As a fan of ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife’, Audrey Niffenegger’s ‘Life Out of Order’ was one of my most anticipated books of the year. Unfortunately, it turned out to be one of the worst reading experiences I’ve had. The synopsis is by far the best part of the book, both in terms of the strength of the story and the quality of the writing, and I only wish I had stopped there.
What is promised is the story of Alba DeTamble, a time traveller caught in a love triangle across time while dealing with the difficulties of a changing and increasingly hostile world. What we actually get is a series of scenes and vignettes, many of them only tangentially connected to Alba or to the supposed central love triangle. Although these sections are written from a vast array of perspectives, they share an identical voice, one that is indistinguishable from Alba’s.
The result feels less like a novel than a collection of disconnected moments and ideas. Individual scenes have little or no intrinsic plot, while the accumulation of scenes never develops into an overarching narrative. The book moves from left-wing activism to climate change to artificial intelligence to the love triangle, as though ticking subjects off a list rather than allowing them to emerge organically from the story. The problem is not that the novel is ambitious; it is that so few of its ideas are meaningfully woven together. Niffenegger repeatedly creates ambiguity and fragmentation without turning either into narrative or emotional coherence, and the novel consequently never develops a sense of direction, purpose or momentum.
The political world in which the story takes place is particularly problematic. There are curfews, helicopters, disappearances and violent conflict between opposing factions, apparently involving fascists and Antifa, but the novel does nothing to establish who these groups are, what they want or how the situation has come about. Whatever political context Niffenegger assumes the reader will bring to the book, the novel itself provides very little. I was frequently left trying to work out what was happening rather than being drawn into the world.
The same lack of clarity applies to the sprawling cast. Names are constantly introduced, often in passing, and with so many relationships and connections to keep track of, I frequently found myself unable to remember who people were. Niffenegger also repeatedly withholds basic information about characters and then reveals it later as a kind of “gotcha” moment. Beck, for example, is female, although this is not made clear initially. The reader is encouraged to make an assumption about Beck’s gender and is then effectively invited to recognise the supposed bias behind that assumption when the truth is revealed.
The problem is not the ambiguity itself, but the method. Information is withheld not because the withholding creates dramatic or thematic tension, but so that the reader can later be confronted with their own assumption. It is a tactic the novel employs repeatedly: allow the reader to believe one thing, withhold the information that would allow them to know otherwise, and then present the revelation as evidence of the reader’s own preconceptions. Rather than feeling like clever manipulation of perspective, I found it increasingly transparent and irritating, particularly when the book seems more interested in making a point about the reader than in telling a story.
The tangled web of romantic and sexual relationships only adds to the confusion. There are numerous overlapping relationships and a large number of bisexual and pansexual characters, but the issue is not the subject matter itself; it is that, combined with the deliberate withholding of information, this makes it increasingly difficult to understand who anyone is, what they want or how they relate to one another.
The writing does little to compensate. It is dull and emotionally flat, frequently bogged down in descriptions of what characters look like or what objects and foods are present in a room, while giving surprisingly little weight to emotion or dramatic tension. There is also a persistent clunkiness to the prose, with four words used where one would suffice and words repeated awkwardly within the same phrase—“unconventional naming conventions” and “well-fortified in my fort” being two particularly memorable examples. With so little plot, emotion or tension to pull the reader forward, the result is a remarkably slow slog.
Even the central love triangle, which ought to provide the novel with its emotional core, fails to engage. Alba and Zach’s relationship begins out of nowhere and has the flatness of insta-love rather than the gradual development of a convincing attachment. There is little chemistry between them, and I never believed in the relationship. Her relationship with Oliver is equally unconvincing and, at times, deeply uncomfortable: the idea of a seventeen-year-old becoming sexually involved with a septuagenarian is not something I particularly wanted to read about, and the novel does little to make the dynamic feel less creepy.
The eventual resolution is no better. Rather than satisfactorily resolving the love triangle, the book simply throws the characters into an abrupt threesome. It feels simultaneously horrifying, inexplicable and like a convenient cop-out—a way of ending the triangle without actually having to decide what to do with it.
There are also frustrating inconsistencies in the novel’s treatment of time travel. The problem is not that time travel needs scientifically coherent rules; it is that the novel establishes a particular logic and then appears to violate it without adequately explaining why. We are repeatedly told that the future is fixed and cannot simply be changed by passing information into the past. Yet older Alba later starts deliberately sending messages back in an attempt to alter events, including telling Beck to move her servers so that they will not be destroyed. The rules become malleable when the plot requires them to be, undermining one of the concepts on which the novel is built.
The novel is also remarkably preachy about politics and climate change. Neither subject is inherently problematic, and both could have made interesting components of the story, but here they often feel like lectures inserted between the actual narrative. There is an especially glaring disconnect between the novel’s warnings about climate change and Beck’s enormous consumption of energy for her AI project, a contradiction the book never addresses.
By the end, I found myself admiring the sheer number of things the novel manages to get wrong more than anything it actually does well. ‘Life Out of Order’ is certainly a discussion-starter, but not in the way a novelist presumably hopes.
Needless to say, ‘Life Out of Order’ is a big no from me. As much as I enjoyed ‘The Time Traveler’s Wife’, this was an extraordinarily disappointing follow-up, and one of the rare books I genuinely wish I had never finished. I will also never now be able to return to its prequel in quite the same way.
Many thanks to NetGalley, Audrey Niffenegger, and Jonathan Cape for the ARC.
⚠️ Death of parent, violence, infidelity, self harm, suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, blood, adult/minor relationship