If you've ever been obsessive about anything, you might find this book uncomfortably close to the truth. A dense, bleak tragedy, told in words which feel more like a piece of music. Written by a man, yet one of the most feminist books I've ever read.
You threw yourself at the water as if it were the Canadian's throat: anger gave you a massive hang and carry, like coming off the topmost board. After the entry and glide you seemed to be fully halfway down before you started the stroke - great retributive arm-sweeps, like Godzilla levelling a city. You swam with an aggression you hadn't felt since you'd faced down that great wave off Worthing - you pulverized the water, smashed it. All style and smoothness were lost ... and you felt somehow ashamed, as if you'd abused the water's trust, as if it had been an evil length you'd just swum.
