This damn book.

I should probably start by saying that I feel five hundred different levels of conflicted and this review is probably going to end up being nothing more than an attempt to sort my head out.

So, ladies and readerfolk. If there’s only one thing you take away from this review, it should probably be this: this book will fuck you up.

In an incredibly delicious way, sure. But at least now you’ve been warned.

Normal People charts the journey of Marianne and Connell - a journey that will frustrate and exhaust and hurt you until you’re done reading. And then will probably haunt you for a few days after, for good measure.

I’ll be honest, I spent most of my time tearing my hair out, wishing these two would just TALK TO EACH OTHER instead of all the unspoken pain and longing and suffering they go through instead. To make matters worse, I couldn’t even be righteously angry about it because this is something I’ve done and continue to do constantly.

And that knowledge makes it SUPER FUN and NOT AT ALL suffocating to have to live in your own skin, let me tell you.

I’m usually a huge fan of books that hold up a big shiny mirror and force me to examine things about myself. Or things and people around me. And this did that. It made me look at past relationships and past friendships and examine how terribly some of them had gone simply because of my inability to communicate things I wanted and didn’t want. It forced me to look at how I handle them now and acknowledge that, while better, there’s still a lot more I could do. Should do.

It also got me to just sit down and read again. Without getting distracted. And then to write a proper review after … years. For that alone, it deserves to be sent flowers and chocolate. 

But - and maybe I’m being too critical here - it’s not just the narrative that matters to me anymore, not just how a book makes me feel. How it’s written is a huge part of what makes a book great for me. 

And that’s where I start having problems with Normal People - there were so many contradictions! We are told, over and over again, how in-tune with each other these two are supposed to be. How they find their way back to each other despite all the things pulling them apart - their own sense of self-worth included. We’re told how they’re intellectually and emotionally on the same wavelength - but I’m honestly getting tired of being told these things and not shown it. 

Where are the conversations that reflect how supposedly smart they are? Where is the emotional intelligence that comes from genuinely caring for another person and either anticipating what they need, or asking them what they do? And can we please, for the love of all that is warm and soft and happy in the world, stop using petty jealousy as a way to show you care about someone?

I wanted so much, SO MUCH, to love this book. And while I really liked what it forced me to examine about myself, I wish it didn’t have two characters that, for the most part, walked around in their own little bubble, engaged in a lot of problematic behaviour and didn’t call each other out on it. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re invested in someone’s growth and happiness. 

And when things got dark and we had to watch them deal with things that broke my heart - I wanted so badly for them to find solace in each other. But all we get is a couple of throwaway lines about how they helped the other through it. Which is, yet again, said not shown. 

And this makes me angry. I read ‘A View from the Cheap Seats’ just before picking this up and Neil Gaiman says something there that I’ve always felt, but not known how to articulate. And it is this - “Literature does not occur in a vacuum. It cannot be a monologue. It has to be a conversation.”

By having Marianne and Connell deal with SO MUCH - from bullying, to a low sense of self-worth, to abuse, sexual assault, anxiety and depression - and by extension, having us as readers deal with all of that without any sense of closure or even the beginning of a healing process? That’s messed up. We're just told all these things about their lives and then left hanging.

And personally? Because the book offered me no comfort, I carried all that around with me. None of this was dealt with effectively, apart from Connell attending a couple of therapy sessions in the background, and then the book just … ends. 

Which then made all this pain feel performative in retrospect. 

And that opens me up to an ocean of disappointment, because this book really had the potential to be a favourite. 

Bottomline? I guess I liked it. I just wish I liked it a lot more.