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What I Know
On the morning of his fortieth birthday, Mike Hannah wakes from a dream about the girl he loved twenty years earlier. Once an aspiring writer, he is now a private detective whose work and marriage have become routine, and he begins to wonder what might have been. Which leads him to wondering where his ex-girlfriend is now, and whether other people's lives are more exciting than his. Which leads him to spying on his own family, friends and neighbours. Which leads to some very unwelcome surprises...
288 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2005
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Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
March 27, 2018
The story of a man who, ostensibly analysing those around him, reveals his own hidden secrets, self-delusions and uncomfortable truths. He feels emotionally removed from those he loves the most and ill-suited to his career, struggles to reconcile himself to his past decisions and life choices. A private eye by profession, and by happenstance, he's living a life he never envisaged, wrangling with introspection, regret and a sense of becoming increasingly isolated. It questions whether people can change fundamentally over time, the permanence of love and the possibility of becoming someone other than the person ones spouse fell in love with. The writing is quiet, precise and understated. In Cowan's novel the seemingly mundane, ordinary, is full of poignancy, moments of wry humour, acute observations about the human condition and philosophical exploration.
"Unlike me, Jan has always kept journals, diligently written each evening as she sits up in bed... She briskly commits to the page as much as she needs to, then closes the book and dumps it on the floor till morning. By day it sits in her bedside cabinet, and when it is finished, completely covered in ink, it goes downstairs to the trunk. Her purpose is not to remember, to file her life for future reference, but merely to place a full-stop on each day. Once written, the day is gone; she can sleep and wake to the next."
"I am about to commit a betrayal, however minor, after which many other betrayals may become possible. But even as I recognise this, I let the thought go."
!...my feeling for her at least appeared to be 'true'. They were 'real'... I was in love, and hopelessly so, but Sarah also made me unhappy, and there were sometimes I was sure that I hated her. She was sweet and affectionate, easily hurt, but her affections were promiscuous, not mine to depend on, and despite the intimacy we shared and the secrets she told me, I never did feel I could 'read' her; she was always unfathomable..."
"And perhaps this was the end of ambition for me, the moment at which I accepted that all things were not possible. It's a commonplace notion, I'm sure, that many lives exist for us, and even continue in some way in our absence. Certainly the person I was at that time was the person I imagines Sarah wished me to be. That version of myself belonged to her, and you might say she still 'owns' it. But that evening I relinquished it"
"She's the right person for me. I feel that every time I'm with her.... it feels exactly right, like it was always meant to be...Well let me tell you how it is, it's like every crappy cliché there ever was. She's the last person I think of at night and the first person I think of every morning, and every time I see her my heart skips a beat and my pulse starts to race. The world becomes a sunnier place. It's all the romantic clichés you can think of..."
"Of course there is love and there's love. One is all head-spin and nerve ends, a mental derangement, a sickness. The other's a palliative, a balm, the antidote to all that. Ideally it runs deeper, a low thrum of contentment, though it's possible that Jan and I have become so used to the thrum that we no longer hear it; it's possible the monotony has induced it's own symptoms, it's own kind of illness, and perhaps in our familiarity, we have become somewhat complacent. Certainly there must have been a time- unnoticed then and unidentifiable now- when I grew out of the habit of attending to Jan or expecting to learn new things about her, when I came to think of myself as sufficiently 'fluent' in her moods and responses that I needn't make any allowances for how she might change. I settled for what I already knew, and what little that amounted to has come to stand for all of her."
"...For some moments then she gazes at the clematis tumbling into our square of garden from next door. A tiny white butterfly jinks over it."
"It could have been that she, too, was becoming impatient for some fresh turn in her life, that her 'story' had also come to seem stultifying. She might have decided that her 'conversation' with Will was unable to advance any further, and that no matter how many words they continued to share they would never again be able to articulate anything new or 'surprising'. All of which, no doubt, is common to most long-lasting marriages, and doubtless too there will be moments in every lengthy relationship- however outwardly harmonious- when one of other partner will yearn for some new intimacy, when this will seem exactly the thing required if either of them is to connect with who they once were, or once hoped they'd become, as opposed to the tired, outdated roles they'd taken on and worn through."
"Unlike me, Jan has always kept journals, diligently written each evening as she sits up in bed... She briskly commits to the page as much as she needs to, then closes the book and dumps it on the floor till morning. By day it sits in her bedside cabinet, and when it is finished, completely covered in ink, it goes downstairs to the trunk. Her purpose is not to remember, to file her life for future reference, but merely to place a full-stop on each day. Once written, the day is gone; she can sleep and wake to the next."
"I am about to commit a betrayal, however minor, after which many other betrayals may become possible. But even as I recognise this, I let the thought go."
!...my feeling for her at least appeared to be 'true'. They were 'real'... I was in love, and hopelessly so, but Sarah also made me unhappy, and there were sometimes I was sure that I hated her. She was sweet and affectionate, easily hurt, but her affections were promiscuous, not mine to depend on, and despite the intimacy we shared and the secrets she told me, I never did feel I could 'read' her; she was always unfathomable..."
"And perhaps this was the end of ambition for me, the moment at which I accepted that all things were not possible. It's a commonplace notion, I'm sure, that many lives exist for us, and even continue in some way in our absence. Certainly the person I was at that time was the person I imagines Sarah wished me to be. That version of myself belonged to her, and you might say she still 'owns' it. But that evening I relinquished it"
"She's the right person for me. I feel that every time I'm with her.... it feels exactly right, like it was always meant to be...Well let me tell you how it is, it's like every crappy cliché there ever was. She's the last person I think of at night and the first person I think of every morning, and every time I see her my heart skips a beat and my pulse starts to race. The world becomes a sunnier place. It's all the romantic clichés you can think of..."
"Of course there is love and there's love. One is all head-spin and nerve ends, a mental derangement, a sickness. The other's a palliative, a balm, the antidote to all that. Ideally it runs deeper, a low thrum of contentment, though it's possible that Jan and I have become so used to the thrum that we no longer hear it; it's possible the monotony has induced it's own symptoms, it's own kind of illness, and perhaps in our familiarity, we have become somewhat complacent. Certainly there must have been a time- unnoticed then and unidentifiable now- when I grew out of the habit of attending to Jan or expecting to learn new things about her, when I came to think of myself as sufficiently 'fluent' in her moods and responses that I needn't make any allowances for how she might change. I settled for what I already knew, and what little that amounted to has come to stand for all of her."
"...For some moments then she gazes at the clematis tumbling into our square of garden from next door. A tiny white butterfly jinks over it."
"It could have been that she, too, was becoming impatient for some fresh turn in her life, that her 'story' had also come to seem stultifying. She might have decided that her 'conversation' with Will was unable to advance any further, and that no matter how many words they continued to share they would never again be able to articulate anything new or 'surprising'. All of which, no doubt, is common to most long-lasting marriages, and doubtless too there will be moments in every lengthy relationship- however outwardly harmonious- when one of other partner will yearn for some new intimacy, when this will seem exactly the thing required if either of them is to connect with who they once were, or once hoped they'd become, as opposed to the tired, outdated roles they'd taken on and worn through."
March 1, 2018
I enjoyed this (and not just because it followed more conventions of story telling than the last couple of book club choices). It's quite, thoughtful, occasionally unnerving and unexpected but equally recognisable and accessible in it's own ways. Familiarity and routine can offer comfort and also feel smothering.
The ending felt realistic and I was happy to leave Mike in his garden because life rarely has easy resolutions.
The ending felt realistic and I was happy to leave Mike in his garden because life rarely has easy resolutions.
May 30, 2017
A wonderfully written, quiet novel full of all life's sad, innocuous little disappointments. Perfectly-measured prose, abundant vulnerability, and a fair amount of humour. A book which teaches you things.
I don't know what the thinking was behind the cover...
I don't know what the thinking was behind the cover...
October 8, 2017
This book is very perceptive and interesting. It has humour but also has a darker edge to it. Thoroughly enjoyable with an engaging storyline and excellent characterisation.
June 6, 2011
Man, I read this book like a million yeas ago. I tried to look up what it was about, because I have forgotten, but too many titles came up when I tried to look it up on Amazon and I remembered. I remember now not liking it too much. 95% of the time I pick up female authors and that 5% of the time, I pick up male authors for a change of pace, 99% of that time, I end up hating the book. What is it about male authors that makes me NOT feel sorry for all the bitching and whining they do? Because I just don’t! This book was about a normal guy who has a strange fascination with his neighbours, a normal family, just like his. Maybe his wife is cheating, maybe not, he doesn’t care too much. Thank god I got through it quickly, because I did not care about anything. D+
April 12, 2013
A fascinating and intriguing read, with a deliciously creepy narrator. The book's themes of surveillance and knowledge are pushed to an intriguing level once the writer character of Will appears. I like books about detectives and books about writers--here, they're combined. I also liked the questions it asked about intimacy in relationships, if true intimacy is defined by what you DON'T know about the person rather than what you do... Reminded me of Ian McEwan in parts. Not really getting the Nick Hornby comparison--is he supposed to represent the epitome of 'British provincial realism'? (as one character describes it...)
September 11, 2011
What I know is for this sort of novel Nick Hornby is the writer to seek out.
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews