“Intermezzo” by Sally Rooney

Terrible news. I finished reading this book two weeks ago but never blogged about it. And now… I definitely haven’t forgotten about it, but nothing is fresh on my mind. Here's what I can dredge up from the muck: I enjoyed reading it, as expected where Sally Rooney is concerned, but for me it wasn't on the same level as Conversations with Friends or Normal People. It's OK, that's a high bar. And it's solidly on par with Beautiful World, Where Are You. (Although I just reread my blog posts for those three books, which made me think maybe I didn't love the experience of reading Normal People as much as my obviously almost non-existent memory tells me I loved it.)

To me, this book had less in the way of so-high-level-as-to-be-almost-unbelievably-intelligent conversations between characters. (Or maybe these conversations were so expected in a Sally Rooney book that I didn't even notice them this time around?) Which helped in the arena of not making me feel inferior. Not that the characters were idiots or anything--there were still a lot of really high IQs floating around--but they found other paths to superiority (like world-class chess skills and incredible beauty). 

I must admit I did not reach critical mass with this book, but that's OK too. I don't have to be desperate to finish a book in order to enjoy it. It's actually kind of a relief to be able to put a book down any time I need to. And I definitely did not have to force my way through, which is never a good indication.  

“Beautiful World, Where Are You” by Sally Rooney

This book wrecked me. And not in the cathartic way that Where the Red Fern Grows or Year of Wonders could move me to vicarious tears of grief. No, Sally Rooney put me in a place where I had to stop and think and focus in order to remember the love and happiness and joy in my life. 

Not that I didn't enjoy the reading experience as I was being destroyed. Rooney is three for three in Books I Could Not Put Down, and FSG should be happy to hear that I will probably buy anything she writes from here on out (and I'm sure I'm not the only one). 

This is, unsurprisingly, another relationship story--not just a love story, because it encompasses friendship and, tangentially, family. Alice (a famous but somewhat reclusive writer) and Eileen have been best friends for years; the bulk of the book consists of their email correspondence, but their connections to Felix and Simon are often in the forefront. I feel like a main theme of the story is tension--the type that exists when you try to pull someone closer (especially when they resist) or push someone away (especially when you don't intend to). 

Once again (just like Rachel Cusk does), Rooney has created characters who have these deeply intelligent conversations (though in Beautiful World, most of them are actually conducted by email rather than face to face) and I’m stuck telling people that after I got home from work this weekend I realized that the butt seam of my scrubs was ripped wide open so no wonder I'd been freezing all day. And I just have to make myself feel better by telling myself that sometimes I have deeply intelligent conversations, though definitely not constantly; and surely no one at work actually saw my butt. 

"Normal People" by Sally Rooney

I'm just . . . so annoyed by these people.

I really wanted that line to be my full blog post but I'm going to have to say more. Sam really liked this book and has been eagerly waiting for me to finish reading so we can discuss it. Maybe I should have waited to post until after we've talked about the book? Or maybe I'll come back later and edit to add more? But right now I'm almost angry about how both Connell and Marianne could so passively destroy their relationship and their happiness, time after time.

"Conversations With Friends" by Sally Rooney

This book did for me what the previous book was supposed to do and didn’t. How is it that I can read a book about something painful that I have endured and the book doesn’t touch me, but a book I have nothing in common with does? And how did I identify so strongly with a main character who was so different from me? Maybe she and I had a few characteristics in common. And where we differed, I admired her. Maybe wherever I wasn’t her, I wanted to be her; she may have alienated everyone around her, but she didn’t alienate me. I didn’t envy her life--I would much rather have my life than hers (lucky for me). It did fascinate me, though.

This book tells the story of Frances, a 21-year-old Irish university student, poet, and all-around cold, intimidating and intelligent person (as seen by others)--or someone formless and void, marked more by absence than presence of personality (her own assessment). Frances has a best friend (and former girlfriend) named Bobbi, and the two often perform readings of Frances' poetry. One of their readings is attended by Melissa, a classy photographer and published author, and the three end up forming an odd friendship. And the rest is just too exhausting to summarize.

I find myself wondering, how does this book differ from Women’s Fiction--or its slightly more fluffy sister, Chick Lit--which I tend to scorn? (Look at that cover. This LOOKS like Women's Fiction.) Take Me Before You, for example. I felt nothing for that book, and as a result I wondered if maybe I wasn’t human. But this book made me feel more human than human.

I haven't done this book justice. I feel like it's one that will stick with me. Not necessarily in the details, which are always difficult for a literary amnesiac to hang on to, but for the sweeping sensation it left me with . . . swept away? swept up? swept out?