Outline - British author Rachel Cusk's novel of keen observation.
To take but one example, here's a quick character sketch where the narrator, a woman who surely shares much with Rachel Cusk, meets an older man in a restaurant during her time in Greece.
"His body, when we hugged, felt extremely light and fragile. He was wearing a threadbare lilac-coloured shirt, and a pair of jeans that hung from him in folds. He drew back and looked at me closely again. There is something of the cartoon character about Paniotis's face: everything about it is exaggerated, the cheeks very gaunt, the forehead very high, the eyebrows winging off like exclamation marks, the hair flying out in all directions, so that one has the curious feeling one is looking at an illustration of Paniotis rather than at Paniotis himself. Even when he is relaxed he wears the expression of someone who has just been told something extraordinary, or who has opened a door and been very surprised by what he has found behind it. His eyes, within this rictus-like expression, are very mobile and changeable and often bulge dramatically forward, as though one day they might fly out his face altogether with astonishment at what they have witnessed."
When it comes to perceptive, penetrating observations, a reader will encounter a number on nearly every page. It surely is not surprising that the narrator (she's teaching a fiction writing workshop in Athens) asks her students what they had noticed on their way to class.
Outline probes the fragile, shifting dynamics of human relationships—those we forge, those we fracture—particularly with our children and loved ones. But for me, the true marvel of the novel lies in Rachel Cusk’s near-supernatural ability to distill perception into language. Page after page, she captures the world with a precision so sharp it feels almost alchemical. Stunning.
Comments
Post a Comment