Best known for her literary translations and, recently, her non-fiction, this marks Polly Barton’s debut as a novelist. It’s an intense, exceptionally introspective piece centred on an unnamed narrator whose life history strongly resembles Barton’s own - suggesting a marked semi-autobiographical component. The narrator’s recounting her experiences a decade earlier when she was living and working in Germany. She’d moved there from London to act as a translator for Japanese versions of products produced by a Frankfurt-based games company. A move intended to kickstart a process of radical self-invention, a space in which she’d finally become the person she’d always longed to be, rather than the person she believed herself to be. Her sense was that the people around her were somehow balanced and whole but that she was fragmented, deeply self-conscious and conflicted. In Frankfurt, much of her spare time is spent obsessing about another worker in her building. A man who travels on the same tram to and from work. She calls him the “umbrella man” enigmatic, darkly handsome – his role as a focus for her fantasies and longings sometimes echoed aspects of Shakespeare’s famous Dark Lady. For the narrator, the umbrella man’s the epitome of everything she could possibly wish for, a stark contrast to the disappointingly-suffocating man she’s actually dating aka the “stylish man.”
The narrator’s state of what looks a lot like limerence is the catalyst for a series of musings and interrogations: the narrator’s likes and dislikes, her hopes, dreams and the constraints of her gender. She thinks about the romance narratives that have shaped her notion of what relationships should look like – from Austen novels to Disney movies. She seeks to explain the disconnect between how she’s living and her thoughts about how she should be living by drawing on Lauren Berlant’s cruel optimism the habitual ways of thinking that impede self-awareness and self-realisation. In London the narrator’s partner was another woman yet she finds herself unable to evade heteronormative expectations - even though they’re steeped in heteropessimism or heterofatalism. The narrator’s internal struggles, her ambivalence consume her. Her accounts of grappling with a kind of existential angst often reminded me of representations of anxiety and alienation associated with writers like Rilke and Dazai albeit without the more harrowing descents – it was striking to see this playing out from a woman’s perspective for a change.
It's a highly intertextual piece from its title taken from Isabella Rossellini’s quirky Seduce Me pieces to snippets of philosophy stemming from the narrator’s undergraduate years – which aligns with Barton’s own background and philosophical grounding. The text is broken up by indirect references to pop songs. These, in turn, connect to the narrator’s love of karaoke which, like translation, allows her to temporarily inhabit other states of mind, other ways of thinking without fully investing or committing. It’s during these performances that the narrator feels most free. Commercial pop, particularly love songs, also provide the narrator with readymade forms of expression for otherwise overwhelming, confusing emotions. They render emotional states communicable, easily summarized and pinned-down, something the narrator finds almost impossible to do.
There’s little to no plot, this is very much in the vein of a bildungsroman, and there’s no rounded-off conclusion, other than the narrator’s passing from one state of being to another more manageable one. It’s an accomplished piece, thoughtful and insightful, with a number of arresting episodes and passages. But it didn’t quite work for me. I liked the overall concept, but I didn’t find the execution that engaging, it felt flat, forced, even ponderous at times. The narrator herself is fairly relatable but not always, unfortunately, that stimulating to read about.
Thanks to Edelweiss and publisher Fitzcarraldo for an ARC
Rating: 2.5 rounded up