I am partial to a good run-on sentence, and Anna Burns knows the kind I like, the kind that feels uncontrolled and yet is anything but, that heaps clause upon clause and absurdity upon improbability, and inverts words for an effect that is more comic than it has any right to be.
How could he have fallen in love when, one, he didn’t fall in love; two, he never mixed personal with professional; three, hardly ever did he allow personal; four, he was descended from morally-excellent superhero stock whereas she was descended from fatale, fall-guy and ultra-villain stock; five, she was intermittently trying to kill him; six, she would be his second cousin if Great Aunt proved to be his grandmother; and seven, he was a legs man and she was not legs.
Milkman was probably my favourite novel of the last few years and this 100-page novella is not five stars in the way that was five stars, but it’s marvellous nonetheless. It’s marvellous not only because I spent the summer watching ridiculous superhero movies in a completely-out-of-character-I-must-save-my-sanity-after-testing-positive-for-Covid-one-day-before-my-flight-to-see-my-parents-if-I-cannot-travel-I-will-buy-a-TV way, but also because it furthers what I understand Burns’ larger project to be: telling the story of the Troubles in a non-dreary-lit-fic-full-of-tragedy-and-teeth-gnashing way. So we have superheroes who gradually come to the realization that they are more than a little villainous, and we have reckonings of the type:
What if he was neither “super-this” nor “super-that” but instead just average and ordinary? To be average and ordinary equated in hero’s mind with being sub-average and less than ordinary, which itself equated with not being acceptable, not being respectable, not being lovable – though of course he himself would never think in such New Age, self-absorbed terms.
And we also have my favourite description all year, as a dying antagonist , early on in her (lengthy) dying, has “a blood-trail resembling a post-structuralist anti-principle of traditional abstracted countercomposition.”
All in all reading Burns is kind of like being kidnapped by a garrulous Irish aunt, locked in her kitchen, forced to listen to her stories to cup after cup after cup (about twenty) of tea and yet not really wanting to get away, when it comes down to it.