Quarantine Book Club: Sally Rooney’s Normal People
THE BOOK: Normal People (2018) by Sally Rooney. Published by Faber & Faber.
How I came by it: A recommendation by a friend. Also, unless you live under an internet-less rock, you probably have seen ads for the new Stan adaptation.
I read this book in one sitting, so you’re probably expecting a stellar review from me. Alas, it had me wanting to pull my hair out at times. Don’t get me wrong, I liked the book. Rooney’s writing is smart and evocative, and very capable of capturing the underlying emotions or the mood of a scene well. She paints a realistic portrait in words of the confusing, temperamental, desolate, bleak and heart-warming emotions which her main characters, Connell and Marianne, experience on their journey through adolescence to young adulthood. Nothing is extraordinary about their character arcs, and that I liked a lot about Rooney’s novel. There was no sensationalism beyond what many people experience in life, and that indeed makes it a book for normal people. Lingering love, an inability to fit in, a desire to be accepted and understood — these are the themes which Rooney elucidates through her story of Marianne and Connell’s interwoven lives.
My grievance with the book can be boiled down to this; Rooney has a perceptible talent for making the reader feel sad/happy/in love, but what is missing is the explanation of how they reached that place to begin with. There are many contradictions, and it is in those contradictions that I find the characters somewhat insufferable; unsure of whether it is they or I who possess the empathy of a brick and are missing out on the point.
Marianne is inexplicably wise about Connell early on: ‘He often makes blithe remarks about things he ‘wishes’. I wish you didn’t have to go, he says when she’s leaving, or: I wish you could stay the night. If he really wished for any of those things, Marianne knows, then they would happen. Connell always gets what he wants, and then feels sorry for himself when what he wants doesn’t make him happy.’
And yet by the end of the novel, she’s still a simpering mess about this boy she could see through as a teenager: ‘You should go, she says. I’ll always be here. You know that.’
An attempt is made to explain her tragic demise from a strong-willed, independent girl who is unbothered by her immature classmates and the social hierarchy which structures her schooling life. The explanation comes in the form of her family; an emotionally avoidant mother who views conflict between her children through a Darwinistic lens and a cruel, taunting brother who is simultaneously cast as the domineering figure in her life but with such a weak constitution that it undermines the plausible impact he could have on her, the female heroine. He literally asks her not to tell on him to their mother each time he opens his mouth.
Any attempt to suggest that the lingering sense that Marianne feels she is “damaged goods” is because of her brother is disappointing. She escaped the confines of small-town life in Carricklea: “Her life here in Carricklea is over, and either a new life will begin, or it won’t. Soon she will be packing things into suitcases: woollen jumpers, skirts, her two silk dresses. A set of teacups and saucers patterned with flowers. A hairdryer, a frying pan, four white cotton towels. A coffee pot. The objects of a new existence.” She endured being ostracised at a time in her life when people are typically most vulnerable, and yet is unafraid and stoic about breaking free and starting afresh. Marianne could have been a great character, but that potential is unlived.
As for Connell, I thank Rooney for allowing him to grow up after he leaves high school because his early characterisation reminded me sorely of how dim-witted most of us were in our younger years, even if it didn’t feel that way. High school Connell was as hapless as a puppy confused by its own reflection. Unable to perceive the world around him with much insight, he views himself as the passive recipient of the actions of everyone else but himself.
“His expression didn’t change but his hands moved around under her jumper to show he was listening. After a few seconds he said: Yeah. If you wanted to, yeah. You’re always making me do such weird things.
What does that mean? she said. I can’t make you do anything.
Yeah, you can. Do you think there’s any other person I would do this type of thing with? Seriously, do you think anyone else could make me sneak around after school and all this?”
He puts her on a pedestal, desires her the whole time, cannot articulate what is a clear and obvious feeling to anyone who can string together their A-B-C’s, and then pushes her away. He has a few moments of clear thoughts throughout the novel: he demonstrates his understanding that Marianne has a weak constitution when it comes to him, and that the power dynamic within their relationship overwhelmingly tips in his favour. Each time Connell needs help, he goes to Marianne. He doesn’t even realise she needs help until the end, in a pivotal confrontation with Alan, her brother, that has me throwing my hands up in the air and thanking the heavens above that he is capable of something beyond passive brooding. Yet ultimately, the story closes as it started: Connell gets what he wants and Marianne is happy to play second fiddle.
It’s frustrating, but perhaps that is Rooney’s point. People aren’t perfect and relationships — whether with family, friends or romantic partners — are fraught with misunderstandings, selfless and selfish actions alike, well-meaning intention and frustration when things don’t work out as seamlessly as we hope them to.
Have you read Normal People by Sally Rooney? If so, would love to hear your thoughts — leave a comment below.
