I have a lot of feelings about Normal People, so it's not surprising that they don't all line up neatly with each other.
I flew through it, found much of it very recognisable (ok, relatable), admired Rooney's prose and all-round thought it was very good, yet at the same time I had a bit of a sense of 'is that all?' when it ended. It has a sense of verisimilitude which is impressive and emotionally engaging - Marianne and Connell both persuade, as does their relationship - and which is only possible through considerable insight and craft, including to render it all so apparently transparently.
My reservation is maybe that, as finely does as it is on its own terms, Normal People is too actually transparent - too simple - in its project (I mostly agree with this take); it shows us, precisely and sympathetically, two people acting and living in a mode that feels real, layered and entirely contemporary, and induces us to care about them. Maybe that's more than enough for fiction to achieve - yet still I found myself wondering, 'what of it?'.
In many respects I'd expect to be biased towards Normal People but my response - especially set against the general critical acclaim - does make me wonder whether other (unconscious) biases are kicking in in the opposite direction. Am I not taking it as seriously as literature because its main subject is youthful love? Is there a gendered element to my response? (As to the latter, it's got to be possible - but if so not in a straightforward way given that probably 90% of the contemporary fiction that I read and most like is written by women.) It's hard to say.
My overall reaction to it was very positive; maybe my expectations are playing a part too - an inevitable disappointment following how talked-about it, and Rooney, have been. Maybe I need a bit more distance to discover what its real quality is, what it really means to me.
I flew through it, found much of it very recognisable (ok, relatable), admired Rooney's prose and all-round thought it was very good, yet at the same time I had a bit of a sense of 'is that all?' when it ended. It has a sense of verisimilitude which is impressive and emotionally engaging - Marianne and Connell both persuade, as does their relationship - and which is only possible through considerable insight and craft, including to render it all so apparently transparently.
My reservation is maybe that, as finely does as it is on its own terms, Normal People is too actually transparent - too simple - in its project (I mostly agree with this take); it shows us, precisely and sympathetically, two people acting and living in a mode that feels real, layered and entirely contemporary, and induces us to care about them. Maybe that's more than enough for fiction to achieve - yet still I found myself wondering, 'what of it?'.
In many respects I'd expect to be biased towards Normal People but my response - especially set against the general critical acclaim - does make me wonder whether other (unconscious) biases are kicking in in the opposite direction. Am I not taking it as seriously as literature because its main subject is youthful love? Is there a gendered element to my response? (As to the latter, it's got to be possible - but if so not in a straightforward way given that probably 90% of the contemporary fiction that I read and most like is written by women.) It's hard to say.
My overall reaction to it was very positive; maybe my expectations are playing a part too - an inevitable disappointment following how talked-about it, and Rooney, have been. Maybe I need a bit more distance to discover what its real quality is, what it really means to me.
