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diadorim 's review for:
Intermezzo
by Sally Rooney
Some years ago I read Conversation with Friends from Salley Rooney, and I remember appreciating its fresh take on modern relationships; there seemed to be something genuine, honest and astute about it. Intermezzo, sadly, is nothing of the sort and, bluntly put, is terrible. I cannot remember the last time I abandoned a book before reaching the end, but this time I could not get past a third of it.
For me, the joy of reading was annihilated by the sheer amount of explanation and rationalization of the characters’ feelings - maybe for the sake of accessibility? - to a point that it felt almost condescending to me as a reader. As if we were mere amoebas witnessing human relationships for the very first time. The excessive use of clichés (a successful lawyer with addiction problems? an autistic chess player? a sexy-but-chaotic female student?), the conforming to gender norms, the “I’ve never felt like this” revelations, the breakthroughs that feel like quotes from a self-help book, it all feels so obvious, so unoriginal, so devoid of depth. It is even more disappointing that there are hints of a grander vision in this novel, of tackling grief and sibling rivalries, of how new relationships can be strained by past traumas, of forgiveness.
It is not the genre itself which is at fault here: writing about romance can be done with simplicity, intensity and tenderness without compromising on literary quality and insight. Rooney made poor choices in her approach, and the result is simply catastrophic.
For me, the joy of reading was annihilated by the sheer amount of explanation and rationalization of the characters’ feelings - maybe for the sake of accessibility? - to a point that it felt almost condescending to me as a reader. As if we were mere amoebas witnessing human relationships for the very first time. The excessive use of clichés (a successful lawyer with addiction problems? an autistic chess player? a sexy-but-chaotic female student?), the conforming to gender norms, the “I’ve never felt like this” revelations, the breakthroughs that feel like quotes from a self-help book, it all feels so obvious, so unoriginal, so devoid of depth. It is even more disappointing that there are hints of a grander vision in this novel, of tackling grief and sibling rivalries, of how new relationships can be strained by past traumas, of forgiveness.
It is not the genre itself which is at fault here: writing about romance can be done with simplicity, intensity and tenderness without compromising on literary quality and insight. Rooney made poor choices in her approach, and the result is simply catastrophic.