This is Not a Novel
3 journalers for this copy...
Cover painting is the House of Light by René Magritte; I saw the original, stunning, at an exhibition at the Hermitage, Lausanne.
This is one that "called to me" from the bookshelf of my local librairie, Ex Nihilo.
Pic. This is not an apple, by Magritte, which inspired the title of the book.
Halfway through, I wanted to write down some impressions. It seems that the basic theme is the social unit of a family, relationships between parents and children, raising and educating the children, wanting to decide their future, being disappointed by those that go away, and those that stay. The characters are a little shadowy, we see them through the eyes of Imogen, the daughter, and through old letters and snippets from diaries. Characteristics, events, impulsions are repeated from one generation to another, or jump a generation – something in the genes? Two houses play a role, the grandparents’ homes passed down. In my mind, the one in Lansdowne Road became my granddad’s house, the dark rooms, the piano in the parlour, the front door set back in an alcove, the staircase. I remembered lying in bed in the small front bedroom, watching the headlights of passing cars tracing yellow shafts that glided over the walls and ceiling, preventing me from going to sleep.
Echoes, across the bay. Echoes reverberating through the years.
Below the surface, I could sense an undercurrent, something secret, and dangerous. It drew me to the end, but finally was predictable.
One thing struck me as odd, but is the hinge of the whole story : why did Sylvia leave her door open?
this is going into the Big Yellow Bookbox
Got the book out of my bookbox.
I took it out of the box - I'm looking forward to it.
Always The Child, never Imogen. That troubled me the most.
Otherwise it wasn't a very gripping novel, and yes, it is an novel all right. Not too gripping, but okay. Nice even, for all it's sadness. A broken picture of a family, like. But of course, I wouldn't stop either, it just flowed on and on.