I’m being premature in doing this because I’m only up to page 36 of a 400-page novel, but that’s enough to ‘feel’ the sense of a book and make a reasonable assessment of the author’s skill. On both counts, and to put it simply: I’m already hooked.
The physical environment is relatively mundane in terms of detail, and yet there’s a brooding sense of introspection about it. Such a statement suggests melancholy, but there is none. Everything is matter of fact, and yet loaded with nuance and keen observation. I love keen observation, especially of the small, subtle things, some of which are open to read, while others are there to be surmised with a reasonable degree of certainty. It’s like seeing an involuntary hand gesture or noticing a shift in the eyes. This writer knows how to draw you close with only a minimal shift in body language. In my experience, that’s a rare skill.
As for the writing style, it isn’t lyrical – which is what I usually prefer – but it is superbly crafted. It’s immaculately balanced and derives its strength from economy rather than extended description. A few words can say so much, as long as they’re the right words in the right order. If the first thirty six pages are an accurate guide, this book is an object lesson in the value of brevity. The sense of place is almost palpable.
I await the presentation of more characters. So far we have only three – the young woman narrator, her father who is a dealer in rare books, and her mother who is mostly in the background, being nervous, neurotic, and seemingly oppressed by the pressure of being alive. I have difficulty seeing clear pictures of them at the moment, and yet they’re no mere wraiths; they’re physical enough, just not yet clearly defined. Maybe that’s how they’re supposed to be. Already I bow to the writer’s judgement. And now I’m going to read some more.
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