Describing the novels in bald terms of plot can’t come near what it is in Brookner’s writing that’s so addictive, fascinating, pleasure-giving. It’s the old paradox: the more this novelist writes her characters into their bleak corner, the more her readers get their delight. The squeeze of their sadness is so exquisite, in her language.
Brookner’s subject matter is distinctive because her words and sentences are utterly distinctive on the page. There’s no one else who renders quite like this – in her meandering, remorse less narrative line, forging forward through the novel’s time – the texture of an inner life, the perpetual rumination of self. Paul’s moods and his convictions are radically unstable, an adventure in themselves...
An adventure in themselves... We are blessed to have reached this point in the appreciation of Anita Brookner. On publication, her dramas of consciousness were delightedly misunderstood and dismissed as annual plotless rehashes - the same novel over and over with a few punctuation changes, as one critic put it. It took a rarer eye - Bayley's, for example - to spot the radical strangeness in the Brookner project, and its potential for the future.
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