Heading home. Elizabeth Street, as viewed from the pier. June 2011.
Three books this week and the strike rate has not been pretty. First up is Finnish author Elina Hirvonen’s When I Forgot . The critical reaction seems to be very favourable, and I must admit that I’m struggling to see why. The story of damaged people and damaged families, and the harm that they inevitably do to each other; it utilises a fractured narrative to exemplify the ‘brokenness’ of the central characters. In this sense, this is not a subtle book. In broad brush strokes it ties together the idea of memory with the reality of unfortunate childhood(s), mental illness, relationship failures and even the linkage between personal and familial dysfunction and national identity and loss.
I dunno, some described this book as "potent, fragile, and tender" but the words “ self-indulgent ,” “ overwrought ,” “ confusing ,” and “ narcissistic ” more readily come to mind. Not recommended.
Speaking of na