I could’ve done with this book a few years ago. As someone who once decided to let go of a special relationship, hurting someone else, it’s strange to read such an emotionally charged and messy personal account of heartache. So I can’t relate to that side of Amy Liptrot’s experience. But I can relate to that bodily feeling of loneliness she talks about, as she makes the move from Orkney to Berlin, alone, in search of art, ideas, nature, love, people, a different scene.
I’ve not experienced anything approaching intimacy for coming in on five years now, partly from choice, partly from fear. (We all have our baggage.) I’ve found loneliness is something you an adapt and acclimatise yourself to, a self-imposed exile. You may not want to be alone, but you’re also unwilling to give it up because the alternative has grown so alien. It’s a weird contradiction to live with. How to get over this?
I like how she uses wild geese as a symbol for that which knows no borders or boundaries. It reminds me of one of my favourite haikus:
Migrating geese —
The things we thought we needed
Darken the garage
Holding onto and letting go become major themes from the second half of the book to the final page. The sight of birds and the elusiveness of urban raccoons (she has this thing about raccoons, I don’t know) become part of the metaphor of the internal push and shove of trying to move on from a torn apart heart, failing and then trying again.
It’s a raw, searching story, hovering just above the ground, its feet never quite touching the surface. I don’t rank it on the same level as The Outrun, which is still her best book, I think. But this just happens to be the book I needed to read, even if it did come a little late.