"A Girl is a Half-formed Thing" by Eimear McBride

     This book was thoroughly recommended by James Wood in The New Yorker, and I have usually found that he can be relied on as a critic. But this is a difficult book, and I would--so far--hesitate to push people to read it. I am only about a third into it, and my final view will depend on how it develops.
   
        Just to give an idea of the extreme way in which language is used, here an excerpt:

     “There now a girleen isn’t she great. Bawling. Oh Ho. Now you’re safe. But I saw less with these flesh eyes. Outside almost without sight. She, asking after and I’m all fine. Hand on my head. Her hand on my back. Dividing from the sweet of mother flesh that could not take me in again. I curled there learning limb from limb. Curdled under hot lamps. Sorrow lapped. I’m so glad your brother’s lived. That he’ll see you. It’ll all be. But. Something’s coming. Wiping off my begans. Wiping all my every time. I struggle up to. I struggle from. The smell of milk now. Going dim. Going blank. Going white.”

     That comes at the end of the opening, short chapter, which a careful read shows that the first person narrator is speaking of her birth. And the preceding text, which has to be read very slowly, explains that her older brother had to have a brain operation while her mother was pregnant. And this older brother plays an important role in the novel and is often addressed directly by the narrator.

     As the book progresses, and the narrator gets older, the text gets a bit less dense and the events described become clearer. Here is an example from later on:

     

      "Goodfornothinglumpofshitgodforgiveyou. Ours got for her wedding a glare though he paid. He, at least, knew how to behave. Though a man like our father could be nothing to him. Not to lick his boots. Not to be his dog. Of course he wasn’t even surprised when he ran off. Walked she said. I knew it would happen for what could you expect? Psychiatrist indeed and what rubbish is that? Poking in vegetables’ heads for a living or calling good people mad. He knew the type. Didn’t even guess his son was sick. Busy thinking he was so great, no doubt. What kind of father is that you tell me? She didn’t, or he wasn’t a brain”

     The narrator's father has left the mother, son, and daughter.

      This should give you the flavour of the language you will face if you read the book. I do not want to mention some of the staggeringly good passages, as that would likely spoil some of the effects if you do read the book.

      But I need to finish it first before I make up my mind about it.

     

      If anyone's read it, please write a comment.