I wanted to continue, as the characters were interesting. Here one says,
I could like this person. I would like to know what happens to her. But I just got too confused.
I think I will die of unfairness; I think I will be written on my death certificate.
That is interesting. I try to carry on, but the story doesn't hold together for me.
And what amazes me as I hit the motorway is not the fact that everyone loses someone,but that everyone loves someone. It seems like such a massive waste of energy -- and we all do it, all the people beetling along between the white lines, merging, converging, overtaking. We each love someone, even though they will die. And we keep loving them, even when they are not there to love any more. And there is no logic or use to any of this, that I can see.
I put the book down; I glance at the back cover: Enright is from Dublin too. What is it with the Irish?
Have you read this book? Do you read James Joyce? Can you give me a clue?