Because the thing about the end of the world is that it happens all the time. Someone leaves and it's the end of the world. Someone comes back and it's the end of the world. Somebody puts their cock in you and it's the end of the world. Somebody stops putting their cock in you and it's the end of the world. Here is a novel about mothering, wolves, bicycles, midwifery, post-apocalyptic feminism, gold, hunger and hope. It's about an underachieving millennial, a retired midwife and a charismatic Dubliner who set out from London after the end of the world to cycle to a sanctuary in the southern Alps. It's about the porousness of the female bodily experience, the challenges of being an empiricist with a sample size of one, what's worth knowing, what's worth living, and the necessity of irrationality. It's about the fact that the world ends all the time, and it's about what to try to do next.
I initially struggled to get into this book. There are no chapters and narrator weaves back and forth in time. However I enjoyed it and it is thought provoking as we see people/ survivors cope with “end of world” type scenario- heading into the unknown future…. But then isn’t the future always unknown?
read this in a frenzy during my 2 week Scottish highland camping trip - absolutely delightful. Loved the poetic language, loved the way a plot line runs into the next thought just like a road trip feels like, or what your thoughts tend to do if you don’t happen to have your notes app ready, because it is the end of the world, duh. An excellent reminder that the world is ending every day and there is nothing extraordinary about it.