74 Life of M, Rachel Cusk
I don't like the way you portray me, she said. Actually, it's hurtful.
But it isn't you, I said. It isn't anyone.
After Audition, another tricksy book about actors, identity and illusion (review below slightly spoiler-ish although this is FAR from a plot-driven novel. But just a warning).
I have never been able to read Cusk. I have at least two on my DNF list. And I will readily admit that if this one hadn't been only 175 pages long, I would have thrown it aside after about 20 pages for being unreadable.
I'm glad I persevered, sort of. I still hated it. But I hated it in a kind of admiring way. And the spikiness of the writing style did lose its abrasiveness after a while, as I guess I got used to it.
This has had a lot of press for being a book about Natalie Portman. It's not a book about Natalie Portman, although it's not NOT a book about Natalie Portman (see? tricksy. I told you).
It's a book about the narrator, who is a writer but probably isn't Cusk, telling their famous actor friend/acquaintance, "M", that they are thinking of writing her autobiography.
She liked the idea. She's a good sport. Would you just make it up? she said.
The episodes that follow, featuring M, certainly share certain factual similarities to Portman's life. However, they're not supposed to be Portman and it's not clear that they are actually supposed to be M herself, but maybe rather sketches in this made-up autobiography. It's like Cusk has taken the idea of Portman to play with and see what comes to light.
Not much really happens. M goes for dinner, takes meetings, is driven through the city. There are some sections written by a first person narrator and others by a second person "we". It's not clear whether these represent the same person.
Spaces are described in great detail. Often they turn out to be artificial, or temporary; rooms of one kind decorated or enhanced to look like rooms of another kind (stage sets, museums, shop fronts). There are many descriptions of people feeling like they are playing a role, seeing themselves as if from the outside etc.
And then the writing. I mean, I guess people must love this kind of thing. Not me, unfortunately. Here's a sample so you can see if you like it.
It is outside on the terrace, island-like in its elevation, that this soothing and seamless confusion of old with new asserts its psychological power. Inside, the lost or liberated soul of the building has left behind it a mild feeling of directionlesness, of lack of purpose. The orchestrated vistas of taupe, the totality of the interior's simplicity, are like a disorientating kind of aftermath; there are none of the opportunities for action and resolution, none of the fissures and disconnections that characterise living.
And so on. As I said, I admired it while hating it. This is a clever book, undoubtedly, but I don't think I will read another Cusk.
Has anyone else read this? I tried to search and didn't find anything, but the title doesn't exactly bring out the best in MN's search function. What did you think?