This review was written in that dim corridor of days between the 22nd and 28th of October, 2025 — a week blurred by the hiss of oxygen and the slow drip of IV lines at Bellona Nursing Home & Diagnostic Centre Pvt. Ltd. I was then a reluctant guest of illness, recovering from an infection that had seized both lungs and kidneys. Forgive, therefore, the infrequent tremor in my language; it bears the soft delirium of painkillers and the fragile clarity of a mind half-dreaming between fever and thought.
*Now and Forever* opens with an illusion of stability: Jessica and Ian Clarke, a perfect marriage in a perfect house, radiant as a toothpaste ad. Steel’s brilliance lies in how she introduces the rupture—not as a sudden catastrophe, but as a slow leak in the architecture of love. When Ian commits an impulsive act that sends him to prison, the novel shifts from domestic bliss to existential exile. Reading it between beeps and drips, I realised Steel wasn’t writing a romance; she was conducting an autopsy of faith.
What happens when love is stripped of its visible scaffolding—sex, proximity, touch—and left only with time? Jessica’s devotion becomes an experiment in absence, in Derrida’s sense of the *supplement*: she keeps loving him not because he’s there, but precisely because he isn’t.
The act of waiting becomes her identity. Steel, perhaps unknowingly, writes a Kristevan meditation on abjection—the woman who maintains form as everything else decays.
The hospital light at 3 a.m. had the same metallic chill as Steel’s prose. I read Jessica’s letters to Ian as if they were IV fluids, feeding a body no longer responsive. The language of care mirrors the language of survival: *“You must be strong,”* she writes, as though repetition could substitute for hope. Each sentence is a ritual act against entropy.
What moves me most is Steel’s refusal to moralise Ian’s fall. Instead, she dissects the banality of error—how one bad impulse can unravel the whole text of a life. There’s a quiet Barthesian irony here: the narrative’s meaning isn’t in what happens, but in how the lovers narrate it afterward. Their love becomes a text rewritten through guilt, forgiveness, and fatigue. Barthes might call it the *death of the lover*—when desire turns from the other’s body to the other’s memory.
Steel’s craft in *Now and Forever* is deceptively plain. Her sentences are stripped down, even mechanical, but within that simplicity hides an almost clinical rhythm—the heartbeat of someone watching love decompose molecule by molecule. By the time Ian returns, both have changed. The novel pretends to restore equilibrium, but what’s really restored is awareness: the knowledge that permanence is a myth.
I remember pausing at a line—“You never really go back; you only go forward into a different version of what was.” That sentence pulsed in my skull like a mantra. Illness does the same: it steals the illusion of continuity and replaces it with a new body that carries the old one’s ghosts. Steel’s title, *Now and Forever*, sounds romantic, but the text itself knows better. The “forever” part is just “now”, endlessly rewritten.
Jessica’s loyalty can feel suffocating, almost pathological, but therein lies Steel’s early critique of feminine endurance. She sketches a portrait of the woman as the keeper of emotional infrastructure, condemned to maintain love even when it has turned into ruin. Kristeva would call it the maternal semiotic—fluid, sustaining, irrational. Jessica becomes a kind of modern Madonna, performing devotion in the face of systemic betrayal.
And yet, Steel doesn’t idealise her. Beneath Jessica’s resilience lurks exhaustion. The narrative voice occasionally trembles with resentment, that unspoken ache of being needed but unseen. Reading it under sedation, I could feel that fatigue settling in my own limbs—the ache of constant vigilance, the performance of wellness. It struck me that Steel, writing in the late ’70s, intuited something our postmodern theories would later diagnose: love as labour.
There’s an extraordinary irony in how *Now and Forever* was marketed as a conventional romance. Beneath its glossy cover beats the heart of an existential fable. Ian’s prison sentence is both literal and metaphoric—the confinement of the masculine ego within its own fragility.
Jessica’s endurance is the mirror to that imprisonment: the confinement of the feminine ideal within grace. Both are trapped in performative scripts that no longer fit.
At one point, Jessica muses that “love means never giving up.” The line, dangerously close to cliché, transforms under scrutiny. Never giving up on *what*? The person, the memory, or the performance of love itself? The question lingers like the aftertaste of morphine—sweet, numbing, circular. Steel’s prose, often dismissed as sentimental, conceals this recursive unease: love as repetition compulsion, the refusal to end even when the ending has arrived.
As the novel closed, I caught myself rereading the first chapter, tracing the symmetry between beginning and end. The same house, the same promise, the same couple—but everything contaminated by time. It reminded me of Derrida’s obsession with *iterability*: how repetition always alters the original. The phrase “now and forever” is, in that sense, self-cancelling. “Forever” only exists as a succession of “nows”, each undoing the last.
From the hospital window, dawn broke in that pale, antiseptic way cities wake—without ceremony. I thought of Jessica making breakfast alone, her hands still rehearsing love’s choreography even after its music had faded. Steel’s genius lies in making that image linger: the woman as both saint and survivor, mourning not the loss of love but the loss of belief in its permanence.
To read *Now and Forever* in illness is to confront the fragility of continuity. Every act of breathing feels conditional, borrowed. Steel’s novel, for all its melodrama, captures that same precarious grace—the effort to keep meaning alive when the narrative collapses. I closed the book and felt the pulse monitor echoing the rhythm of Steel’s sentences: slow, steady, and uncertain.
It struck me that her early novels, written before fame calcified her prose into formula, were really meditations on entropy disguised as love stories. *Now and Forever* isn’t about romantic fulfillment; it’s about survival through incompleteness. Jessica’s devotion is both her strength and her undoing. She becomes what Derrida might call a trace—a figure defined by what she has lost.
As I drifted back into sleep, the hospital ceiling faded into a blur. Somewhere in the haze, Jessica whispered something only the fever could translate: *Forever is just another word for waiting.*
Give it a try.