Malaise. I’ve been trying to finger exactly what this recreated that was at once disaffecting… and oddly relatable and captivating. Not much happens in this book. The plot is, two women move back home to the maritimes, each for a different reason. Both are rootless and they keep attempting to form some substance in their early 20s by way of breaking from old patterns or completely falling into them.

Interactions are Rooney level insightful and tinged with a similar perspicacity. Similarly, I found myself moving in similar patterns. I would be completely riveted to what was happened and feeling like the dialogue or a particular affection or movement was filled with such meaning as to divine something greater—and then I’d meander into listlessness as things became more ephemeral.

It’s really hard to rate this book. I can see why people love it and why people didn’t think it worked. But I felt like, for me, I liked that it was doing that to me. It feels intentional. It’s too well written for it to not be, to be honest. And I kind of like how… ballsy that is? It’s like something David Foster Wallace would do. This book is about boredom. Now I’m going to make you retreat into your brain a defence mechanism because I’m going to make you feel exactly as bored as this guy on an airplane, literally doing nothing.

This is like that. But with sadness. And yeah, I’m about it, apparently.