A novel about grief, obsession and searching for purpose. Told in a style as diverse and complicated as life itself (which I loved) it chronicles the thoughts and reminiscences of a woman wrestling with early menopause and childlessness. A slow burner, evolving from a rather chaotic start to a more coherent whole, it describes moments but also explores relationships – with others, with the horse she cares for, and with her non-existent child.
What I wanted from the horse, what I want from the notes in the H folder, is an atmosphere, an escape from making and shaping stories. What I wanted was a non-structured, non-linear, non-narrative, a collection of impressions belonging to the continuous present. I could not or did not want to imagine that the repetitions of our routine might ever become a story, a chronicle of change.
I thought I was describing a painting of a lake, flat and unchanging. But I was wading into the lake itself, towards its dark centre, the ground moving away from my feet, the water pressing against my chest.
