Conversations with Friends: A Novel PDF AZW3 EPUB MOBI TXT Download

NOW A HULU ORIGINAL SERIES • From the New York Times bestselling author of Normal People . . . “[A] cult-hit . . . [a] sharply realistic comedy of adultery and friendship.”—Entertainment Weekly SALLY ROONEY NAMED TO THE TIME 100 NEXT LIST • WINNER OF THE SUNDAY TIMES (UK) YOUNG WRITER OF THE YEAR AWARD • ONE OF BUZZFEED’S BEST BOOKS OF THE DECADE • ONE OF THE TEN BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: Vogue, Slate • ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: ElleFrances is a coolheaded and darkly observant young woman, vaguely pursuing a career in writing while studying in Dublin. Her best friend is the beautiful and endlessly self-possessed Bobbi. At a local poetry performance one night, they meet a well-known photographer, and as the girls are then gradually drawn into her world, Frances is reluctantly impressed by the older woman’s sophisticated home and handsome husband, Nick. But however amusing Frances and Nick’s flirtation seems at first, it begins to give way to a strange—and then painful—intimacy.Written with gemlike precision and marked by a sly sense of humor, Conversations with Friends is wonderfully alive to the pleasures and dangers of youth, and the messy edges of female friendship.SHORTLISTED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL DUBLIN LITERARY AWARD“Sharp, funny, thought-provoking . . . a really great portrait of two young women as they’re figuring out how to be adults.”—Celeste Ng, Late Night with Seth Meyers Podcast“The dialogue is superb, as are the insights about communicating in the age of electronic devices. Rooney has a magical ability to write scenes of such verisimilitude that even when little happens they’re suspenseful.”—Curtis Sittenfeld, The Week“Rooney has the gift of imbuing everyday life with a sense of high stakes . . . a novel of delicious frictions.”—New York“A writer of rare confidence, with a lucid, exacting style . . . One wonderful aspect of Rooney’s consistently wonderful novel is the fierce clarity with which she examines the self-delusion that so often festers alongside presumed self-knowledge. . . . But Rooney’s natural power is as a psychological portraitist. She is acute and sophisticated about the workings of innocence; the protagonist of this novel about growing up has no idea just how much of it she has left to do.”—Alexandra Schwartz,The New Yorker“This book. This book. I read it in one day. I hear I’m not alone.”—Sarah Jessica Parker (Instagram)

Sally Rooney
August 7, 2018
336 pages
English
978-0451499066

File Size: 81 MB
Available File Formats: PDF AZW3 DOCX EPUB MOBI TXT or Kindle audiobook Audio CD(Several files can be converted to each other)
Language: English, Francais, Italiano, Espanol, Deutsch, chinese

Praise for Conversations with Friends:A Publishers Weekly Pick of the WeekVogue’s 10 Best Books of 2017 Slate’s 10 Favorite Books of the Year Elle’s Best Books of the Year The Cut’s Best Books by WomenVulture’s “Best New Paperbacks”“A writer of rare confidence, with a lucid, exacting style… [O]ne wonderful aspect of Rooney’s consistently wonderful novel is the fierce clarity with which she examines the self-delusion that so often festers alongside presumed self-knowledge… But Rooney’s natural power is as a psychological portraitist. She is acute and sophisticated about the workings of innocence; the protagonist of this novel about growing up has no idea just how much of it she has left to do.”– The New Yorker“Rooney has the gift of imbuing everyday life with a sense of high stakes…a novel of delicious frictions.”– New York Magazine“I love debuts where you just can’t believe that it was a debut… Conversations with Friends paints a nuanced, page-turning portrait of a whip-smart university student in the throes of an affair with an older married man.”– Zadie Smith, Elle “The dialogue is superb, as are the insights about communicating in the age of electronic devices. Rooney has a magical ability to write scenes of such verisimilitude that even when little happens they’re suspenseful.”– Curtis Sittenfeld, The Week“Sharp, funny, thought-provoking . . . a really great portrait of two young women as they’re figuring out how to be adults.”– Celeste Ng, “Late Night with Seth Meyers Podcast” “This book. This book. I read it in one day. I hear I’m not alone.”– Sarah Jessica Parker (Instagram)“The self-deceptions of a new generation are at the core of Sally Rooney’s debut, Conversations With Friends (Hogarth), which captures something wonderfully odd-cornered and real in the story of an Irish millennial…”– Megan O’Grady, Vogue’s 10 Best Books of 2017“The debut novel of a young Irish writer whose forthcoming novel Normal People earned her rave reviews and a Booker Prize nomination, Conversations With Friends is one of those campus novels in which all of the real education takes place off campus. When two young women, best friends but former lovers, become friendly with an older married couple, their lives intertwine and explode in a coming-of-age story that’s weightier and wiser than you might expect.”– Maris Kreizman, Vulture’s “Best New Paperbacks” column”[A] bracing, miraculous debut.”– The Millions“Sally Rooney’s debut novel is a remarkably charming exploration of that very uncharming subject: the human ego…Conversations With Friends sparkles with controlled rhetoric. But it ends up emphasizing the truths exploding in the silences.”– Slate“In this searing, insightful debut, Rooney offers an unapologetic perspective on the vagaries of relationships… a treatise on married life, the impact of infidelity, the ramifications of one’s actions, and how the person one chooses to be with can impact one’s individuality. Throughout, Rooney’s descriptive eye lends beauty and veracity to this complex and vivid story.”– Publishers Weekly (starred)“Readers who enjoyed Belinda McKeon’s Tender and Caitriona Lally’s Eggshells will enjoy this exceptional debut.”– Library Journal (starred)”A smart, sexy, realistic portrayal of a woman finding herself.”– Booklist (starred)“An astonishing assured debut.”– The Bookseller “The book of the summer…the wider issues underscoring her book – including race, sex and gender – which in her careful treatment, emerge far more complex and often funnier, than we could have ever imagined.” – Refinery29″A very funny, very humanly messy tale of sexual and artistic self-discovery in which every page reveals shrewd emotional insight. Caught between laser-eyed irony and heart-melting sincerity, the book is a masterclass in narrative tone that left me desperate to read whatever Rooney writes next… An addictive, funny and truthful first novel about love and literature.” – Metro “[Sally] Rooney has managed to take something old, the romance novel, and make it new: Frances is a bisexual communist student, allergic to expressing emotion, and her love affair is with a married man, and yet the book makes no attempt to make a moral stand on fidelity or punish its characters for their passions. The effect is, frankly, riveting, and creates a peculiar sensation of danger…An addictive read.” – Rufi Thorpe, author of The Girls From Corona del Mar and Dear Fang, With Love “Sally Rooney’s writing is cool, wry and smooth, and gives the reader a sense of being in the lucky position of overhearing not only what fascinating strangers are talking about, but also what they’re thinking. I was riveted til the last page.” – Emily Gould, author of Friendship”Fascinating, ferocious and shrewd. Sally Rooney has the sharpest eye for all of the most delicate cruelties of human interaction.”– Lisa McInerney, author of The Glorious Heresies (winner of the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction)“[Sally] Rooney captures the mood and voice of contemporary women and their interpersonal connections and concerns without being remotely predictable…A clever and current book about a complicated woman and her romantic relationships.”- Kirkus “Rooney writes so well of the condition of being a young, gifted but self-destructive woman, both the mentality and physicality of it. She is alert to the invisible bars imprisoning the apparently free. Though herself young – she was born in 1991 – she has already been shortlisted for this year’s Sunday Times EFG short story award. Her hyperarticulate characters may fail to communicate their fragile selves, but Rooney does it for them in a voice distinctively her own.”- The Guardian”A novelist to watch: An addictive debut, with nods to Tender is the Night, heralds a bright new talent.”- Sunday Times“A contemporary love story so powerful, graceful and honest it left me reeling. [Conversations with Friends] is, by turns, astonishing, heart-rending and perfect; there’s not a word out of place.” – Luke Kennard, author of The Transition”Sally Rooney is a writer going all the way to the top. Conversations with Friends features the 21st century, Irish descendents of Salinger’s guileless wiseasses brought to life in prose as taut and coolly poised as early Bret Easton Ellis.” – Colin Barrett, author of Young Skins”There’s not a beat out of place in Sally Rooney’s astonishingly poised writing. Conversations with Friends is the most sophisticated and perceptive novel I’ve read about relationships in the 2010s.” – Gavin Corbett, author of This Is The Way and Green Glowing Skull”Written with such precision and perceptiveness, full of arid humour and reckless despair, a novel of spine-tingling salience.” – Sara Baume, author of Spill Simmer Falter Wither and winner of the 2015 Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize About the Author Sally Rooney was born in the west of Ireland in 1991. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times, Granta and The London Review of Books. Winner of the Sunday Times Young Writer of the Year Award, she is the author of Conversations with Friends. In 2019, she was named to the inaugural Time 100 Next list. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1Bobbi and I first met Melissa at a poetry night in town, where we were performing together. Melissa took our photograph outside, with Bobbi smoking and me self-consciously holding my left wrist in my right hand, as if I was afraid the wrist was going to get away from me. Melissa used a big professional camera and kept lots of different lenses in a special camera pouch. She chatted and smoked while taking the pictures. She talked about our performance and we talked about her work, which we’d come across on the internet. Around midnight the bar closed. It was starting to rain then, and Melissa told us we were welcome to come back to her house for a drink.We all got into the back of a taxi together and started fixing up our seat belts. Bobbi sat in the middle, with her head turned to speak to Melissa, so I could see the back of her neck and her little spoon-like ear. Melissa gave the driver an address in Monkstown and I turned to look out the window. A voice came on the radio to say the words: eighties . . . pop. . . classics. Then a jingle played. I felt excited, ready for the challenge of visiting a stranger’s home, already preparing compliments and certain facial expressions to make myself seem charming.The house was a semi-detached red-brick, with a sycamore tree outside. Under the streetlight the leaves looked orange and artificial. I was a big fan of seeing the insides of other people’s houses, especially people who were slightly famous like Melissa. Right away I decided to remember everything about her home, so I could describe it to our other friends later and Bobbi could agree.When Melissa let us in, a little red spaniel came racing up the hall and started barking at us. The hallway was warm and the lights were on. Next to the door was a low table where someone had left a stack of change, a hairbrush and an open tube of lipstick. There was a Modigliani print hanging over the staircase, a nude woman reclining. I thought: this is a whole house. A family could live here.We have guests, Melissa called down the corridor.No one appeared so we followed her into the kitchen. I remember seeing a dark wooden bowl filled with ripe fruit, and noticing the glass conservatory. Rich people, I thought. I was always thinking about rich people then. The dog had followed us to the kitchen and was snuffling around at our feet, but Melissa didn’t mention the dog so neither did we.Wine? Melissa said. White or red?She poured huge, bowl-sized glasses and we all sat around a low table. Melissa asked us how we’d started out performing spoken word poetry together. We had both just finished our third year of university at the time, but we’d been performing together since we were in school. Exams were over by then. It was late May.Melissa had her camera on the table and occasionally lifted it to take a photograph, laughing self-deprecatingly about being a ‘work addict’. She lit a cigarette and tipped the ash into a kitschy-looking glass ashtray. The house didn’t smell of smoke at all and I wondered if she usually smoked in there or not.I made some new friends, she said.Her husband was in the kitchen doorway. He held up his hand to acknowledge us and the dog started yelping and whining and running around in circles.This is Frances, said Melissa. And this is Bobbi. They’re poets.He took a bottle of beer out of the fridge and opened it on the countertop.Come and sit with us, Melissa said.Yeah, I’d love to, he said, but I should try and get some sleep before this flight.The dog jumped up on a kitchen chair near where he was standing and he reached out absently to touch its head. He asked Melissa if she had fed the dog, she said no. He lifted the dog into his arms and let the dog lick his neck and jaw. He said he would feed her, and he went back out the kitchen door again.Nick’s filming tomorrow morning in Cardiff, said Melissa. We already knew that the husband was an actor. He and Melissa were frequently photographed together at events, and we had friends of friends who had met them. He had a big, handsome face, and looked like he could comfortably pick Melissa up under one arm and fend off interlopers with the other.He’s very tall, Bobbi said.Melissa smiled as if ‘tall’ was a euphemism for something, but not necessarily something flattering. The conversation moved on. We got into a short discussion about the government and the Catholic Church. Melissa asked us if we were religious and we said no. She said she found religious occasions, like funerals or weddings, ‘comforting in a kind of sedative way’. They’re communal, she said. There’s something nice about that for the neurotic individualist. And I went to a convent school so I still know most of the prayers.We went to a convent school, said Bobbi. It posed issues. Melissa grinned and said: like what?Well, I’m gay, said Bobbi. And Frances is a communist.I also don’t think I remember any of the prayers, I said. We sat there talking and drinking for a long time. I remember that we talked about the poet Patricia Lockwood, who we admired, and also about what Bobbi disparagingly called ‘pay gap feminism’. I started to get tired and a little drunk. I couldn’t think of anything witty to say and it was hard to arrange my face in a way that would convey my sense of humour. I think I laughed and nodded a lot. Melissa told us she was working on a new book of essays. Bobbi had read her first one, but I hadn’t.It’s not very good, Melissa told me. Wait till the next one comes out.At about three o’clock, she showed us to the spare room and told us how great it was to meet us and how glad she was that we were staying. When we got into bed I stared up at the ceiling and felt very drunk. The room was spinning repetitively in short, consecutive spins. Once I adjusted my eyes to one rotation, another would begin immediately. I asked Bobbi if she was also having a problem with that but she said no.She’s amazing, isn’t she? said Bobbi. Melissa. I like her, I said.We could hear her voice in the corridor, and her footsteps taking her from room to room. Once when the dog barked we could hear her yell something, and then her husband’s voice. But after that we fell asleep. We didn’t hear him leave. Bobbi and I had first met in secondary school. Back then Bobbi was very opinionated, and frequently spent time in detention for a behavioural offence our school called ‘disrupting teaching and learning’. When we were sixteen she got her nose pierced and took up smoking. Nobody liked her. She got temporarily suspended once for writing ‘fuck the patriarchy’ on the wall beside a plaster cast of the crucifixion. There was no feeling of solidarity around this incident. Bobbi was considered a show-off. Even I had to admit that teaching and learning went a lot more smoothly during the week she was gone.When we were seventeen we had to attend a fundraising dance in the school assembly hall, with a partially broken disco ball casting lights on the ceiling and the barred-up windows. Bobbi wore a flimsy summer dress and looked like she hadn’t brushed her hair. She was radiantly attractive, which meant everyone had to work hard not to pay her any attention. I told her I liked her dress. She gave me some of the vodka she was drinking from a Coke bottle and asked if the rest of the school was locked up. We checked the door up to the back staircase and found it was open. All the lights were off and no one else was up there. We could hear the music buzzing through the floorboards, like a ringtone belonging to someone else. Bobbi gave me some more of her vodka and asked me if I liked girls. It was very easy to act unfazed around her. I just said: sure.I wasn’t betraying anyone’s loyalties by being Bobbi’s girlfriend. I didn’t have close friends and at lunchtime I read textbooks alone in the school library. I liked the other girls, I let them copy my homework, but I was lonely and felt unworthy of real friendship. I made lists of the things I had to improve about myself. After Bobbi and I started seeing each other, everything changed. No one asked for my homework anymore. At lunchtime we walked along the car park holding hands and people looked away from us maliciously. It was fun, the first real fun I’d ever had.After school we used to lie in her room listening to music and talking about why we liked each other. These were long and intense conversations, and felt so momentous to me that I secretly transcribed parts of them from memory in the evenings. When Bobbi talked about me it felt like seeing myself in a mirror for the first time. I also looked in actual mirrors more often. I started taking a close interest in my face and body, which I’d never done before. I asked Bobbi questions like: do I have long legs? Or short?At our school graduation ceremony we performed a spoken word piece together. Some of the parents cried, but our classmates just looked out the assembly-room windows or talked quietly amongst themselves. Several months later, after more than a year together, Bobbi and I broke up. Read more <div id="

I really don’t understand the excitement and buzz surrounding this book. Allowing for the cultural differences of my American heritage vs the Irish setting of the novel, the protagonists still seem like entitled, self-important, lazy kids with low morals. Their high opinions of themselves and judgemental attitudes about everyone elses homes, intellect and opinion made my interest in them tenuous at best. I tried to care that the main characters affair with a married man made her already low self esteem plunge, but frankly I just didn’t care. Typical millennial novel- well written but of no real substance

I heard great things about this author, and after reading the reviews on this book I purchased it & was looking forward to reading it. Unfortunately, I was disappointed. There wasn’t one character that was likable, and there wasn’t really any overall character development in general. I found myself getting irritated with the protagonist, rather than sympathizing with her. I have read lots of different types of novels and I almost always am able to connect with the protagonist on some level, and I was disappointed that I wasn’t able to with this novel. The story was also a little dry- it took me longer than normal to read this.

Not for me. Self indulgent, boring characters with little plot development. More YA market perhaps?

I’ve been wanting to read more literary fiction by my peers, and my curiosity was piqued when I heard an interview with Sally Rooney while driving around in my home state of Massachusetts, and then I met her classmate later in Dublin, who gave me “Mr. Salary”, which was sharp and excellent. (Almost as perfect as short stories can get. WOW.) So I felt driven to buy her novel.I don’t always have staying power with books, but I read this one from cover to cover in a few days. I didn’t agree with Frances’ choice in the end, and I loved the fact that I felt invested enough to care. I wanted to go with her through to “The End”. The dialogue was wonderful, and I ate up the book — not just because of the chemistry generated between the characters, but because on a mechanical level I wanted to study “how the author did what she did” — so many scenes were pitched just right, compelling, and exquisite. The storyline stays wonderfully tight and on-point, and follows a logical sequence, with each emotional development building on the last. At about 2/3rds of the way through, the protagonist reaches an acute level of misery, and I admittedly found it a bit harder to read. It was hard on an emotional level (which is great — no reason the author shouldn’t put us through that, if it’s the truth!), but my own tiniest criticism is that I think the storytelling could have dialed back on the statements of misery. The first 2/3rds is so beautifully stark that the way Frances’ breakdown is told feels like a shift in diction. (But then again, weren’t we all agonized and angsty in our early 20’s? In that sense, Sally hit the right note, one that most of us shy/squirm away from!!)Brilliant book, and I felt viscerally and sensually within the narrative the entire time (deeply cringing when I read Melissa’s long email, as if it was directed at me… or watching Frances wearing the sports coat, looking like a “candle”… etc. etc.) I will read it / flip through it again just to study it more. Loved how it was both physical and highly cerebral, and adored the intimate and frank look at women’s sexuality and health as well. Incredible accomplishment, and I am excited to see what she writes next!!

The friends may have conversations, but most often they don’t talk. Rather it is misunderstandings, hurt feelings, and apologies for three hundred pages with episodes of honesty, brief pleasures, many passages that reach the poetic, and some insights. Living with Frances, I feel, would be like being a trucker contracted to haul unstable nitroglycerin over mountains on rough roads. It’s an experience to be survived with compensating moments. At the end when I closed the book, I could only see a journey of washouts and potholes for Frances and her friends stretching toward the horizon. I wasn’t unhappy to get out of the truck, but not regretful that I took the trip.

My low rating has to do with the reviews which inaccurately compared this to James Joyce. If I’d known it was more like Bridget Jones’ Diary, and gone to it with that expectation, I would’ve been fine with it. So it’s perhaps not fair to judge it by a reviewer’s inaccuracy.

Within the first few pages, it was clear that this novel would be unlike most others I read: a lack of quotation marks (blending dialogue with inner thoughts of the narrator), restrained, intentionally-limited prose that aimed to mimic the mindset of the first-person narrator, and a casual simplicity of plot. There are not flashbacks or interweaving of separate character consciousnesses, and the texting/e-mailing place this book firmly in the space of today’s world.This novel asks you to inhabit the mind of a 20-something young woman as she goes through a series of friendships that threaten to become relationships and relationships that descend back to friendship. And everything in between. Occasionally it dips its toe in deeper, far-reaching systems, but–like so many of us do in real life–these are tangential rather than foundational, at least in how we prioritize them.Reading this book, I tended to want it to be something more than it was, but at the same time its self-limiting was refreshing and, more importantly, the entirety of its point. In a world where we tend to see ourselves in the most grandiose of ways, this book reminds us just what reality looks and sounds like. At least from this narrator’s perspective.And for that alone, it’s worth the time to read.

This book comes festooned with awards and laudatory reviews, blurbs and hype and Rooney herself is acclaimed as the Next Big Thing, one of the great authors of the 21st Century.The mind boggles, the currency cheapens, and all faith in pundits and the judgement of Zadie Smith goes right down the pan.This is a truly, truly, dreadful book, almost fascinatingly so. Frances, supposedly “cool headed and observant”, falls in love with an older, married man. It goes badly. Surprised? She apparently is. “I can’t remember if I thought about this at the beginning. How it was doomed to end unhappily” is a line from about halfway through. Apart from the cringe-worthy triteness, it also reveals the lead character to be stunningly obtuse, and far from the “observant” person the blurb on the cover would have us believe. All the characters – Frances, her best friend/lover Bobbi, the journalist Melissa and the husband/lover Nick – are so flatly written they might as well be cardboard cut-outs, their dialogue equally flat and lifeless and dull, to the point that it became impossible to work out who’s talking. It could be anybody, about anybody, about anything.And then there’s the prose itself — it’s….it’s hideous, it really is. About halfway through I started making notes in the margins, underlining the worst passages — something an editor is supposed to do. In no particular order: “His heart continued to beat like an excited or miserable clock” It…it what?? “Valerie spoke with a moneyed British accent, too rich to be comical”. How does THAT work? “I perceived that my face and hair were becoming wet, too wet to feel normal”; “She looked clean and dry like a model from a catalogue. My hair was leaking water into my face”. Leaking? “I laughed to myself, although there was no one there to see me”. That’s kind of what it means, right? “He never touched me like that usually. But he was looking at me, so I guess he must have known who I was”. Wait, this woman’s supposed to be “observant”, right? And my favourite: “He touched me cautiously like a deer touches things with its face”. Oh god, make it stop.Seriously, this is supposed to be award-worthy? A tired story, hitched to some staggeringly dreadful prose which reveals nothing of the workings of the human heart, nothing of the soul, nothing of passion. Shame on the critics who have passed this off as something worthy, shame on every one of the publications whose glowing quotes litter the front pages of this travesty. I’m tempted to read Rooney’s “Normal People” to see if it’s as hysterically bad or if, by some miracle, she improved. If I come across a copy for less than a pound, I might just, but I’m not paying much more for this kind of nonsense.

This book is in the running for the worst book I have read so far this year. I kept on reading in the hope that something would happen or that one of the characters would endear themselves to be but I shouldn’t have bothered. This book is banal and the characters are irritating and impossible to bond with on any level. The writing is clumpy and oddly bland, there is no descriptions of Ireland or France that invoke any connections with those places. This is one of those books that I wonder how on earth she got a publishing deal when there are so many better authors self publishing amazing works because they can’t get published and this drivel can. I just don’t get it.

I don’t even know where to start with this review. This book was so bad it actually makes me feel angry that I finished it and wasted my time. I kept wanting to give it another chance but the while thing just frustrated me.The characters in this book aren’t just badly written, I hated them all and they learned nothing from their experiences, they just repeated their loathing behaviour and terrible life decisions over and over again. The main character is so full of self loathing and yet completely self centred and so over privileged but treats herself like the endless victim of every situation.I have no doubt that sally rooney can write, but these characters make me want to punch a wall.The story goes nowhere and seems like it begins when it ends. I also didn’t enjoy the conversation style without quote marks, it just made it unnecessarily difficult to distinguish between what characters were saying and what they were thinking.Sorry I wasted my time reading it and I have no clue why it’s so highly critically acclaimed.

In my student days, I knew more than one Frances, cooler than everyone else, more intelligent, and slightly (or often very) intimidating. Then, years later you find out they were actually more messed up than everyone else.Conversations with Friends is the story of four people and the shifting relationships between them. Frances and Bobbi are students in Dublin. Ex-lovers, they remain close friends and work the literary circuit as performance poets. Frances is introverted, a talented writer, while Bobbi is an extrovert, the more gifted performer. Melissa is a photographer who wants to profile the two young women. She invites them to a party at her home, where they meet her husband, Nick, completing the central quartet. Bobbi fancies Melissa, Frances is drawn to Nick.As the story progresses, it shifts between Dublin and a holiday in France. Through the novel, each goes through ups and downs and the relationships between them are equally volatile. We also learn about their troubled pasts and present, especially Nick and Frances.In a word, I thought it was terrific, absolutely terrific. I’ve read a number of more critical reviews and while I can appreciate a number (but not all) of the negative comments, I still think the book is terrific.Is this a book in which none of the characters is pleasant? I would have to disagree with that. Frances is outwardly cold, snarky and aloof. But she is also insecure, damaged and sensitive. She might be difficult , but she isn’t unlovable. There is one devastating scene near the end of the book where she is confronted by the difference between her own self image and the impression another character has of her.It is true that this isn’t a plot heavy book, but that isn’t the point. This is primarily a book about relationships, and those relationships are superbly drawn. As the portrayal of friendship between two young women, that between Frances and Bobbi feels completely genuine and realistic. The sparks which fly between Nick and Frances generated by something between love and hate are thrilling.The writing style is flat, functional, almost child like at times. Again, as the voice of this disengaged, alienated young woman that came across as completely authentic.So, it a nutshell, this is a stunningly humane work about damaged, ambiguous, very human people.

There were moments in this book I just wanted it to take off. You spend a lot of time (most of the book) thinking come on get good, get good and the only reason you really stick with it is because of her abilities as a a writer. You can tell Sally Rooney’s a fabulous writer, there is some gorgeous prose but it’s so difficult to stick with because you just never ever warm to the characters and it just meanders aimlessly at times. I literally threw the book on the bed in frustration having finished the final paragraph. I do think she’ll write a wonderful book one day but unfortunately it’s not this one.

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