Last week I attended Daunt Book’s evening online discussion hosted by Alim Kheraj and introducing Brandon Taylor, author of the Booker Prize longlisted book – Real Life. I had not bought the book by that point, did not have a particular wish to do so either, as I feel somewhat inundated with the amount of new books, not knowing where to turn and how to choose. I also feel a multitude of castigating looks on my back every time I walk away from my overflowing bookshelves leaving all those unread books behind and walking back to the pile on my desk. The more I read about books and the more books I buy the more I despair. Can despair be a positive driving force?

Back to Real Life discussion. As I listened to Taylor answering the questions about his book I realised I wanted to read it and see for myself what “exercising [one’s] obsessions with the genre of the campus novel” looks like. I bought the book and started reading yesterday. I was aware that, as a reader, I should expect to “sit in discomfort a lot” while reading the book and, having read 38 pages of it, I certainly am.

You are thrown into the story, in medias res, the characters are there, somewhat blank. We have their names but are these surnames or given names? I presume mostly surnames but then why do they address each other by surnames? They are all firstly described by their height and only slowly they come into focus. I still do not have their images built in my head and even that is causing discomfort.

They do, however, sound painfully real, the language they use, the way they build their sentences, I can hear them (if not see them) very clearly. Young Americans, in their twenties, all their personal insecurities exposed through their prickly carapace. They annoy me. I want to tell them to take a step back from their egos and stop sulking. That not everything is happening to them, for them and with them in the centre. This is why I already like the book; the characters feel real even though their features are hidden in a fog. The narrative makes me work trying to follow who is who and who is saying what and how does it connect with what they said three pages back.

Taylor said that he is interested in narrators who know more about characters than the characters themselves and I think the reader can feel that from page one. It is present in that fog and as the fog chooses to lift or shift we will get to see more pieces of the characters.

A racist comment has already been spoken, an apology for it has been attempted and refused. The effect of it lingers and I wonder where it will take us. I am intrigued to watch the story unfold, the story where the main character is the only Black person in the group, maybe even in the entire book…

UPDATE:

What an ending. Disclaimer: I expected murder. How did we even get there? Well, firstly, the characters did not come into focus much more, with the exception of Wallace and Miller. Secondly, I still do not know if those are first names or surnames. Interestingly enough, the women go by first names. Maybe it is my ignorance then and all the names are first names…

I am giving up on numbering as we may reach double digits in the end.

All the characters remained vulnerable and self-doubting, given that the story unfolded over one weekend there was no time for much of personal development. I learnt a lot about Miller and Wallace, some about the rest of the characters, however, it did not seem they learnt anything about themselves. At least not anything surprising, unexpected, let alone liberating. What lingers is their inability or unwillingness to move, literally and figuratively speaking. They seem petrified in their situations, frozen in their opinions, paralysed by their indecision.

The darkness of the past is all-consuming, it obliterates the future and makes them stuck in the present. Their inept attempts at communication, at playing adults, contemplating entering the “real life” make you want to shake them. Especially Wallace as his inner voice seems to be stumbling upon flashes of explanations of his behaviour and flickers of possible remedies.

The racism continues, it is coupled by sexism and plain meanness and abuse. Wallace seems to be a lightning rod for many, someone to use to extricate and exculpate oneself. He is always alone, no one comes to help although many, if not all, are aware of what is happening. And Wallace is “fine”. He tries to stand up for himself sometimes but not too high or for too long. He has already given up the fight, he has resigned himself to the “way of the world”, he does, however, wonder whether it is the same in all the worlds or just this one.

What becomes of Wallace and Miller, locked in their respective pasts and sharing the present? Will they continue their dance of fighting, abusing and excusing? Is there a way out without having to leave?

“The misery of other people, the persistence of unhappiness, is perhaps all that connects them.”