
For me, the Italy sections, told in Edith’s own voice, were the most vivid. Watching Edith’s coming-of-age alongside her sister’s struggles was moving and often heartbreaking. The alternate chapters chronicling her later life, by contrast, are more distanced in tone, the third person narrative making Edith feel much more removed, and as a result, I connected much less with the older Edith; it does not help that the present-day timeline includes a plethora of Edith’s comments on everything from COVID to the war in Ukraine, and not always with a discernible, necessary connection to the story. But even though this made Edith feel distanced and even judgmental at times, and though I preferred both the pacing and the focus of the Italy chapters, the two timelines are threaded together with great care, creating a layered, compelling, thought-provoking whole, with a breathtaking ending.
I listened to the audiobook, which was beautifully narrated by Flora Montgomery. Her sensitive performance brought nuance to both timelines, and she did an impressive job of juggling an array of different accents. Listening to her narration made the story come truly alive for me.
Overall, „Ripeness“ feels like a book that sometimes tries to do too much, yet is still somehow a beautifully told, often quietly unsettling, powerful novel filled with evocative storytelling and themes of of identity, (im)migration, belonging, and the fragile bonds of family that stay with you long after the final page.
Many thanks to Macmillan Audio for providing me with a copy of the audiobook via NetGalley in exchange for my honest review.
„Ripeness“ was published on September 9, 2025, and is now available in print and as an audiobook.
In the 1960s, 17-year-old Edith is dispatched by her mother from her home in Britain to rural Italy. Her task is simple but weighty: support her pregnant sister Lydia through the final weeks of pregnancy, witness the birth, and make a phone call that will alter both mother and child’s future. Decades later, in 2023, Edith - now seventy-three - is a mother herself, divorced, and living contentedly in Ireland, yet still always confronting questions of family, belonging, and the choices that shape a life.
Interestingly, author Sarah Moss never situates Edith - the daughter of a Jewish French mother and a British farmer - in her native Britain. Instead, we encounter her first as a young woman in Italy, recently accepted to Oxford University but deemed too immature by her parents to attend straight away, and later as an older émigré in Ireland. This framing underscores the novel’s central concern: (how) is it possible to find one’s place in the world, and how do we carry the past with us?
For me, the Italy sections, told in Edith’s own voice, were the most vivid. Watching Edith’s coming-of-age alongside her sister’s struggles was moving and often heartbreaking. The alternate chapters chronicling her later life, by contrast, are more distanced in tone, the third person narrative making Edith feel much more removed, and as a result, I connected much less with the older Edith; it does not help that the present-day timeline includes a plethora of Edith’s comments on everything from COVID to the war in Ukraine, and not always with a discernible, necessary connection to the story. But even though this made Edith feel distanced and even judgmental at times, and though I preferred both the pacing and the focus of the Italy chapters, the two timelines are threaded together with great care, creating a layered, compelling, thought-provoking whole, with a breathtaking ending.
I listened to the audiobook, which was beautifully narrated by Flora Montgomery. Her sensitive performance brought nuance to both timelines, and she did an impressive job of juggling an array of different accents. Listening to her narration made the story come truly alive for me.
Overall, „Ripeness“ feels like a book that sometimes tries to do too much, yet is still somehow a beautifully told, often quietly unsettling, powerful novel filled with evocative storytelling and themes of of identity, (im)migration, belonging, and the fragile bonds of family that stay with you long after the final page.
Many thanks to Macmillan Audio for providing me with a copy of the audiobook via NetGalley in exchange for my honest review.
„Ripeness“ was published on September 9, 2025, and is now available in print and as an audiobook.
July 17, 2025
First off, a thousand thanks to FS&G, the author and Netgalley for the privilege of reading this advance copy of Moss's magnificent new book.
As I have read all eight of her previous novels and enjoyed them all, plus one of her two memoirs, I suppose I was predisposed to love this one also. I am not sure if I can articulate how, but the author has noted this is a new direction in her writing and I agree - somehow, if even possible, with new clarity and deeper insight, richer and more humanistic.
There is a lot to unload here, but basically, as the synopsis above states, it is the story of 73-year-old Edith Braithwaite, a recently divorced English Jewish woman who has settled in Ireland but feels somewhat out of place there. The chapters alternate between a 3rd-person POV in 2023, detailing Edith's present life, with a 1st person narration by Edith reflecting back on the summer of 1967, when as a 17-year-old she was sent to Italy to attend to her older sister's pregnancy.
We eventually learn that she is writing in that 2nd strand a memoir of that time for her nephew, It all comes together quite movingly and beautifully at the end (although not perhaps in the expected way), an affirmation of the fragility and importance of knowing one's place in the world.
Since I ALSO have an ARC of that 2nd memoir, that came out a few months ago, I am going to read that next, as I want even more of Moss's exquisite prose.
As I have read all eight of her previous novels and enjoyed them all, plus one of her two memoirs, I suppose I was predisposed to love this one also. I am not sure if I can articulate how, but the author has noted this is a new direction in her writing and I agree - somehow, if even possible, with new clarity and deeper insight, richer and more humanistic.
There is a lot to unload here, but basically, as the synopsis above states, it is the story of 73-year-old Edith Braithwaite, a recently divorced English Jewish woman who has settled in Ireland but feels somewhat out of place there. The chapters alternate between a 3rd-person POV in 2023, detailing Edith's present life, with a 1st person narration by Edith reflecting back on the summer of 1967, when as a 17-year-old she was sent to Italy to attend to her older sister's pregnancy.
We eventually learn that she is writing in that 2nd strand a memoir of that time for her nephew, It all comes together quite movingly and beautifully at the end (although not perhaps in the expected way), an affirmation of the fragility and importance of knowing one's place in the world.
Since I ALSO have an ARC of that 2nd memoir, that came out a few months ago, I am going to read that next, as I want even more of Moss's exquisite prose.
Read
July 27, 2025DNF @15%
“Ripeness” tem um dos capítulos iniciais mais fortes e directos que já li, com as meditações de uma septuagenária inglesa a viver na Irlanda, após uma cena de sexo com um vizinho alemão. Sarah Moss deixa bem claro qual é a premissa do seu livro com uma reflexão que não poderia ser mais actual neste nosso conturbado mundo ocidental: a deslocação forçada ou voluntária e o sentimento de pertença.
She’s naturalized, officially, has the passport to prove it, but what does that word mean? You wouldn’t need to say naturalized, would you, if the situation were really natural, you can’t by definition make something natural when it’s not. Natural from natare, to be born, not an act that can be undone or revised. Assimilation from similis, same root as similar and simulation, alike but unlike, unheimlich, uncanny. And she has three other passports, three other simulations, tucked away just in case. Passports are flags of convenience, Maman used to say, tickets out.
Edith é filha de uma mulher judia de ascendência franco-ucraniana, sobrevivente do Holocausto, que se mudou de Inglaterra para Telavive. No café local, é servida por uma ucraniana, refugiada da guerra de Putin.
One generation conducts a pogrom, one flees invasion.
Aqui comecei a sentir algumas reservas, mas talvez aguentasse para ver o caminho escolhido pela autora, se não fossem os capítulos em analepse que seguem Edith aos 17 anos numa viagem até Itália, para aperfeiçoar o seu italiano antes de ingressar em Oxford e acompanhar a irmã nas últimas semanas de gravidez. Seria normal na Inglaterra dos anos 60 aprender italiano, entrar em Oxford, mas ter a roupa interior cheia de buracos e quase dinheiro nenhum para comer na viagem? Hmmm... Mas o mais irritante nem é isso, é a romantização de Itália que a autora ainda faz em pleno século XXI. Tinha graça quando era E.M. Forster a fazê-lo no início do século XX; agora é apenas labreguice. Quem me conhece sabe que adoro o Reino Unido (“desunido”, como diz Sarah Moss) mas esta mania ignorante de exotizarem os países do Sul tira-me do sério. Desde essa coisa tão castiça de ter laranjeiras à porta de casa até às torneiras que saem da parede, não há nada na perspectiva desta inglesa que não seja bizarro. E o chá? Inconcebível! Não vinha acompanhado de leite e só trazia quatro biscoitos! We are not amused…
“Ripeness” tem um dos capítulos iniciais mais fortes e directos que já li, com as meditações de uma septuagenária inglesa a viver na Irlanda, após uma cena de sexo com um vizinho alemão. Sarah Moss deixa bem claro qual é a premissa do seu livro com uma reflexão que não poderia ser mais actual neste nosso conturbado mundo ocidental: a deslocação forçada ou voluntária e o sentimento de pertença.
She’s naturalized, officially, has the passport to prove it, but what does that word mean? You wouldn’t need to say naturalized, would you, if the situation were really natural, you can’t by definition make something natural when it’s not. Natural from natare, to be born, not an act that can be undone or revised. Assimilation from similis, same root as similar and simulation, alike but unlike, unheimlich, uncanny. And she has three other passports, three other simulations, tucked away just in case. Passports are flags of convenience, Maman used to say, tickets out.
Edith é filha de uma mulher judia de ascendência franco-ucraniana, sobrevivente do Holocausto, que se mudou de Inglaterra para Telavive. No café local, é servida por uma ucraniana, refugiada da guerra de Putin.
One generation conducts a pogrom, one flees invasion.
Aqui comecei a sentir algumas reservas, mas talvez aguentasse para ver o caminho escolhido pela autora, se não fossem os capítulos em analepse que seguem Edith aos 17 anos numa viagem até Itália, para aperfeiçoar o seu italiano antes de ingressar em Oxford e acompanhar a irmã nas últimas semanas de gravidez. Seria normal na Inglaterra dos anos 60 aprender italiano, entrar em Oxford, mas ter a roupa interior cheia de buracos e quase dinheiro nenhum para comer na viagem? Hmmm... Mas o mais irritante nem é isso, é a romantização de Itália que a autora ainda faz em pleno século XXI. Tinha graça quando era E.M. Forster a fazê-lo no início do século XX; agora é apenas labreguice. Quem me conhece sabe que adoro o Reino Unido (“desunido”, como diz Sarah Moss) mas esta mania ignorante de exotizarem os países do Sul tira-me do sério. Desde essa coisa tão castiça de ter laranjeiras à porta de casa até às torneiras que saem da parede, não há nada na perspectiva desta inglesa que não seja bizarro. E o chá? Inconcebível! Não vinha acompanhado de leite e só trazia quatro biscoitos! We are not amused…
April 20, 2025
I enjoy the writing of Sarah Moss to the point that I read most of her back catalogue by now, but I would also be the first person to point out some major issues with it. I both immensely enjoyed and was somewhat disappointed by Ripeness, her latest fiction offering. On the whole, her shorter pieces (Ghost Wall, Summerwater) tend to work a bit better for me, as her longer work (The Tidal Zone, Bodies of Light, Sights for Lost Children) tends to somewhat suffer from a lack of focus. The greatest strength of her writing, brilliantly exhibited in Ripeness, is her power of observation. Her comments on the half-tones of her characters' development, her thoughts on a range of contemporary issues, her precise and lyrical, a rare combination, descriptions of walking are often worth underlining and re-reading, However, the trees do not always come together into a coherent forest.
Ripeness explores quite interesting concepts and scenarios. It follows the story of Edith, a 17-year old teenager in the 1960s and an older divorced woman in the present day. Edith, a daughter of a Holocaust refugee and an English farmer, ends up spending most of her adult life in Ireland. As a teenager, however, she has a brief stint in rural Italy, where she helps her pregnant sister, a ballet dancer, prepare for the birth of the child she is set to give up to maintain her career.
Everything and anything is mixed up in this book. It touches on refugee experiences, Jewishness, rape culture, abortions, Irishness, Magdalene Laundries, the war in Ukraine, toxic ballet culture, and many many other things. It felt like the author wanted to say something about almost every single thing happening in the world. As those things are said by the narrator, Edith, it made her appear quite an unlikable know it all older white woman. The set up of a daughter of a Jewish refugee whose family left Eastern Europe because of gentile antisemitism work through her ambivalence towards presumed gentile Ukrainian refugees, the very people who drove her family out of their homes a century ago, is interesting. Edith's comments on the different attitudes to Ukrainian and Middle Eastern refugees in Ireland today are superimposed on the story of her mother, who, as a Holocaust refugee, did not get the luxury of a refugee visa scheme and whose entire family was killed by the Nazis (with a heavy implication that they could have been saved, more could have been done for them). It is a conversation worth having, and it is a theme I have seen in the public discourses of Ukrainian Jews today, who, although fiercely anti-war, can also feel ambivalent about Ukraine and their place there. I feel that this conversation needs to be led by Ukrainian Jews with first-hand experience of Ukrainian attitudes to Jews, though, and as far as I know, Sarah Moss is not a Ukrainian Jew.
Edith goes on to discuss ideas of belonging and migration, basically coming to the conclusion that a piece of soil cannot be a home, that ethnonationalism is rooted in biological determinism and that we should all be free to make a home where we want. Which is all well and good, but the character is an English person living in Ireland. The discussion of this in relation to Ireland is wrapped up in a narrative of Edith, living in Ireland for 40 years, still being seen as a foreigner, whereas a Magdalene Laundry adopted baby who lived his entire life in the USA is, in her mind, seen as properly from this village and properly Irish in a way she would never be. Edith pays some lip service to acknowledge the different colonial power dynamics play a role in her argument, as it can be read as an endorsement of settler colonialism. She does not seem to take them seriously, though, and she sure as hell does not discuss the state of Israel, the place her mother ended up in as a settler. The words Palestine or Palestinians are not mentioned once in the novel. At best, this presents Edith as a hypocrite, and at worst, as a staunch Zionist, whose talk about the right to belong anywhere is, in reality, a call for the native and indigenous people to make space for her on their land. As a result, all the seemingly pro-immigration arguments Edith is making get drowned in the context of her words, which are easily interpreted as yet another metropolitan imperial woman deeming local anticolonial movements too unbecoming and barbarous for her progressive, enlightened and liberal ways.
Couple this with a very weird throwaway discussion of how she really enjoyed having a purely sexual relationship with her Oxford professor and how she does not see himself as a victim, and Edith turns into almost a caricature of a particular type of a liberal white woman (think Catherine Deneuve or Mary Beard). The thing is, I am really not sure that Sarah Moss intended Edith to be a caricature or even a commentary on that specific type of white woman. Throughout the novel I was under the impression that we are supposed to, overall, sympathise with Edith, and I think the narrative would have been stronger and more impactful if it had been intended as a commentary.
A minor point, but the pacing is also quite off. The novel feels far too long. The narrative of the 1960s sections tries to explain the pace and makes it clear that the slowness is very deliberate, but, in my opinion, it was still not justified.
Overall, loved the writing, often didn't love what it was saying.
Ripeness explores quite interesting concepts and scenarios. It follows the story of Edith, a 17-year old teenager in the 1960s and an older divorced woman in the present day. Edith, a daughter of a Holocaust refugee and an English farmer, ends up spending most of her adult life in Ireland. As a teenager, however, she has a brief stint in rural Italy, where she helps her pregnant sister, a ballet dancer, prepare for the birth of the child she is set to give up to maintain her career.
Everything and anything is mixed up in this book. It touches on refugee experiences, Jewishness, rape culture, abortions, Irishness, Magdalene Laundries, the war in Ukraine, toxic ballet culture, and many many other things. It felt like the author wanted to say something about almost every single thing happening in the world. As those things are said by the narrator, Edith, it made her appear quite an unlikable know it all older white woman. The set up of a daughter of a Jewish refugee whose family left Eastern Europe because of gentile antisemitism work through her ambivalence towards presumed gentile Ukrainian refugees, the very people who drove her family out of their homes a century ago, is interesting. Edith's comments on the different attitudes to Ukrainian and Middle Eastern refugees in Ireland today are superimposed on the story of her mother, who, as a Holocaust refugee, did not get the luxury of a refugee visa scheme and whose entire family was killed by the Nazis (with a heavy implication that they could have been saved, more could have been done for them). It is a conversation worth having, and it is a theme I have seen in the public discourses of Ukrainian Jews today, who, although fiercely anti-war, can also feel ambivalent about Ukraine and their place there. I feel that this conversation needs to be led by Ukrainian Jews with first-hand experience of Ukrainian attitudes to Jews, though, and as far as I know, Sarah Moss is not a Ukrainian Jew.
Edith goes on to discuss ideas of belonging and migration, basically coming to the conclusion that a piece of soil cannot be a home, that ethnonationalism is rooted in biological determinism and that we should all be free to make a home where we want. Which is all well and good, but the character is an English person living in Ireland. The discussion of this in relation to Ireland is wrapped up in a narrative of Edith, living in Ireland for 40 years, still being seen as a foreigner, whereas a Magdalene Laundry adopted baby who lived his entire life in the USA is, in her mind, seen as properly from this village and properly Irish in a way she would never be. Edith pays some lip service to acknowledge the different colonial power dynamics play a role in her argument, as it can be read as an endorsement of settler colonialism. She does not seem to take them seriously, though, and she sure as hell does not discuss the state of Israel, the place her mother ended up in as a settler. The words Palestine or Palestinians are not mentioned once in the novel. At best, this presents Edith as a hypocrite, and at worst, as a staunch Zionist, whose talk about the right to belong anywhere is, in reality, a call for the native and indigenous people to make space for her on their land. As a result, all the seemingly pro-immigration arguments Edith is making get drowned in the context of her words, which are easily interpreted as yet another metropolitan imperial woman deeming local anticolonial movements too unbecoming and barbarous for her progressive, enlightened and liberal ways.
Couple this with a very weird throwaway discussion of how she really enjoyed having a purely sexual relationship with her Oxford professor and how she does not see himself as a victim, and Edith turns into almost a caricature of a particular type of a liberal white woman (think Catherine Deneuve or Mary Beard). The thing is, I am really not sure that Sarah Moss intended Edith to be a caricature or even a commentary on that specific type of white woman. Throughout the novel I was under the impression that we are supposed to, overall, sympathise with Edith, and I think the narrative would have been stronger and more impactful if it had been intended as a commentary.
A minor point, but the pacing is also quite off. The novel feels far too long. The narrative of the 1960s sections tries to explain the pace and makes it clear that the slowness is very deliberate, but, in my opinion, it was still not justified.
Overall, loved the writing, often didn't love what it was saying.
September 8, 2025
4.5. This should have been a contender.
May 20, 2025
I always love Moss's writing and how she makes her characters feel so lifelike, but I had some trouble here in finding the main theme of the novel. It's about so many things: identity, migration, rape, etc. I didn't really get what Moss wanted to say. Still, I did enjoy reading this very much.
Thank you Picador and Netgalley UK for the ARC.
Thank you Picador and Netgalley UK for the ARC.
September 12, 2025
Ripeness took me an ungodly amount of time to read, which is usually indicative of Problems. In this case, one of the problems was untangling who was speaking in each conversation; if only something could be invented to help a reader with that. But aside from punctuation, this was uncharacteristically unfocused compared to Summerwater or The Fell.
This story has two alternating timelines, one set in an Italian villa in the 1960s, with our narrator, 17-year-old Edith, looking after her sister before she gives birth. This should have been the entire book. But unfortunately, we are booted into modern-day Ireland to revisit Edith as a spry and slightly insufferable 80-year-old. Hard as I tried, I could not get into my head that these were the same person; one I was happy to spend time with, the other not so much ( but then maybe that was the point ).
Structure aside, there is also the feeling that this is a story that touches on many topics: ballet culture, Magdalene laundries, refugees, adoption, belonging, walking, but doesn't quite manage to coalesce into a satisfying whole.
Still, Sarah Moss is a beautiful writer, particularly of place.
A slightly disappointed 3 stars.
This story has two alternating timelines, one set in an Italian villa in the 1960s, with our narrator, 17-year-old Edith, looking after her sister before she gives birth. This should have been the entire book. But unfortunately, we are booted into modern-day Ireland to revisit Edith as a spry and slightly insufferable 80-year-old. Hard as I tried, I could not get into my head that these were the same person; one I was happy to spend time with, the other not so much ( but then maybe that was the point ).
Structure aside, there is also the feeling that this is a story that touches on many topics: ballet culture, Magdalene laundries, refugees, adoption, belonging, walking, but doesn't quite manage to coalesce into a satisfying whole.
Still, Sarah Moss is a beautiful writer, particularly of place.
A slightly disappointed 3 stars.
July 9, 2025
(3.5) One sneaky little line “Ripeness, not readiness, is all,” a Shakespeare mash-up (“Ripeness is all” from King Lear vs. “the readiness is all” from Hamlet), gives a clue to how to understand this novel: As a work of maturity from Sarah Moss, presenting life with all its contradictions and disappointments, not attempting to counterbalance that realism with any false optimism. What do we do, who will we be, when faced with situations for which we aren’t prepared?
Now that she’s based in Ireland, Moss seems almost to be channelling Irish authors such as Claire Keegan and Maggie O’Farrell. The line-up of themes – ballet + sisters + ambivalent motherhood + the question of immigration and belonging – should have added up to something incredible and right up my street. While Ripeness is good, even very good, it feels slightly forced. As has been true with some of Moss’s recent fiction (especially Summerwater), there is the air of a creative writing experiment. Here the trial is to determine which feels closer, a first-person rendering of a time nearly 60 years ago, or a present-tense, close-third-person account of the now.
[I had in mind advice from one of Emma Darwin’s recent Substack posts: “What you’ll see is that ‘deep third’ is really much the same as first, in the logic of it, just with different pronouns: you are locking the narrative into a certain character’s point-of-view, but you don’t have a sense of that character as the narrator, the way you do in first person.”
Except, increasingly as the novel goes on, we are compelled to think about Edith as a narrator, of her own life and others’, including that of a man she has never met (except for one week when he was a newborn). “I remained more of a narrator than a participant. Self-centred to the end, you might be thinking. I am. I narrate. I make myself, in this late accounting, the main character.” This text is what she will leave behind for her nephew through her will, as executed by her son.]
In the current story line, everyone in rural West Ireland seems to have come from somewhere else (e.g. Edith’s lover Gunter is German). “She’s going to have to find a way to rise above it, this tribalism,” Edith thinks. She’s aghast at her town playing host to a small protest against immigration. Fair enough, but including this incident just seems like an excuse for some liberal handwringing (“since it’s obvious that there is enough for all, that the problem is distribution not supply, why cannot all have enough? Partly because people like Edith have too much.”). The facts of Maman being French-Israeli and having lost family in the Holocaust felt particularly shoehorned in; referencing Jewishness adds nothing. I also wondered why she set the 1960s narrative in Italy, apart from novelty and personal familiarity. (Teenage Edith’s high school Italian is improbably advanced, allowing her to translate throughout her sister’s childbirth.)
Though much of what I’ve written seems negative, I’d say I was left with an overall favourable impression. Mostly it’s that the delivery scene and the chapters that follow it are so very moving. Plus there are astute lines everywhere you look, whether on dance, motherhood, or migration. I’ve reproduced some below. It may simply be that Moss was taking on too much at once, such that this lacks the focus of her novellas. Ultimately, I would have been happy to have just the historical story line; the repeat of the surrendering for adoption element isn’t necessary to make any point. (I was relieved, anyway, that Moss didn’t resort to the cheap trick of having the baby turn out to be a character we’ve already been introduced to.) I admire the ambition but feel Moss has yet to return to the sweet spot of her first five novels. Still, I’m a fan for life.
Some favourite lines:
“Dance, I thought, is presence, it is movement in the absence of past and future time, and also it is a form of storytelling and although narrative time and dance time are different, have different forms of the present tense, the ideas of pure presence and narrative are not compatible.”
“She wasn’t callous, Maman, it wasn’t that she didn’t care, she just couldn’t stay”
“she knows she’ll never be local anywhere now”
Gunter: “It’s a choice, isn’t it, between belonging and autonomy”
“You’ll belong by caring for people and places. You can’t go home, wanderer. You come from where you were last.”
Now that she’s based in Ireland, Moss seems almost to be channelling Irish authors such as Claire Keegan and Maggie O’Farrell. The line-up of themes – ballet + sisters + ambivalent motherhood + the question of immigration and belonging – should have added up to something incredible and right up my street. While Ripeness is good, even very good, it feels slightly forced. As has been true with some of Moss’s recent fiction (especially Summerwater), there is the air of a creative writing experiment. Here the trial is to determine which feels closer, a first-person rendering of a time nearly 60 years ago, or a present-tense, close-third-person account of the now.
[I had in mind advice from one of Emma Darwin’s recent Substack posts: “What you’ll see is that ‘deep third’ is really much the same as first, in the logic of it, just with different pronouns: you are locking the narrative into a certain character’s point-of-view, but you don’t have a sense of that character as the narrator, the way you do in first person.”
Except, increasingly as the novel goes on, we are compelled to think about Edith as a narrator, of her own life and others’, including that of a man she has never met (except for one week when he was a newborn). “I remained more of a narrator than a participant. Self-centred to the end, you might be thinking. I am. I narrate. I make myself, in this late accounting, the main character.” This text is what she will leave behind for her nephew through her will, as executed by her son.]
In the current story line, everyone in rural West Ireland seems to have come from somewhere else (e.g. Edith’s lover Gunter is German). “She’s going to have to find a way to rise above it, this tribalism,” Edith thinks. She’s aghast at her town playing host to a small protest against immigration. Fair enough, but including this incident just seems like an excuse for some liberal handwringing (“since it’s obvious that there is enough for all, that the problem is distribution not supply, why cannot all have enough? Partly because people like Edith have too much.”). The facts of Maman being French-Israeli and having lost family in the Holocaust felt particularly shoehorned in; referencing Jewishness adds nothing. I also wondered why she set the 1960s narrative in Italy, apart from novelty and personal familiarity. (Teenage Edith’s high school Italian is improbably advanced, allowing her to translate throughout her sister’s childbirth.)
Though much of what I’ve written seems negative, I’d say I was left with an overall favourable impression. Mostly it’s that the delivery scene and the chapters that follow it are so very moving. Plus there are astute lines everywhere you look, whether on dance, motherhood, or migration. I’ve reproduced some below. It may simply be that Moss was taking on too much at once, such that this lacks the focus of her novellas. Ultimately, I would have been happy to have just the historical story line; the repeat of the surrendering for adoption element isn’t necessary to make any point. (I was relieved, anyway, that Moss didn’t resort to the cheap trick of having the baby turn out to be a character we’ve already been introduced to.) I admire the ambition but feel Moss has yet to return to the sweet spot of her first five novels. Still, I’m a fan for life.
Some favourite lines:
“Dance, I thought, is presence, it is movement in the absence of past and future time, and also it is a form of storytelling and although narrative time and dance time are different, have different forms of the present tense, the ideas of pure presence and narrative are not compatible.”
“She wasn’t callous, Maman, it wasn’t that she didn’t care, she just couldn’t stay”
“she knows she’ll never be local anywhere now”
Gunter: “It’s a choice, isn’t it, between belonging and autonomy”
“You’ll belong by caring for people and places. You can’t go home, wanderer. You come from where you were last.”
October 24, 2025
"Ripeness" is a meditative character study. The central character and narrator is Edith. She tells her story in alternating chapters. In the 1960's chapters, Edith is 17 years old and sent by her Maman to Tuscany, Italy to help her older sister (Lydia), who is unmarried and pregnant. Lydia is a ballerina. The plan is to give up the baby for adoption when he is born and for Lydia to return to ballet.
In the present day chapters, Edith is 73 years old. She is happily divorced after a forty year long marriage, lives in a coastal town in Ireland, and has a German lover. Originally from England, Edith has made Ireland her home, although she always feels like an outsider. Her best friend there is Meabh. Meabh discovers that she has a half-brother living in the U.S., whom her mother never discussed.
I much preferred the younger Edith. She was warmer and open to experiences. The older Edith was sophisticated, self assured and was quite cold (except to Meabh, her friend). While reading, I wondered how the intervening years had changed her. There was no explanation.
My Reactions:
I had a difficult time reading this book. The alternating chapters were dizzying. I had to change from what was happening in 1960's Italy to present day Ireland over and over again. The author also wrote in long, unbroken paragraphs with no quotation marks for dialogue. I had to work extra hard to understand the novel. I am not complaining, rather just describing my experience in reading it.
I enjoy best books that are vibrant. The writing here in this novel is muted. The interesting premise gets weighed down by too much quiet detail.
In the present day chapters, Edith is 73 years old. She is happily divorced after a forty year long marriage, lives in a coastal town in Ireland, and has a German lover. Originally from England, Edith has made Ireland her home, although she always feels like an outsider. Her best friend there is Meabh. Meabh discovers that she has a half-brother living in the U.S., whom her mother never discussed.
I much preferred the younger Edith. She was warmer and open to experiences. The older Edith was sophisticated, self assured and was quite cold (except to Meabh, her friend). While reading, I wondered how the intervening years had changed her. There was no explanation.
My Reactions:
I had a difficult time reading this book. The alternating chapters were dizzying. I had to change from what was happening in 1960's Italy to present day Ireland over and over again. The author also wrote in long, unbroken paragraphs with no quotation marks for dialogue. I had to work extra hard to understand the novel. I am not complaining, rather just describing my experience in reading it.
I enjoy best books that are vibrant. The writing here in this novel is muted. The interesting premise gets weighed down by too much quiet detail.
June 4, 2025
I never thought I could grow even slightly tired of Sarah Moss. But apparently I could. Not of her writing—Ripeness is, as always, impeccably crafted—but of her heroines: those neurotic, often unbearably righteous and smug characters. This novel felt like two distinct parts for me—one I thoroughly enjoyed, and the other left me annoyed. The younger Edith was a far more sympathetic character, and I much preferred staying with her at the villa on Lake Como, 54 years in the past.
June 6, 2025
A very engaging story about belonging, switching between Italy in the 1960s and the Irish coast today. We follow Edith, who as a 17 year old is sent to Lake Como to take care of her pregnant sister. And in the alternating chapter we see Edith again, now in her seventies, living in Ireland.
So what does belonging mean? Does it have to do with nationality? Family history? Or DNA? Feeling at home? Being accepted by the community? Can you belong when you remain an outsider?
Sarah Moss' writing is excellent as always. I like that she always has interesting observations that are completely naturally embedded in the narrative.
So what does belonging mean? Does it have to do with nationality? Family history? Or DNA? Feeling at home? Being accepted by the community? Can you belong when you remain an outsider?
Sarah Moss' writing is excellent as always. I like that she always has interesting observations that are completely naturally embedded in the narrative.
June 1, 2025
Beautiful prose drew me in, the switching between Italy in the past and present day Ireland drew me out as I re-orientated. A lot of issues were presented without resolution, perhaps Sarah Moss wanted her readers to come to their own conclusions.
Quotes that caught my ears:
“Acceptance is not a characteristic of elite artists or athletes and dancers are both. How could a dancer fly, if she did not believe in control, in agency, if she humbly received gravity?” This made me think.
“You always end up being responsible, maybe you want to share it this time.” As the eldest of three children I have a highly developed sense of responsibility, so these words were meaningful to me.
“There was no softness that morning in Italy, no mellow fruitfulness, the damp had ice on its breath.” An example of lovely prose.
"None of us is truly autonomous and none of us truly belongs." Something to ponder.
"You'll belong by caring for people and places, you can't go home, wanderer, you come from where you were last." I find this to be true from my own experience of travels and living abroad and then returning to the land of my birth.
"To be alive is to be in uncertainty." I keep hearing this message, how interesting, likely it's because we live in uncertain times, and "certainty is death." Basically, live in the moment, and seek joy.
Quotes that caught my ears:
“Acceptance is not a characteristic of elite artists or athletes and dancers are both. How could a dancer fly, if she did not believe in control, in agency, if she humbly received gravity?” This made me think.
“You always end up being responsible, maybe you want to share it this time.” As the eldest of three children I have a highly developed sense of responsibility, so these words were meaningful to me.
“There was no softness that morning in Italy, no mellow fruitfulness, the damp had ice on its breath.” An example of lovely prose.
"None of us is truly autonomous and none of us truly belongs." Something to ponder.
"You'll belong by caring for people and places, you can't go home, wanderer, you come from where you were last." I find this to be true from my own experience of travels and living abroad and then returning to the land of my birth.
"To be alive is to be in uncertainty." I keep hearing this message, how interesting, likely it's because we live in uncertain times, and "certainty is death." Basically, live in the moment, and seek joy.
September 14, 2025
Ripeness begins in Ireland, where Edith, long divorced and quietly content, lives a life anchored by friendship and routine. But when her best friend Maebh is contacted by an American man claiming to be her brother, questions of family and belonging ripple outward — and Edith is drawn back into her own past.
That past unfolds in the 1960s, when she was sent to rural Italy to see her sister Lydia through the final weeks of pregnancy. Her instructions were clear: support her sister, help at the birth, and then make a phone call that would decide the baby’s fate. These memories take shape in a written account addressed to a “you,” an addressee whose identity gradually comes into focus.
Moss explores identity in all its forms — who we are by birth, by migration, by choice — alongside the moments of readiness and transformation that shape our lives. Her incredible writing and flow define the pages, and Edith’s voice carries the story with piercing honesty. If the connection between the two timelines wavers at times, the novel still stands firmly on the strength of Edith’s presence and Moss’s keen eye.
That past unfolds in the 1960s, when she was sent to rural Italy to see her sister Lydia through the final weeks of pregnancy. Her instructions were clear: support her sister, help at the birth, and then make a phone call that would decide the baby’s fate. These memories take shape in a written account addressed to a “you,” an addressee whose identity gradually comes into focus.
Moss explores identity in all its forms — who we are by birth, by migration, by choice — alongside the moments of readiness and transformation that shape our lives. Her incredible writing and flow define the pages, and Edith’s voice carries the story with piercing honesty. If the connection between the two timelines wavers at times, the novel still stands firmly on the strength of Edith’s presence and Moss’s keen eye.
June 5, 2025
I loved The Fell and Summerwater and feel Moss' strength is in writing about character's inner monologues in a hugely relatable way. Both of those books worked as the characters' thoughts made up the bulk of the prose.
Ripeness felt like there was too much going on - each of these aspects are things I like in a novel, but this particular mix felt rambly and muddled. The nature writing was rich and evocative, the characterisation interesting and surprising, the issues were relevant. However, all these things felt like the prose was competing for my attention. It was too much.
This combined with a very slow pace which seemed to lack intention and direction made this fall short of Moss' previous insightful, compelling reads.
This honest review is given with thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for this book.
Ripeness felt like there was too much going on - each of these aspects are things I like in a novel, but this particular mix felt rambly and muddled. The nature writing was rich and evocative, the characterisation interesting and surprising, the issues were relevant. However, all these things felt like the prose was competing for my attention. It was too much.
This combined with a very slow pace which seemed to lack intention and direction made this fall short of Moss' previous insightful, compelling reads.
This honest review is given with thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for this book.
March 1, 2025
3/5
This was a strange one. There was a lot I liked but also a lot that fell flat for me. It simultaneously said so much but also said nothing in my opinion.
This was a strange one. There was a lot I liked but also a lot that fell flat for me. It simultaneously said so much but also said nothing in my opinion.
November 26, 2025
The two narratives here, while obviously interconnected thematically and through the novel’s narrator/protagonist, do not seamlessly come together—and they are tonally different enough as to almost be two separate novels. I was much more interested in the story of Edith’s past rather than her present…and she is a more appealing and sympathetic character in the story of her youth. I’ve liked some of Moss’s previous novels more, but as a writer she is always interesting and worth reading.
September 17, 2025
3.5 stars. I've loved some of Moss's previous work, especially her historical fiction, so this was a highly anticipated read for me. In some ways, it absolutely did not disappoint: specifically in the gorgeous writing and the incredibly atmospheric settings in both the present and past storylines. Other aspects, however, left me feeling ambivalent about the novel.
This is the story of Edith, presented to us in two storylines: the 1960s, when 17-year-old Edith travels to Italy to help her sister prepare for the birth of an illegitimate child, and the present day (2023), when a septuagenarian Edith reflects on her life as an English immigrant in Ireland.
Both storylines are interesting in their own way, but they also had the same issue for me: these are stories of vibes over plot. Very little actually happens. We dwell on the small moments of life, and indeed, Moss points out beautifully that these moments are exactly the things that make up a life. This did resonate somewhat, but unfortunately, for me, it was not enough to keep the book engaging throughout. If you enjoy slice of life novels, however, this might be for you. Everything is described in lush and colorful detail, and individual scenes were vivid and immersive, so I recognize that my boredom in places is just a matter of individual taste.
The main thing that bothers me after reading, though, is the lack of a cohesive theme (or themes) that would coalesce the individual scenes into an actual story. Many things are touched upon (adoption, immigration, belonging, colonialism, capitalism, rape culture, Magdalene laundries,...) but nothing is explored in any depth. All of these rich subjects are just passing reflections in the thoughts of the narrator or in the events of the narrative. I think Moss wanted to represent what it's like to be a white liberal woman in the present day, showing us the many preoccupations and concerns that Edith has (and which, I'm going to assume here, reflect the preoccupations and concerns of Moss herself) about the state of the world and her place in it.
In a way, Moss succeeded, but in the process she made Edith feel a little like a caricature of white liberalism. She has the 'right' preoccupations and concerns (immigration, the environment, capitalism, rape culture,...), she self-censors her thoughts and reminds herself regularly of her own privilege... but she never puts any of it into action. She performs virtuousness for herself, but never makes any effort to actually do something to help mitigate any of the issues she proclaims to care about, even in a small way. Edith wonders vaguely if maybe she should volunteer, she hesitates about arguing with a friend about her anti-immigration views, she feels guilty about taking the airplane for a holiday, but at no point does she actually take action. She doesn't volunteer, doesn't talk to the friend, does take the airplane.
Now, this might have been a commentary from Moss about performative liberalism, but it doesn't really read like a commentary, because Edith's inaction is never interrogated or even remarked upon by the narrative. Moss does include some reflections on autonomy, but they're not substantial enough to constitute a true theme or message. There was an opportunity here to reflect on the 'obligations' of white middle-class liberals beyond just having the 'right' politics, but Moss doesn't truly use it. Instead, the focus seems to be on showing how Edith can still carve out a carefree life for herself, filled with beautiful moments, in spite of the world falling apart around her. And that's not a message I disagree with in essence, but is that really all the book wants to say? It feels a lot like absolution for the inaction of people like the author herself, and permission to focus only on yourself.
All in all, I'm left wondering what the purpose of this book is. Who is it for? What is it trying to say, if anything? Is it just meant to be a collection of reflections? They're beautiful reflections, certainly, and I did enjoy the atmospheric writing and occasionally interesting questions raised by the book. I suppose I just wanted a little more meat on the bone.
This is the story of Edith, presented to us in two storylines: the 1960s, when 17-year-old Edith travels to Italy to help her sister prepare for the birth of an illegitimate child, and the present day (2023), when a septuagenarian Edith reflects on her life as an English immigrant in Ireland.
Both storylines are interesting in their own way, but they also had the same issue for me: these are stories of vibes over plot. Very little actually happens. We dwell on the small moments of life, and indeed, Moss points out beautifully that these moments are exactly the things that make up a life. This did resonate somewhat, but unfortunately, for me, it was not enough to keep the book engaging throughout. If you enjoy slice of life novels, however, this might be for you. Everything is described in lush and colorful detail, and individual scenes were vivid and immersive, so I recognize that my boredom in places is just a matter of individual taste.
The main thing that bothers me after reading, though, is the lack of a cohesive theme (or themes) that would coalesce the individual scenes into an actual story. Many things are touched upon (adoption, immigration, belonging, colonialism, capitalism, rape culture, Magdalene laundries,...) but nothing is explored in any depth. All of these rich subjects are just passing reflections in the thoughts of the narrator or in the events of the narrative. I think Moss wanted to represent what it's like to be a white liberal woman in the present day, showing us the many preoccupations and concerns that Edith has (and which, I'm going to assume here, reflect the preoccupations and concerns of Moss herself) about the state of the world and her place in it.
In a way, Moss succeeded, but in the process she made Edith feel a little like a caricature of white liberalism. She has the 'right' preoccupations and concerns (immigration, the environment, capitalism, rape culture,...), she self-censors her thoughts and reminds herself regularly of her own privilege... but she never puts any of it into action. She performs virtuousness for herself, but never makes any effort to actually do something to help mitigate any of the issues she proclaims to care about, even in a small way. Edith wonders vaguely if maybe she should volunteer, she hesitates about arguing with a friend about her anti-immigration views, she feels guilty about taking the airplane for a holiday, but at no point does she actually take action. She doesn't volunteer, doesn't talk to the friend, does take the airplane.
Now, this might have been a commentary from Moss about performative liberalism, but it doesn't really read like a commentary, because Edith's inaction is never interrogated or even remarked upon by the narrative. Moss does include some reflections on autonomy, but they're not substantial enough to constitute a true theme or message. There was an opportunity here to reflect on the 'obligations' of white middle-class liberals beyond just having the 'right' politics, but Moss doesn't truly use it. Instead, the focus seems to be on showing how Edith can still carve out a carefree life for herself, filled with beautiful moments, in spite of the world falling apart around her. And that's not a message I disagree with in essence, but is that really all the book wants to say? It feels a lot like absolution for the inaction of people like the author herself, and permission to focus only on yourself.
All in all, I'm left wondering what the purpose of this book is. Who is it for? What is it trying to say, if anything? Is it just meant to be a collection of reflections? They're beautiful reflections, certainly, and I did enjoy the atmospheric writing and occasionally interesting questions raised by the book. I suppose I just wanted a little more meat on the bone.
Read
September 5, 2025DNF at 30 percent - the writing is excellent but the main character is angry and unlikeable and I can’t quite get into it or sympathize and there are some comments about Ukrainians that don’t quite work for me.
September 19, 2025
I felt completely entranced by this story of two sisters struggling to cope with a life changing event and decision . While I wanted to not like Lydia, and perhaps I didn’t, I did feel deeply for her predicament and could not say how I would respond in the same situation. Moss does show us it is easy to judge but hard to support someone in the circumstances that Lydia is in. The two storylines worked well together and almost felt they were on opposite trajectories. While one is Edith and her sister moving to uncertainty the other is Edith and a friend moving to a more certain outcome. This was a lovely reflection on how families can be made and unmade.
May 12, 2025
Thank you NetGalley for this ARC.
I really wanted to get into this book. The story sounded very interesting however the style of writing threw me off completely.
I managed to read about 1/3 of the book and still was confused of the story line.
I am sure people would love this one however it was not for me.
I really wanted to get into this book. The story sounded very interesting however the style of writing threw me off completely.
I managed to read about 1/3 of the book and still was confused of the story line.
I am sure people would love this one however it was not for me.
October 6, 2025
3.5 // Let’s be honest: the 1960s timeline was much stronger than the modern day timeline. I wish Moss took that 1960s narrative and ran with it. That modern day version packed less bite. I still enjoyed my time with the overall effect though.
Moss is a wonderful writer. Why are this and SUMMERWATER the only ones that I’ve read? I gotta locate the two other books I own of hers.
Moss is a wonderful writer. Why are this and SUMMERWATER the only ones that I’ve read? I gotta locate the two other books I own of hers.
July 25, 2025
4.5
Excellent. I waver over rounding this up or down. I could easily go either way.
Excellent. I waver over rounding this up or down. I could easily go either way.
June 29, 2025
This book has two narratives, both featuring the same protagonist, in alternating chapters. One is in her youth in 1960s Italy, told in the first person, and the other is in contemporary Ireland, in the third person. In both narratives, the writing is in a stream of consciousness style with no quotation marks. That’s not typically my favorite style, but Moss’s execution of it is pretty good, so it’s not anywhere near as obnoxious as is often the case. I do think, however, that it might have been more interesting to have the 1960s sections written in a style that was more of a contrast to the contemporary part. Since one narrative is in first person and the other’s in third, it’s easy to tell them apart, but more of a stylistic break might have been interesting.
I’m not the target audience for this book, which prominently features ballet, yoga, and childbirth. The contemporary version of the protagonist perceives herself to have found, in the author’s phrase, a “late-life discovery of what she perhaps wanted all along,” which consists of a non-acrimonious divorce, a small and tidy house, a few friends, a likable local guy for old-age booty calls, and plenty of time to read and go on walks. I think it’s the kind of life that might sound good, at least superficially, to many people who are the target audience for the book. As I read, it occurred to me that the older version of the protagonist has recently become a bit of a cliche: a mature, educated woman, liberal in an orthodox way, now free of traditional family obligations, quietly discovering herself. I got a sense that this is how the author probably views the core group of her readers, either in their present or future.
The writing itself is good, and I was happily reading this for a while before it eventually occurred to me that I didn’t have much interest in either narrative, both of which feature the protagonist as an observer of someone else’s key moments, rather than the primary participant in her own. I’m not typically one to demand a lot of action, but this book had remarkably little tension; everything played out about as the characters—and the reader—would expect.
On reflection, here’s the most interesting aspect of the book: I’m not sure whether Moss intends to commend or condemn the contemporary version of the protagonist. If it’s a commendation, it’s a rather dull and predictable point to make. If it’s a condemnation, it’s so subtle that I’m too dumb to fully pick up on it; there’s a reasonably clear indication of what the character has given up to get what she thinks she wants, but there’s not much focus on whether or not that was a good decision. Maybe that’s intended to be left for the reader to decide, but the question itself is so gently posed that I’m not even sure it was intended to be raised by the author.
I’m not the target audience for this book, which prominently features ballet, yoga, and childbirth. The contemporary version of the protagonist perceives herself to have found, in the author’s phrase, a “late-life discovery of what she perhaps wanted all along,” which consists of a non-acrimonious divorce, a small and tidy house, a few friends, a likable local guy for old-age booty calls, and plenty of time to read and go on walks. I think it’s the kind of life that might sound good, at least superficially, to many people who are the target audience for the book. As I read, it occurred to me that the older version of the protagonist has recently become a bit of a cliche: a mature, educated woman, liberal in an orthodox way, now free of traditional family obligations, quietly discovering herself. I got a sense that this is how the author probably views the core group of her readers, either in their present or future.
The writing itself is good, and I was happily reading this for a while before it eventually occurred to me that I didn’t have much interest in either narrative, both of which feature the protagonist as an observer of someone else’s key moments, rather than the primary participant in her own. I’m not typically one to demand a lot of action, but this book had remarkably little tension; everything played out about as the characters—and the reader—would expect.
On reflection, here’s the most interesting aspect of the book: I’m not sure whether Moss intends to commend or condemn the contemporary version of the protagonist. If it’s a commendation, it’s a rather dull and predictable point to make. If it’s a condemnation, it’s so subtle that I’m too dumb to fully pick up on it; there’s a reasonably clear indication of what the character has given up to get what she thinks she wants, but there’s not much focus on whether or not that was a good decision. Maybe that’s intended to be left for the reader to decide, but the question itself is so gently posed that I’m not even sure it was intended to be raised by the author.
July 22, 2025
„Ripeness“ от Сара Мос е изящно и дълбоко разказан роман, който смятам за силен претендент за Women’s Prize или Booker през 2025/2026 г.
В сюжета се преплитат две времеви линии: първата е от 60-те години в Южна Италия, а втората съвременното ежедневие в ирландско село. Главната героиня, 73-годишната Едит, живее спокойно в селска Ирландия, но животът ѝ и този на най-близките ѝ е белязан от тайни и семейни загуби. През 60-те години младата Едит е изпратена от майка си при сестра си Лидия, талантлива балерина, в последните ѝ седмици на бременността край езерото Комо, Италия. Времето, което двете сестри прекарват там, изважда на повърхността множество емоционални и морални дилеми.
Романът е изключително поетичен, без да бъде претенциозен или тежък. Дълбоките размишления върху темите за принадлежност, семейство, емиграция и идентичност са интересно разграничени според това дали говори младата, наивна и изпълнена с бушуващи чувства Едит, или зрелата и пораснала жена, преминала през житейските подеми и падения. Едит е представена като сложен и много човечен персонаж, който търси своето място в свят, разкъсван от исторически и социални конфликти, докато изследва личните си загуби и избори.
Книгата засяга и въпросите за културните различия, които изпъкват в контраста между ирландските и италианските сцени, провокирайки размисли върху повтарящите се цикли на страдание и възраждане в европейската история.
„Ripeness“ е страхотна книга, която балансира интимното със социалното и представя преживяванията на героите с изключителен психологизъм и изящна проза. Финалът е силно емоционален и обединява миналото и настоящето в един всеобхватен исторически и личен разказ за семейните връзки и търсенето на дом.
В сюжета се преплитат две времеви линии: първата е от 60-те години в Южна Италия, а втората съвременното ежедневие в ирландско село. Главната героиня, 73-годишната Едит, живее спокойно в селска Ирландия, но животът ѝ и този на най-близките ѝ е белязан от тайни и семейни загуби. През 60-те години младата Едит е изпратена от майка си при сестра си Лидия, талантлива балерина, в последните ѝ седмици на бременността край езерото Комо, Италия. Времето, което двете сестри прекарват там, изважда на повърхността множество емоционални и морални дилеми.
Романът е изключително поетичен, без да бъде претенциозен или тежък. Дълбоките размишления върху темите за принадлежност, семейство, емиграция и идентичност са интересно разграничени според това дали говори младата, наивна и изпълнена с бушуващи чувства Едит, или зрелата и пораснала жена, преминала през житейските подеми и падения. Едит е представена като сложен и много човечен персонаж, който търси своето място в свят, разкъсван от исторически и социални конфликти, докато изследва личните си загуби и избори.
Книгата засяга и въпросите за културните различия, които изпъкват в контраста между ирландските и италианските сцени, провокирайки размисли върху повтарящите се цикли на страдание и възраждане в европейската история.
„Ripeness“ е страхотна книга, която балансира интимното със социалното и представя преживяванията на героите с изключителен психологизъм и изящна проза. Финалът е силно емоционален и обединява миналото и настоящето в един всеобхватен исторически и личен разказ за семейните връзки и търсенето на дом.
May 23, 2025
Having read all of Sarah Moss's fiction to date (plus her memoir Names for the Sea), I've become very familiar with her thought-world, and have started to wonder if she's always going to set my teeth on edge a bit. This is not a criticism of Moss or her prose, but more a statement of incompatibility; I get the sense that Moss's writer-self and my reader-self don't quite click. The reason I've kept reading her, despite this mismatch, is that she often creates exceptional writing. For me, this has tended to be especially evident when she moves outside her comfort zone, adopting either a male protagonist (The Tidal Zone), a historical setting (Bodies of Light, Signs for Lost Children, parts of Night Waking) or a hint of the speculative (Cold Earth). On the other hand, since Ghost Wall, I've found that her contemporary novellas have given me diminishing returns. Both
Summerwater
and, especially,
The Fell
got my teeth grinding more than they usually do, because of their on-the-nose social commentary and increasingly judgemental tone. She often gets stuck with her middle-class, woolly liberal characters, understanding the limitations of their mindsets and yet seemingly not quite able to think outside them.
So what about Ripeness, her latest novel? It sums up everything I just said, because it's essentially made up of two novellas - one of which I loved, and one of which I found very tiresome. They're both told from the perspective of Edith, the daughter of a French-Jewish mother who managed to escape the Holocaust while the rest of her family ended up in death camps. In the 1960s, Edith is seventeen years old and travelling to Italy to help her older ballet dancer sister, Lydia, with the birth of an illegitimate baby that Lydia intends to have adopted. In the present day, Edith is now in her seventies and living in rural Ireland, where she wrestles with questions of blood and belonging; despite her many years in Ireland, can she ever really feel that this is her country? As the daughter of an exile - the novel very lightly touches on the subject of Israel but mostly swerves it - does she really have a country at all?
The section of the novel set in sixties Italy is both enchanting and gutwrenching. Moss does a great job at portraying Edith as a sympathetic younger sister who still tends to fall into rigid patterns of thinking. I felt deeply for Lydia, whom Edith clearly does not understand and who has to follow through on her decision to give up her baby utterly unsupported and alone. At the same time, the descriptive prose is just gorgeous and immersive, and the hills above Lake Como come vividly to life. Unfortunately, the interspersed chapters narrated by Edith's older self not only seem to have little to do with the Italian sections but actually diminish them. It would have been wonderful to have a narrative counterpoint to Edith's judgements, but instead we just get more Edith. Her worries about refugees and adoptions technically have thematic links to the earlier material, but it just doesn't come together. And while I liked her a lot as an adolescent, she definitely became one of Moss's smug liberals as an older woman.
Will I keep on reading Moss? I think it depends on what she writes about. I will certainly keep on recommending her, because I know many readers who enjoy her more than me. 3.5 stars.
So what about Ripeness, her latest novel? It sums up everything I just said, because it's essentially made up of two novellas - one of which I loved, and one of which I found very tiresome. They're both told from the perspective of Edith, the daughter of a French-Jewish mother who managed to escape the Holocaust while the rest of her family ended up in death camps. In the 1960s, Edith is seventeen years old and travelling to Italy to help her older ballet dancer sister, Lydia, with the birth of an illegitimate baby that Lydia intends to have adopted. In the present day, Edith is now in her seventies and living in rural Ireland, where she wrestles with questions of blood and belonging; despite her many years in Ireland, can she ever really feel that this is her country? As the daughter of an exile - the novel very lightly touches on the subject of Israel but mostly swerves it - does she really have a country at all?
The section of the novel set in sixties Italy is both enchanting and gutwrenching. Moss does a great job at portraying Edith as a sympathetic younger sister who still tends to fall into rigid patterns of thinking. I felt deeply for Lydia, whom Edith clearly does not understand and who has to follow through on her decision to give up her baby utterly unsupported and alone. At the same time, the descriptive prose is just gorgeous and immersive, and the hills above Lake Como come vividly to life. Unfortunately, the interspersed chapters narrated by Edith's older self not only seem to have little to do with the Italian sections but actually diminish them. It would have been wonderful to have a narrative counterpoint to Edith's judgements, but instead we just get more Edith. Her worries about refugees and adoptions technically have thematic links to the earlier material, but it just doesn't come together. And while I liked her a lot as an adolescent, she definitely became one of Moss's smug liberals as an older woman.
Will I keep on reading Moss? I think it depends on what she writes about. I will certainly keep on recommending her, because I know many readers who enjoy her more than me. 3.5 stars.
July 26, 2025
I've loved everything I've read by Sarah Moss. And this one maybe most of all. I don't even know where to begin except to say that I loved it from start to finish: the characters, the two settings, the two timelines, the writing. THE WRITING. I'm full of all the feels, having just turned the last page.
I wanted to finish before the Booker longlist comes out on Tuesday so I can start on that quest. But I really hope I have already read a few on the list and I would be oh so pleased if RIPENESS is one of them.
I wanted to finish before the Booker longlist comes out on Tuesday so I can start on that quest. But I really hope I have already read a few on the list and I would be oh so pleased if RIPENESS is one of them.
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