I have some tidying up today, given that I try to stack books I've finished to the left of my computer until I've at least mentioned them here, before I put them away. Pile's getting ready to topple again . . .
Most recently, I finished Anne Enright's The Forgotten Waltz. I was equal parts delighted and devastated by her Man Booker Prize-winning The Gathering, when I read and blogged about it five years ago. This novel is more. . . particular? At least, I assumed many could relate to the family she described in her earlier novel, and perhaps that's not the case. Even less easy to assume that many could, or would be willing to, relate to "the other woman" who narrates The Forgotten Waltz. She's not always so easy to like, distanced and distancing, an observer, judging, calibrating. She can be opportunistic, exploitative, calculating. And her all-in commitment to a wince-makingly not-going-to-be-good-for-her-life man. . . .Oh dear. Especially if you've been there. I once was, long long ago. Thank God I got derailed, pushed forcefully off that track, not without some injury (so young, so stupid). Our narrator is not so lucky. I won't say more for fear of plot-spoiling, but let me say that the onion layers get peeled back for some rich revelations. We might find more kinship with Gina than we first imagine. And we recognize and learn more about family and marriage and parents and children, about humanity and relationships and women, than "a novel about an affair" might be expected to divulge. Plus as a prose stylist. . . . she's a fine, fine writer. If you get a chance to pick this one up, do!