Disquiet

disquietIn this oddly airless novella by Julia Leigh, a woman returns to her family home, a château in rural France. She left it twelve years ago in disgrace, determined to marry the man her family disapproved of, and now she has returned, bringing two children, a lot of heavy bruises, a broken arm, and a load of shame to her icy mother’s doorstep.

She’s not expected. The person who is eagerly expected tragically doesn’t come: Marcus and Sophie are supposed to bring home their baby girl from the hospital, but Alice is stillborn. Marcus and Sophie horrify Marcus’s mother by bringing the “bundle” home for a few days’ grace before the funeral, and over the next few days Sophie carries the baby from room to room and even out to a picnic as the disturbing tension builds.

The woman (named Olivia, but consistently called “the woman”) hammers a phone plug out of shape after an unwanted phone call. Marcus is having an affair. Olivia’s son, perhaps ten years old, is planning an escape across the lake. Her daughter keeps parroting ugly phrases, we assume learned from her “pig” of a father (“This milk tastes like your arse.”) The baby “sleeps” in the freezer at night, a glimpse of pink satin instead of ice cream. And Leigh’s writing is certainly technically accomplished. Her prose is measured and even, and she never lapses into melodrama, no matter how shocking the subject matter.

Still. I didn’t like it. The Gothic pieces are too distant and chilly to be properly Gothic, and too disturbing not to be. There are bits that are just… off, like the way Olivia jumps up from the table for ice cream in the middle of dinner… why? Just to get that glimpse of pink satin? Or this: Olivia, who has injured her right arm, learns to eat, wash, and carry out other daily activities with her left hand. Leigh writes,

Each gesture normally habitual, unnoticed, careless, was now new to her, not entirely new, but was seen in a new light, or was seen as if she had — for the first time in her life — lifted from the root of her being, taken a step aside. And there was an element of wonder in her movements.

I broke my right hand two weeks ago and I can tell you right now that there is no element of wonder in being unable to button your pants or open a jar or type or put on your seat belt. It is only annoying. Only.

This was a book that, for me, could have been great, and — because of clutter and a few weird missteps — just didn’t quite get there.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Fiction, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to Disquiet

  1. Alex says:

    Is there a plot? It feel from your description as if it’s just a string of related images mean to disturb you. Like a Gothic stream of consciousness.

    • Jenny says:

      Um… no, I guess not technically. Things happen, but I think I might have actually listed almost all of them. So, plot, not really. Gothic stream of consciousness sounds like something I might like but in this case it turns out no.

  2. Jeane says:

    I agree with you, having to learn to use your non-dominant hand is just aggravating (had surgery on my right a while ago). Maybe there is a sense of frustrated satisfaction in being able to write legibly left-handed after some struggle, but not at all a sense of wonder. What do you mean when you call the book “airless”? Does it feel stuffy?

    • Jenny says:

      I mean that there just didn’t feel like there was any room in the book. it felt cluttered and tense without any space for characters to grow.

      Three more weeks for my hand! We hope!

  3. Ugh, I grimaced quite a few times reading your review. Sounds unpleasant. Not that my reading has to be pleasant all the time, it doesn’t. But there should be something compelling and/or thoughtful behind the ugliness.

    I’m sorry about your hand! Hope you heal quickly!

Leave your comment here, and feel free to respond to others' comments. We enjoy a lively conversation!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s