This book is part diary, part memoir, all celebration of the joys of love, sex, food, friends, nature and writing in the face of failure, disappointment and death. Like all of Roberts’ work, it’s beautifully, sensually written, intellectually and politically uncompromising, rich with psychoanalytical insights, particularly into mother-child relationships, and bestrides the psychological and physical landscapes of France and Britain (London).
Following the rejection of her latest novel, Roberts is left feeling the pain of failure and questioning her life and her art. She is an uncertain land professionally and creatively. She offers up the notion of ‘negative capability’ from therapy and Keats – ‘dwelling peacefully within contradictions without striving for rapidly arriving rational solutions’ – as a way to survive and thrive in this place of powerlessness.
There were moments when I struggled with some of the intellectualisations and the blatant egoism of punctuating the narrative with references to previous novels, professional successes and less credible and creditable students. That’s the point, though, the writing offers up Roberts warts and all – success and failure, grounded and peripatetic, critical and kind, alone and deeply connected to a web of friends and lovers, helpless and powerful.
I loved the ideas and the writing – and the people watching. I found it comforting, insightful and inspiring.