Swimming Home

Deborah Levy is my latest addiction, but I must not have been in the right head space for this one, shortlisted for the Man Booker prize in 2012. Everyone seems to love it, but it felt too contrived. The poet and his family take a summer villa, one of the poet’s deranged and beautiful fans arrives and stays with them, the story glints from each character’s eye in lurching bits. The mother supposedly wants to walk away from her marriage, the daughter has supposedly already chosen to live with her father, when bang he suicides with their friend Mitchell’s gun, the bankrupt pal who’s along for the vacation and running up bills in the local cafe. An odd assortment of characters like the rejects from a box of chocolates.