How will I recover from this? The stunning note from Knopf at the beginning of my ARC described this book perfectly: In Marie Rutkoski’s novel, which unspools in two timelines across decades, we see a pair of girls growing up in a small town where “lesbian” is only spoken in a hiss, we see the yawning chasm between state school and Harvard, we see the dawn of gay marriage in New York, and we see a culture slowly beginning to shift, to allow for a different kind of love to be considered ordinary. We preempted Ordinary Love in a passion buy-out from under a flock of other publishers (leaving them devastated in our wake) because we knew we had to have it. It is my great honor to share it with you, a reading experience that will linger in your brain and heart for months, a story that is equal parts sorrow and joy, and a work of literature that I hope you will find truly as extraordinary as we do.”
It’s high praise, and I have been anticipating the book so intensely since the moment it was announced, that for a moment I was afraid to be dissapointed. That moment dissapeared when I started reading. *I* dissapeared.
There is an inexplicable lucidity in the writing of this novel. Perhaps it is a love for commas and long sentences, the effortless eloquence, and fragments delicately placed. It is, of course, a familiar literary style, but it’s also Rutkoski’s own—light, airy, easy. Toeing the line with contemporary romance, it’s the kind of lit fic that would be someone’s favourite because it’s truly a pleasure to read (and equally devastating). It reminds me of some of my favourite novels of a similar genre—Annie on My Mind, Last Night at The Telegraph Club, Tipping the Velvet. But I don’t remember the last time I picked up a book with text so atmospheric that I forgot I existed as I read it. I stayed up all night to finish it, and I don’t reread books much anymore, but all week I’ve been going back to re-read sections, and I will soon need to reread the whole novel (perhaps more than once)—and I would still be in danger of pulling all-nighters again. Very, very excited for my preordered signed copy that’s on the way.
The book is written in third person, past tense (my favourite, because of course). I was, in part, surprised to find Emily as the only limited omniscient narrator. But this story couldn’t have been written any other way. Emily’s thoughts are dazzling in their deceptively simplistic observations, desires, convictions. The intimate care Rutkoski put into the perspective of a survivor of abuse, a bisexual femme for butch lover, a mother, a daughter, a writer, a dedicated humanities student, a small-town teenager crushing and falling in love, radiates off the pages. I can relate to only select few of her experiences, but in reading from her point of view, her feelings became mine. I spent a whole day after finishing just thinking of her love for her children. You know a book is well written when you can identify viscerally with a character who has a completely different life from you.
When I initially began the novel, I thought it might be written in three parallel storylines, but it’s actually written roughly in three chronological phases, enhanced to be seamless by the perfect rhythm of the writing. The blurb says it is a “page-turning, irresistable novel about class, ambition, and bisexuality”, and these elements snuck in so subtly I was actually startled by the end when I realised the long way the characters had come, how their fluctuating financial positions and their authentic (sometimes derailed) aspirations in turn drew them apart and then brought them together. This was also clearly never because they were actually incompatible (I’ve seen few fictional pairings of characters that so deeply love each other), but because they needed to grow the courage to be completely honest with each other, despite the sheer complexities of their situations.
Rutkoski’s most obvious talent (since her debut) is her writing of dialogue. Deliriously witty, delicious, and made me both giggle and cry at the simplest, most non-offensive exchanges. Gen and her vibrant group of queer adult friends is in stark contrast to Emily’s posh college circle at Harvard earlier in the book, but both interactions cause utter delight. As the letter from Knopf said, I read most of this book with my heart in my throat, and when Emily and Gen spoke as adults (in simple, but meaningful, achingly easy conversation) after we finally came back around to present day, I suddenly felt a great weight lift and startled myself by breaking into all-out sobbing. I realised in a few more pages that in my melancholic reading, I had began to expect that this would *not* be a passionate romance. I was wrong. Their teen romance was profoundly relatable, but sweet and nostalgic—In contrast, I confess I was never once normal about their electric chemistry when Gen and Emily were on the page together as adults.
While this story is deeply personal to the characters, the detailed historical and sociopolitical backdrop leaps out in certain parts. The telephones and letters, the subtle confusion (from straight people) that a butch can be considered attractive, the ease through which a femme can pass as straight (which often leads to harm rather than privilege) enhanced especially due to the invisibility of bisexuals. I was touched at the explicit inclusion of a bisexual femme, no doubt under the guidance of the entire list of experienced authors, including Malinda Lo, in the acknowledgements. (“Butch” is not used, probably due to the setting being past the era of the term.) In the age of the internet and the recent wave of (often implicit) reactionary TERF rhetoric and purity culture pushed by algorithms, it was comforting to read about the timeless, palpable warmth and vibrant diversity that can only exist in an IRL queer community, through the lens of a bisexual woman who instantly senses her belonging when surrounded by it.
Something about the instances where characters face difficulties are subtle, almost soft. Even the intimate partner violence, which is laid out in detail, is not exactly triggering to read, only discomfitting and restlessly heartbreaking. There is no sexual violence, no slurs. There is a kindness in this book towards its characters (and, by extension, its readers), uncommon in stories about minoritised groups, that makes it feel like a hug. It doesn’t sugarcoat struggles, but it feels more real because of its gentleness, perhaps because only a writer who has been there themself could hold a reader’s hand so firmly through this. I feel like I could read the last line over and over again, and never get tired of it.
Once I finished the book and caught up on sleep, I spent a day being dazed. It was like waking up from an embodied experience such as a dream, and trying to objectively recall how I felt about it. By every day that has passed since, my sheer fondness for the book only grows. I’ve spent a week trying to write a review that accurately describes it. My friends are sick of me raving about it, but I can’t stop. I think it’s easily going to be my favourite book of the year by a mile, even though it’s a great year for sapphic releases, with tough competition. All I can say is, please read it. If you relate to aspects of it, the experience will be transformative. And if you don’t relate at all, you will truly feel your heart expand as you read. Either way, you will be left changed.
Thanks so much to Knopf and Netgalley for an e-arc!