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Big Kiss, Bye-Bye
A woman confronts the unfathomable origins and potent afterlife of passion, in a new novel by one of our most acclaimed and inventive fiction writers
The things that hold life in place have been lifted off and put away. Uprooted by circumstance from city to deep countryside, a woman lives in temporary limbo, visited by memories of all she’s left behind. The most insistent are those of Xavier, who has always been certain he knows her better than anyone, better than she knows herself. Xavier, whom she still loves but no longer desires, a displacement he has been unable to accept.
An unexpected letter from an old acquaintance brings back a torrent of others she’s loved or wanted. Each has been a match and a mismatch, a liberation and a threat to her very sense of self. The ephemera left by their passage –a spilled coffee, an unwanted bouquet, a mind-blowing kiss—make up a cabinet of curiosity she inventories, trying to divine the essence of intimacy. What does it mean to connect with another person? What impels us to touch someone, to be touched by them, to stay in touch? How do we let them go? In yet another tour de force of fiction, Claire-Louise Bennett explores the mystery of how people come into and go out of our lives, leaving us forever in their grasp.
The things that hold life in place have been lifted off and put away. Uprooted by circumstance from city to deep countryside, a woman lives in temporary limbo, visited by memories of all she’s left behind. The most insistent are those of Xavier, who has always been certain he knows her better than anyone, better than she knows herself. Xavier, whom she still loves but no longer desires, a displacement he has been unable to accept.
An unexpected letter from an old acquaintance brings back a torrent of others she’s loved or wanted. Each has been a match and a mismatch, a liberation and a threat to her very sense of self. The ephemera left by their passage –a spilled coffee, an unwanted bouquet, a mind-blowing kiss—make up a cabinet of curiosity she inventories, trying to divine the essence of intimacy. What does it mean to connect with another person? What impels us to touch someone, to be touched by them, to stay in touch? How do we let them go? In yet another tour de force of fiction, Claire-Louise Bennett explores the mystery of how people come into and go out of our lives, leaving us forever in their grasp.
209 pages, Hardcover
First published October 9, 2025
About the author
Claire-Louise Bennett
21 books771 followersClaire-Louise Bennett grew up in Wiltshire and studied literature and drama at the University of Roehampton, before moving to Ireland where she worked in and studied theatre for several years. In 2013 she was awarded the inaugural White Review Short Story Prize and went on to complete her debut book, Pond, which was published by The Stinging Fly (Ireland) and Fitzcarraldo Editions (UK) in 2015, and by Riverhead (US) in 2016. Pond was shortlisted for the Dylan Thomas Prize in 2016.
Her second novel, Checkout 19, was published in 2021 and was selected as one of the ten best books of 2022 by the New York Times.
Her second novel, Checkout 19, was published in 2021 and was selected as one of the ten best books of 2022 by the New York Times.
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March 12, 2026For quite some time now, I’ve been attracted to the pieces of fiction that allow me to travel through the mind of its author either implicitly or explicitly. Implicitly: when I can imagine or infer what the author was thinking writing this work. And explicitly: when the author or her narrator describes that place that is her mind; signposts or maps it for me so this mind becomes still strange but gradually more familiar country. And like with any country, it is often fascinating to visit it for the first time. But some of them, minds and countries, are so unlike my own, so intriguing, so risky to enter but so exciting that I tend to come back for a new visit with each new work out there.
I tend to think of Beckett or Murnane in this way. It seems Claire-Louise Bennett has joined their company. It is the third book by her I’ve read. With previous books, I haven't managed to grasp what was that exactly making me turning the pages of her books. But now I’ve figured this out I think. I like to be a witness how her mind excavates those words as if I could’ve seen this process in real time. Her narrator is aware that she is trying to capture what happens to her while she is in the process of writing. She is trying to catch this elusive personage inside herself who creates and at the same time to lose the connection with this another “I” who is deeply ingrained in her social milieu. Is it even possible? She keeps trying:
The result of this quest is the text of a fragmentary stream of consciousness. Similar to Woolf’s work though the text is far from a raw consciousness. This is a verbally dexterous and carefully stylised narrative. However she manages to preserve the sense of immediacy somehow. For example, in the following fragment she describes a moment when a child first realises the power of language. For me it was an equivalent of Proust’s ‘madeleine cake’ moment, sensual and forming a life-long memory:
This feeling she projects at the end of the passage of wanting to stop the torrent of internal speech-making but not being able to is very Beckettian. But she reveals the joy of discovering rather than Beckettian angst of struggling with words. Unlike Beckett, she is also never abstract even when she struggles with the borders of her selfhood and her language. She is rather a poet of specificity, of the small moments of life, concrete and moving details: flowers, discarded coins, small and big objects of nature. Her narrator is getting sardines and oranges and yogurt and pears, and Earl Grey tea bags. At the first glance, it is just a fragment of the ordinary shopping list. And it is. But it seems there is some visual and sonic harmony in this phrase that lifts it to the level of poetical.
The following episode has resonated with me as I’ve just moved house for the third time in two years. So I have to admit that it might be simply too relatable at the moment. But I've enjoyed how she tried to observe, with a degree of detachment but very acutely, both her external surroundings and her internal state:
For me this fragmentation and immediacy of experience is the main attraction of her novels. The subject matter respectively takes the back seat. Here it is men and her “dealings” with them. The key relationships described are with much older men and well past romantic stage. Though in her thoughts she constantly comes back to that romantic stage. This adds circularity to the already fragmented novel. Some readers might find it a bit tedious. But for me yet again it has reminded how a mind often acts going in circles that more often not the circles at all. Rather those shapes are more like spirals adding a new twist at each iteration. But let’s come from geometry back to her men.
Xavier, now in his eighties and on a wheel chair, is a constant presence. But he is more like a motive rather than a character. It does not mean of course that Xavier does not possess the character: he is quite possessive to say at least. But still for me he was more like a reoccurring phenomenon in the novel. The same with the colour green. The appearance of green initially seems spontaneous but then one can see how carefully she weaves it into the narrative. Even her intertextuality is playing with green. The narrator reads K. Huysmans’s 1891 novel, The Damned (Là-bas). To her shock, she finds out that a lady in the novel uses green ink for her letters. So does our narrator.
Xavier constantly buys her flowers containing green fern she does not seem to like. Green and “greenness” is a prominent motive in her interactions with other man, her English teacher Terence Stone. Deliberately or not, she has created a character who has reminded me another English teacher William Stoner from Stoner. Both come across as detached from social fabric of reality and more interested in literature than people. We see Stone only through the process of the narrator mentally composing pieces of correspondence with him in reply to his letter. We are not aware of what would be sent eventually. But green somehow forms a big part of this imaginary correspondence starting with some fragment that might be considered as a poem on “greenness” and finishing with the reference to Hildegard, a German medieval saint. The narrator plant to add a few luminous words of her (Hildegard)own about the luscious healing power of viriditas.
Initially I wondered why green, the symbol of vitality, is associated with the end of romance and with much too old men. Apart from Xavier, there was another teacher, not Stone, when the narrator has had 'the dealings' with while still at school. That throws even darker undertone on the whole story. I guess the obvious cliche type of the answer would be that every end is some sort of beginning. Every innocence would have ripened into something mature. I am not totally happy with such answers but I am happy not to have the better ones. I’ve just enjoyed looking closely at many sides of “greenness” through the author’s eyes.
Sex is a big part of 'the dealings' with men. And there is a fair amount of it here including coffee in bed; or rather spilling coffee on the bed. But there is a lengthy scene where a Corinthian column serves as a prop so to speak. Some would find the whole thing cringy. In my old age, it is difficult to surprise me or even to convince me of necessity of depicting in details the shenanigans of such a nature. But I’ve surprised myself by actually finding this scene quite sensual and aesthetically strong. It is quite explicit in parts but there is enough understatement and negative space in it to avoid vulgarity often pertinent to this stuff in literature (usually passed as a brave new way how to make it). There is nothing like that here. There is subtlety that enhances sensuality. The grooves of the column right behind me and one leg, the left leg, lifted, lifted up and out. The shoe gaping mid-air, possibly seen..
Not solely sex. She also talks about sex and violence. But instead of the usual angle how a predatory man violates his victim, she talks about the violence a woman does to herself due to inability to conform with the related societal expectations and norms. She starts the conversation through the prism of The Piano Teacher (more of the movie though) and moves to the wider picture.
Unlike a country with its limited territory and usually well defined borders, a mind is infinite. And in the case of Claire-Luis Bennett - infinitely creative. While writing about this book, I was imagining I was also creating a map. However, any map of such a place is illusive and temporary. The map is a shapeshifter. It might find its reflection in the mind of the reader or it might not. But travelling without any map is what people called the process of exploration and discovery. And it is a worthy adventure.
Ps
And now when I’ve done with my bit, i would recommend you to read a very good text about this book. I’ve written my stuff and then decided to look how this book has been reviewed in the press. It was very uninspiring until I’ve read this piece. So i decided to share Green, Lively, and Full of Decay by Audrey Wallen.
I tend to think of Beckett or Murnane in this way. It seems Claire-Louise Bennett has joined their company. It is the third book by her I’ve read. With previous books, I haven't managed to grasp what was that exactly making me turning the pages of her books. But now I’ve figured this out I think. I like to be a witness how her mind excavates those words as if I could’ve seen this process in real time. Her narrator is aware that she is trying to capture what happens to her while she is in the process of writing. She is trying to catch this elusive personage inside herself who creates and at the same time to lose the connection with this another “I” who is deeply ingrained in her social milieu. Is it even possible? She keeps trying:
I don’t like to be too aware it’s me writing. That might sound nonsensical, given that so many sentences here begin with ‘I’. How then could I not be aware that it is me writing this? I don’t know exactly. Perhaps what I’m getting at is that other people’s ideas about me aren’t something I want to be too aware of while I’m writing this. I don’t want the way they see me to interfere and keep me at the surface of things. I need to sink down a bit. I need to disappear, go under, get down to where she is. Then it is she who says I, not me, not me.
The result of this quest is the text of a fragmentary stream of consciousness. Similar to Woolf’s work though the text is far from a raw consciousness. This is a verbally dexterous and carefully stylised narrative. However she manages to preserve the sense of immediacy somehow. For example, in the following fragment she describes a moment when a child first realises the power of language. For me it was an equivalent of Proust’s ‘madeleine cake’ moment, sensual and forming a life-long memory:
You begin to discover that having certain words in your mouth can make you feel the most extraordinary and exhilarating sensations. These sensations are occasioned by little flares going off inside of you, briefly illuminating that dark innermost space, plethoric and phantasmal, that you don’t know very much about but sometimes feel yourself sinking into. By the slow, cascading light of these fleet fire-bursts, set off by words, words spoken, strange and potent, you begin to see how vast and elaborate all that secluded darkness is. Is this scintillating shade you or was it there before you? You don’t know. Is it inside everyone? You don’t know that either. You want to stay, you don’t want to stay. You want to say more, you want to bite your lip hard and remain perdurably mute. It never ends. It never ends.
This feeling she projects at the end of the passage of wanting to stop the torrent of internal speech-making but not being able to is very Beckettian. But she reveals the joy of discovering rather than Beckettian angst of struggling with words. Unlike Beckett, she is also never abstract even when she struggles with the borders of her selfhood and her language. She is rather a poet of specificity, of the small moments of life, concrete and moving details: flowers, discarded coins, small and big objects of nature. Her narrator is getting sardines and oranges and yogurt and pears, and Earl Grey tea bags. At the first glance, it is just a fragment of the ordinary shopping list. And it is. But it seems there is some visual and sonic harmony in this phrase that lifts it to the level of poetical.
The following episode has resonated with me as I’ve just moved house for the third time in two years. So I have to admit that it might be simply too relatable at the moment. But I've enjoyed how she tried to observe, with a degree of detachment but very acutely, both her external surroundings and her internal state:
My belongings are arranged in the corner. They consist mostly of plants. Everything else went into storage yesterday. Something is loosened. The things that hold life in place have been lifted off and put away. I wonder about those rare people who never move. Who live on and on in the same house. Never really needing to sort through anything. Never having to handle each and every object in turn. Never having to weigh up its value. Never having to ask, what do I take with me? Never seeing their life like this. All up in a heap. I haven’t written so much in aeons, yet I’m no closer to why I do it. Is there, after all, a story I am hoping to uncover and make mine? Never, not in a million years. Pfennig. Pfennig. Pfennig. They have gone now and the word has gone now. Can’t there be a new thing we call ‘pfennig’?
For me this fragmentation and immediacy of experience is the main attraction of her novels. The subject matter respectively takes the back seat. Here it is men and her “dealings” with them. The key relationships described are with much older men and well past romantic stage. Though in her thoughts she constantly comes back to that romantic stage. This adds circularity to the already fragmented novel. Some readers might find it a bit tedious. But for me yet again it has reminded how a mind often acts going in circles that more often not the circles at all. Rather those shapes are more like spirals adding a new twist at each iteration. But let’s come from geometry back to her men.
Xavier, now in his eighties and on a wheel chair, is a constant presence. But he is more like a motive rather than a character. It does not mean of course that Xavier does not possess the character: he is quite possessive to say at least. But still for me he was more like a reoccurring phenomenon in the novel. The same with the colour green. The appearance of green initially seems spontaneous but then one can see how carefully she weaves it into the narrative. Even her intertextuality is playing with green. The narrator reads K. Huysmans’s 1891 novel, The Damned (Là-bas). To her shock, she finds out that a lady in the novel uses green ink for her letters. So does our narrator.
Xavier constantly buys her flowers containing green fern she does not seem to like. Green and “greenness” is a prominent motive in her interactions with other man, her English teacher Terence Stone. Deliberately or not, she has created a character who has reminded me another English teacher William Stoner from Stoner. Both come across as detached from social fabric of reality and more interested in literature than people. We see Stone only through the process of the narrator mentally composing pieces of correspondence with him in reply to his letter. We are not aware of what would be sent eventually. But green somehow forms a big part of this imaginary correspondence starting with some fragment that might be considered as a poem on “greenness” and finishing with the reference to Hildegard, a German medieval saint. The narrator plant to add a few luminous words of her (Hildegard)own about the luscious healing power of viriditas.
Initially I wondered why green, the symbol of vitality, is associated with the end of romance and with much too old men. Apart from Xavier, there was another teacher, not Stone, when the narrator has had 'the dealings' with while still at school. That throws even darker undertone on the whole story. I guess the obvious cliche type of the answer would be that every end is some sort of beginning. Every innocence would have ripened into something mature. I am not totally happy with such answers but I am happy not to have the better ones. I’ve just enjoyed looking closely at many sides of “greenness” through the author’s eyes.
Sex is a big part of 'the dealings' with men. And there is a fair amount of it here including coffee in bed; or rather spilling coffee on the bed. But there is a lengthy scene where a Corinthian column serves as a prop so to speak. Some would find the whole thing cringy. In my old age, it is difficult to surprise me or even to convince me of necessity of depicting in details the shenanigans of such a nature. But I’ve surprised myself by actually finding this scene quite sensual and aesthetically strong. It is quite explicit in parts but there is enough understatement and negative space in it to avoid vulgarity often pertinent to this stuff in literature (usually passed as a brave new way how to make it). There is nothing like that here. There is subtlety that enhances sensuality. The grooves of the column right behind me and one leg, the left leg, lifted, lifted up and out. The shoe gaping mid-air, possibly seen..
Not solely sex. She also talks about sex and violence. But instead of the usual angle how a predatory man violates his victim, she talks about the violence a woman does to herself due to inability to conform with the related societal expectations and norms. She starts the conversation through the prism of The Piano Teacher (more of the movie though) and moves to the wider picture.
Unlike a country with its limited territory and usually well defined borders, a mind is infinite. And in the case of Claire-Luis Bennett - infinitely creative. While writing about this book, I was imagining I was also creating a map. However, any map of such a place is illusive and temporary. The map is a shapeshifter. It might find its reflection in the mind of the reader or it might not. But travelling without any map is what people called the process of exploration and discovery. And it is a worthy adventure.
Ps
And now when I’ve done with my bit, i would recommend you to read a very good text about this book. I’ve written my stuff and then decided to look how this book has been reviewed in the press. It was very uninspiring until I’ve read this piece. So i decided to share Green, Lively, and Full of Decay by Audrey Wallen.
December 18, 2025
An intellectual novel isn’t necessarily a good novel. Sometimes you have expertise and talent, but you don’t have a story to tell. Big Kiss, Bye Bye is the type of book that needs controversy to make it worthwhile, and unfortunately it doesn’t deliver on that front. Its greatest sin is probably that it thinks it does, but having an affair with a much older man isn’t as edgy as the author seems to think. Reading Huysmans (around Christmas), like the heroine does, isn’t something special if you are an adult. I can admire an author who wants to provoke, but you won’t provoke anyone with commentary on past works.
October 23, 2025
So, what did I think of this book, eh? Difficult to say; really difficult. Did I say difficult? I did! I did and I added an exclamation mark. I hope he notices. I hope he isn’t distracted by the antelopes (or were they deer?) falling from the sky. But never mind all that. Will he kiss me? Do I want him to? I wish he would. Or do I? No. Yes. Pulchritudinously his false teeth are spotless. Spitless, too. Beautifully spotless. But he never replies to my emails. He says he can’t see me. But can he? I mean, he’s got eyes, hasn’t he? He might be old but his eyes still work… in the sense that they gather light reflected beatifically from around him and gather it up into his optic nerve and send it to the brain: his old, old brain. But his brain makes such wonderful pictures, doesn’t it! Doesn’t it? I don’t know. What are you asking me for? The end.
March 19, 2026
Shortlisted for the 2026 James Tait Black Memorial Prize
And now you must kiss me so that your error is unveiled and you encounter how far you are exactly from being able to sweep me right off my feet and I must remain absolutely still in order to feel you grasp and falter, rasp and dodder - because, after all, it's not as if you are not a captivating man, you are a very captivating man indeed, and I must forthwith feel the failure of your kiss upon my lips, stuttering unmistakably throughout me, and you must and will feel it too.
It will be a most terrible kiss, sluggish and lathery, aphotic and unsteady, forgettable - it will die within moments.
A cold submerged thing, briefly spurtive, barely supported. Poor flesh, sad bone. And then it will all be over. Walk across the room now old man and kiss me - let's put an end to this.
Claire-Louise Bennett's Pond is, for me, one of the finest novels of the 21st century, and Checkout 19, if not quite reaching that height (but then nor has anyone else, as Joseph Heller once said) was equally inventive. Big Kiss, Bye-Bye, her third novel is less formally inventive, and in its basic plot possibly overly familiar, but showcases Bennett's brilliant prose.
It's almost compulsory to use the term phenomenological about Bennett's writing (and when I asked ChatGPT for a 21st century author writing in this style, she was top of the list) - and indeed Bennett has identified it, e.g. here in a Paris Review conversation with Lauren Elkin, as a key thread among writers she admires:
In an Observer interview for this novel, she gave more of a definition:
Some favourite quotes:
Anything can be dealt with, he said, you just have to figure out what it is you're dealing with. " Alright then,' I said, "but it's difficult to describe, and I'm not sure talking about it is of much use." 'It's not useful to talk about it?' he said. 'No, not really - I'll overthink it if I try to put it into words. I'll end up saying things that relate to an idea, rather than to the experience itself - I'll end up talking rubbish. "I see,' he said. 'And why's that?' he said. 'I don't know, I said. 'Some things are resistant to words may-be, and when you start trying to apply them you end up with something else, another thing - a theory, I suppose. 'A theory?' he said. 'Yes. Or a poem perhaps. Some kind of made-up thing anyway,' I said.
and
Terence Stone upped the ante in his next email by referring to Andrew Marvell's poem 'The Garden', the sixth stanza of which concludes with the line 'Annihilating all that's made / To a green thought in a green shade,' a line I remembered well, and which, seeing it again, sent me into a pastoral reverie, there in the woodshed, and at the bosky heart of this veritable oasis thrummed the greening power of God', viriditas itself, an enlivening yet concurrently soothing notion that I fortuitously came across in the writings of Hildegard von Bingen during the early days of the pandemic and which I did consider referring to in my follow up email to Terence Stone. I desisted, however, for the reason that it was far too pleasing a reference, and at the time of rejecting this very apposite literary invocation, of not just green but greenness itself, on the grounds that it was much too pleasant and agreeable, I had not yet read Huysmans's The Damned, but when, weeks later, I had commenced it and had arrived at the section where Durtal receives a strange and excited letter, written in thin myrtle green ink, I knew, right away and without a shadow of a doubt, that it would be by reference to this situation that I would continue with the theme of green.
This Yale Review piece tackles the novel better than I am able, including its argument that the narrator exceeds the phenomenological.
4.5 stars.
And now you must kiss me so that your error is unveiled and you encounter how far you are exactly from being able to sweep me right off my feet and I must remain absolutely still in order to feel you grasp and falter, rasp and dodder - because, after all, it's not as if you are not a captivating man, you are a very captivating man indeed, and I must forthwith feel the failure of your kiss upon my lips, stuttering unmistakably throughout me, and you must and will feel it too.
It will be a most terrible kiss, sluggish and lathery, aphotic and unsteady, forgettable - it will die within moments.
A cold submerged thing, briefly spurtive, barely supported. Poor flesh, sad bone. And then it will all be over. Walk across the room now old man and kiss me - let's put an end to this.
Claire-Louise Bennett's Pond is, for me, one of the finest novels of the 21st century, and Checkout 19, if not quite reaching that height (but then nor has anyone else, as Joseph Heller once said) was equally inventive. Big Kiss, Bye-Bye, her third novel is less formally inventive, and in its basic plot possibly overly familiar, but showcases Bennett's brilliant prose.
It's almost compulsory to use the term phenomenological about Bennett's writing (and when I asked ChatGPT for a 21st century author writing in this style, she was top of the list) - and indeed Bennett has identified it, e.g. here in a Paris Review conversation with Lauren Elkin, as a key thread among writers she admires:
Many writers I enjoy—Deborah Levy, Eimear McBride, Jon Fosse, Thomas Bernhard, Marguerite Duras, Sartre, Beckett—have been involved with or have written for theater. When I think about it now, what engages me about all these writers’ books, including yours, is the phenomenological dimension of their work, which I can engage with and am moved by much more than say a purely psychological mode.
In an Observer interview for this novel, she gave more of a definition:
My favourite writers are writers who pay attention – very close attention – to the world around them. That feels like a very intimate thing. So writers such as Beckett and Virginia Woolf, Jean Rhys, Annie Ernaux, Natalia Ginzburg. Noticing human behaviour and little changes that occur and wondering about them, that’s an act of love. It’s that willingness to sit there and spend time, which is becoming scarcer and scarcer.
Some favourite quotes:
Anything can be dealt with, he said, you just have to figure out what it is you're dealing with. " Alright then,' I said, "but it's difficult to describe, and I'm not sure talking about it is of much use." 'It's not useful to talk about it?' he said. 'No, not really - I'll overthink it if I try to put it into words. I'll end up saying things that relate to an idea, rather than to the experience itself - I'll end up talking rubbish. "I see,' he said. 'And why's that?' he said. 'I don't know, I said. 'Some things are resistant to words may-be, and when you start trying to apply them you end up with something else, another thing - a theory, I suppose. 'A theory?' he said. 'Yes. Or a poem perhaps. Some kind of made-up thing anyway,' I said.
and
Terence Stone upped the ante in his next email by referring to Andrew Marvell's poem 'The Garden', the sixth stanza of which concludes with the line 'Annihilating all that's made / To a green thought in a green shade,' a line I remembered well, and which, seeing it again, sent me into a pastoral reverie, there in the woodshed, and at the bosky heart of this veritable oasis thrummed the greening power of God', viriditas itself, an enlivening yet concurrently soothing notion that I fortuitously came across in the writings of Hildegard von Bingen during the early days of the pandemic and which I did consider referring to in my follow up email to Terence Stone. I desisted, however, for the reason that it was far too pleasing a reference, and at the time of rejecting this very apposite literary invocation, of not just green but greenness itself, on the grounds that it was much too pleasant and agreeable, I had not yet read Huysmans's The Damned, but when, weeks later, I had commenced it and had arrived at the section where Durtal receives a strange and excited letter, written in thin myrtle green ink, I knew, right away and without a shadow of a doubt, that it would be by reference to this situation that I would continue with the theme of green.
This Yale Review piece tackles the novel better than I am able, including its argument that the narrator exceeds the phenomenological.
4.5 stars.
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October 31, 2025What counts as an interesting novel now?
Big Kiss, Bye-Bye is well observed, sensitively and carefully written, and it feels fully contemporary -- so why, when I finished it, did I feel it has nothing in common with what I think of as interesting current fiction? How can it be that the category of the novel is such a poor descriptor that it includes both this book and ones I read and write? It's as if I want to buy a TV, and I go into the electronics section of Walmart or Target and find flowers and cookware on the shelves along with televisions. I wonder if any other medium or genre has such an unhelpfully broad range of reference.
Skill and writing in Big Kiss, Bye-Bye
A useful way into this question is to ask what counts, for the implied author and ideal reader of Big Kiss, Bye-Bye, as a successful description, passage, or chapter. What is on the implied author's mind when it comes to writing a publishable novel? What do the book's ideal or implied readers feel are its criteria of success?
As I see it, what counts is the depiction of inner life, both the narrator's and her intermittent partner Xavier's. It's delightful when the narrator gets annoyed, and then fixated, on Xavier's extravagant weekly gift of a bouquet of flowers. She doesn't like his choices, and we get to hear about her least favorite flowers and her sense of taste, and then, when she cleverly arranges things so she can choose the flowers herself, she is tormented by the florist, who expects her to spend 50 Euro each week. Her irritations are on full self-conscious display: we know that she knows she's over the top about it. It's delightful, too, when her perplexities over Xavier's lack of self-awareness keep bubbling to the surface, sometimes as irritations at herself, other times as sudden negative judgments about things in the world or as transient flushes of indecision. Bennett's prose is a continuous see-sawing from guarded and qualified positives to their complementary negatives and back again, and it can be beautifully balanced, as here:
I certainly did realize how hard Xavier tried--I realized it and it moved me, again and again. That's probably why I kept the dozen red roses. They weren't an original choice, not at all, but that's precisely what made them so touching. I took off all the heads when they went over, and when the petals were completely dried up I put them in a crystal bowl, and so for years there was this crystal bowl full of dried roese heads on my drinks tray. And then I was sorting throgh everything--towels, bedding, cables, everything--and still I hadn't heard from Xavier, not since that last dinner when he'd invited me to kisshim and I hadn't wanted to and he'd said, "Do I seem old to you?" and I'd said, "Yes," so I picked up the crystal bowl and shook all the rose headsout into a black sack, out they tumbled, already downcast, I'm not taking you with me, I'm not taking you with me, and some petals came loose and fell to the floor, and later, when I swept them up, I felt bad, I felt a pang, but there was still so much to do that I didn't dwell on it for very long. [p. 65]
This is well managed, phrase by phrase, and the writing dependably provides inventive variations on this kind of pleasure. It paints a vivid portrait of a woman who is self-aware, self-doubting, insecure but sharp, unhelpfully overly thoughtful, intermittently hapless, combattive but dependent, a kind of cross between Simone de Beauvoir and Bridget Jones. At the same time, because this is the era of autofiction, the implied author hovers coyly over the whole, since her narrator is roughly Bennett's age, and Xavier is significantly older (75 years old at one point in the narrative).
All this is fun, and for me, it has nothing to do with what makes novels interesting or worth spending time on. It would have been helpful, for me, if the novel had acknowledged some of the writers that formed it, or against which it was writtrn. There are some passages that echo Beckett and Joyce, but that similarity is not acknowledged:
How could we have possibly known then what people were like? At that time. At that time. When what? When we are at our most alert and sensitive and independent. Never mind. Never mind. [p. 178]
The history of novels that are similarly interested in women's voices, or writers interested in women'sinner monologues, from Woolf to Ellmann and Tillman, are entirely absent from the book. By this I don't mean that Big Kiss, Bye-Bye lacks references to Beckett and others, although it could easily have accommodated them since it includes names of actual writers; I mean passages like the one I quoted are not in dialogue with Beckett and others: there's no sign the writing is responding to anything other than the narrator's mood.
What does Bennett, the implied author, think a novel is? Something like a vehicle, of optimal flexibility and eloquence, for describing new forms of subjectivity, specifically the narrator's in her relation with Xavier. For me, that's not what novels since modernism primarily are.
Some potentially useful terms
The art historian Terry Smith is one of several who make a distinction between contemporary and contemporaneous. An artwork is contemporary if it was done this year or this decade. It's contemporaneous if it participates in current conversations about its genre, medium, style, or content: that is, if it reflects and reflects on ideas and strategies of artmaking that are under discussion at the moment. In visual art, an example of a contemporaneous work might be a piece by Kara Walker or Julie Mehretu, since they engage -- in quite different ways -- with ideas current in the culture. A contemporary work might be a traditional landscape or still life painting that is but in dialogue with techniques and conventions that have not been current for some time. In literature, many best sellers, detective fiction, and romances are contemporary in this sense.
The situation is more complicated in literature, because of two terms, literary and experimental.
Literary fiction has a shallow history. As Dan Sinykin suggested in The Nation, the expression first appeared in the 1980s, long after the high modernist classics that are now identified as literary fiction, and most of a generation after the postmodern novels by Pynchon and others that are still contrasted against popular fiction ("What Was Literary Fiction?," Oct. 10, 2023). From his point of view, literary fiction is part of the capitalist enterprise, the "conglomerate superorganism," comprised of editors, publishers, publicists, and others, who conspire -- often with the best intentions -- to produce, for a public, a packaged product that can be consumed as the sole product of an indvidual writer engaged with the practice of their craft. In Sinykin's view, literary fiction emerged as a market category in response to the rise of mass-market genre publishing, including mystery, SF, and romance, because it became necessary to label whatever fiction didn't fit those categories.
That way of thinking about literary fiction helps explain why it is so hopeless as definition of any particular of fiction: it's whatever can be marketed as "character-driven and realistic, whereas genre fiction generally describes work that’s plot-driven" ("Literary Fiction vs. Genre Fiction" on writers.com), or whatever ticks the boxes on the Wilipedia page for "Fiction": it "does not fit neatly into an established genre... is character-driven rather than plot-driven, examines the human condition, uses language in an experimental or poetic fashion" or "is considered serious as a work of art."
Experimental fiction had a bad name as early as 1978. In an interview Georges Perec says he doesn't want to be associated with the "experimental" work of Alain Robbe-Grillet and Tel quel. The journal was openly experimental, and so was the group Oulipo, which Perec joined just seven years after it was founded. (The expression, in French, goes back to Emile Zola’s Le Roman expérimental, 1891, which had an entirely different meaning.)
Experimental fiction's current bad name comes from its assocation with extensions of Oulipo such as conceptual poetry, where the author risks getting lost in theories, philosophies of fiction, and self-imposed schemata or constraints. At the same time experimentalfiction is associated with the adoption of unusual page formats: multiple columns, concrete poetry, photographs, footnotes, and so on. Those conventions are then associated with two more traits that could in theory be quite different: a skepticism about the conventions of realist fiction, especially in regard to recognizable or conventional storylines; and a lack of interest in plot (which is one of the principal qualities assigned to literary fiction). At the same time, experimental fiction is also associated with two more possibilities: skepticism about the narration of subjectivity, and an explicit, thematized fascination with the traditions and nature of the novel itself. That's four markers, in the enumeration I'm adopting here: theory and constraints, formatting, unconventional narratives, and lack of plot.
Some writers associate experimental fiction with just one or two of these. In "Experimental Fiction, Or What Is a Novel and How Do I Know?" (2018) Ralph Barry describes experimental fictions as "attempts to determine what a novel is, rather than as formal innovations or challenges to realist conventions." He praises some novels written between 2000 and 20o4, such Carole Maso’s AVA (2002), Steve Tomasula’s VAS (2004), and David Markson’s Vanishing Point (2004), because there "the predicament in the novel is also the predicament of the novel." But for my purposes, any combination of those is enough to label a novel "experimental."
Triangulating different senses of the novel
These elements can help articulate the distance I feel between "a good novel" as it is proposed by Big Kiss, Bye-Bye and "a good novel" in the senses that interest me. Bennett's book can be placed in the 21st century by the texture of the narrator's second thoughts and judgments, but it is not contemporaneous in its underlying project of exploring subjectivity, which has been part of fiction from James, Proust, and Woolf onward. Big Kiss, Bye-Bye is literary fiction in that it's "character-driven" and the plot and action are minimal. It's not experimental fiction because it's uninterested in being skeptical about conventional storylines, it is utterly uncritical about the project of narrating subjectivity, and it is free of any markers of awareness of the traditions of the novel itself.
For me, a contemporaneous novel has to show some skepticism about received forms of narrative (why not? It's been over a hundred years since the 19th century naturalistic novel was critiqued by modernism), some wariness of the project of describing inner states and subjectivity (that's been on writers' agendas since Stein, Camus, and Beckett), and some awareness of its place in the history of novels since modernism and postmodernism (that's been part of modernism since Joyce, Pound, and Eliot). Otherwise--what else is there to say?--the novel is entertainment or nostalgia.
Big Kiss, Bye-Bye is well observed, sensitively and carefully written, and it feels fully contemporary -- so why, when I finished it, did I feel it has nothing in common with what I think of as interesting current fiction? How can it be that the category of the novel is such a poor descriptor that it includes both this book and ones I read and write? It's as if I want to buy a TV, and I go into the electronics section of Walmart or Target and find flowers and cookware on the shelves along with televisions. I wonder if any other medium or genre has such an unhelpfully broad range of reference.
Skill and writing in Big Kiss, Bye-Bye
A useful way into this question is to ask what counts, for the implied author and ideal reader of Big Kiss, Bye-Bye, as a successful description, passage, or chapter. What is on the implied author's mind when it comes to writing a publishable novel? What do the book's ideal or implied readers feel are its criteria of success?
As I see it, what counts is the depiction of inner life, both the narrator's and her intermittent partner Xavier's. It's delightful when the narrator gets annoyed, and then fixated, on Xavier's extravagant weekly gift of a bouquet of flowers. She doesn't like his choices, and we get to hear about her least favorite flowers and her sense of taste, and then, when she cleverly arranges things so she can choose the flowers herself, she is tormented by the florist, who expects her to spend 50 Euro each week. Her irritations are on full self-conscious display: we know that she knows she's over the top about it. It's delightful, too, when her perplexities over Xavier's lack of self-awareness keep bubbling to the surface, sometimes as irritations at herself, other times as sudden negative judgments about things in the world or as transient flushes of indecision. Bennett's prose is a continuous see-sawing from guarded and qualified positives to their complementary negatives and back again, and it can be beautifully balanced, as here:
I certainly did realize how hard Xavier tried--I realized it and it moved me, again and again. That's probably why I kept the dozen red roses. They weren't an original choice, not at all, but that's precisely what made them so touching. I took off all the heads when they went over, and when the petals were completely dried up I put them in a crystal bowl, and so for years there was this crystal bowl full of dried roese heads on my drinks tray. And then I was sorting throgh everything--towels, bedding, cables, everything--and still I hadn't heard from Xavier, not since that last dinner when he'd invited me to kisshim and I hadn't wanted to and he'd said, "Do I seem old to you?" and I'd said, "Yes," so I picked up the crystal bowl and shook all the rose headsout into a black sack, out they tumbled, already downcast, I'm not taking you with me, I'm not taking you with me, and some petals came loose and fell to the floor, and later, when I swept them up, I felt bad, I felt a pang, but there was still so much to do that I didn't dwell on it for very long. [p. 65]
This is well managed, phrase by phrase, and the writing dependably provides inventive variations on this kind of pleasure. It paints a vivid portrait of a woman who is self-aware, self-doubting, insecure but sharp, unhelpfully overly thoughtful, intermittently hapless, combattive but dependent, a kind of cross between Simone de Beauvoir and Bridget Jones. At the same time, because this is the era of autofiction, the implied author hovers coyly over the whole, since her narrator is roughly Bennett's age, and Xavier is significantly older (75 years old at one point in the narrative).
All this is fun, and for me, it has nothing to do with what makes novels interesting or worth spending time on. It would have been helpful, for me, if the novel had acknowledged some of the writers that formed it, or against which it was writtrn. There are some passages that echo Beckett and Joyce, but that similarity is not acknowledged:
How could we have possibly known then what people were like? At that time. At that time. When what? When we are at our most alert and sensitive and independent. Never mind. Never mind. [p. 178]
The history of novels that are similarly interested in women's voices, or writers interested in women'sinner monologues, from Woolf to Ellmann and Tillman, are entirely absent from the book. By this I don't mean that Big Kiss, Bye-Bye lacks references to Beckett and others, although it could easily have accommodated them since it includes names of actual writers; I mean passages like the one I quoted are not in dialogue with Beckett and others: there's no sign the writing is responding to anything other than the narrator's mood.
What does Bennett, the implied author, think a novel is? Something like a vehicle, of optimal flexibility and eloquence, for describing new forms of subjectivity, specifically the narrator's in her relation with Xavier. For me, that's not what novels since modernism primarily are.
Some potentially useful terms
The art historian Terry Smith is one of several who make a distinction between contemporary and contemporaneous. An artwork is contemporary if it was done this year or this decade. It's contemporaneous if it participates in current conversations about its genre, medium, style, or content: that is, if it reflects and reflects on ideas and strategies of artmaking that are under discussion at the moment. In visual art, an example of a contemporaneous work might be a piece by Kara Walker or Julie Mehretu, since they engage -- in quite different ways -- with ideas current in the culture. A contemporary work might be a traditional landscape or still life painting that is but in dialogue with techniques and conventions that have not been current for some time. In literature, many best sellers, detective fiction, and romances are contemporary in this sense.
The situation is more complicated in literature, because of two terms, literary and experimental.
Literary fiction has a shallow history. As Dan Sinykin suggested in The Nation, the expression first appeared in the 1980s, long after the high modernist classics that are now identified as literary fiction, and most of a generation after the postmodern novels by Pynchon and others that are still contrasted against popular fiction ("What Was Literary Fiction?," Oct. 10, 2023). From his point of view, literary fiction is part of the capitalist enterprise, the "conglomerate superorganism," comprised of editors, publishers, publicists, and others, who conspire -- often with the best intentions -- to produce, for a public, a packaged product that can be consumed as the sole product of an indvidual writer engaged with the practice of their craft. In Sinykin's view, literary fiction emerged as a market category in response to the rise of mass-market genre publishing, including mystery, SF, and romance, because it became necessary to label whatever fiction didn't fit those categories.
That way of thinking about literary fiction helps explain why it is so hopeless as definition of any particular of fiction: it's whatever can be marketed as "character-driven and realistic, whereas genre fiction generally describes work that’s plot-driven" ("Literary Fiction vs. Genre Fiction" on writers.com), or whatever ticks the boxes on the Wilipedia page for "Fiction": it "does not fit neatly into an established genre... is character-driven rather than plot-driven, examines the human condition, uses language in an experimental or poetic fashion" or "is considered serious as a work of art."
Experimental fiction had a bad name as early as 1978. In an interview Georges Perec says he doesn't want to be associated with the "experimental" work of Alain Robbe-Grillet and Tel quel. The journal was openly experimental, and so was the group Oulipo, which Perec joined just seven years after it was founded. (The expression, in French, goes back to Emile Zola’s Le Roman expérimental, 1891, which had an entirely different meaning.)
Experimental fiction's current bad name comes from its assocation with extensions of Oulipo such as conceptual poetry, where the author risks getting lost in theories, philosophies of fiction, and self-imposed schemata or constraints. At the same time experimentalfiction is associated with the adoption of unusual page formats: multiple columns, concrete poetry, photographs, footnotes, and so on. Those conventions are then associated with two more traits that could in theory be quite different: a skepticism about the conventions of realist fiction, especially in regard to recognizable or conventional storylines; and a lack of interest in plot (which is one of the principal qualities assigned to literary fiction). At the same time, experimental fiction is also associated with two more possibilities: skepticism about the narration of subjectivity, and an explicit, thematized fascination with the traditions and nature of the novel itself. That's four markers, in the enumeration I'm adopting here: theory and constraints, formatting, unconventional narratives, and lack of plot.
Some writers associate experimental fiction with just one or two of these. In "Experimental Fiction, Or What Is a Novel and How Do I Know?" (2018) Ralph Barry describes experimental fictions as "attempts to determine what a novel is, rather than as formal innovations or challenges to realist conventions." He praises some novels written between 2000 and 20o4, such Carole Maso’s AVA (2002), Steve Tomasula’s VAS (2004), and David Markson’s Vanishing Point (2004), because there "the predicament in the novel is also the predicament of the novel." But for my purposes, any combination of those is enough to label a novel "experimental."
Triangulating different senses of the novel
These elements can help articulate the distance I feel between "a good novel" as it is proposed by Big Kiss, Bye-Bye and "a good novel" in the senses that interest me. Bennett's book can be placed in the 21st century by the texture of the narrator's second thoughts and judgments, but it is not contemporaneous in its underlying project of exploring subjectivity, which has been part of fiction from James, Proust, and Woolf onward. Big Kiss, Bye-Bye is literary fiction in that it's "character-driven" and the plot and action are minimal. It's not experimental fiction because it's uninterested in being skeptical about conventional storylines, it is utterly uncritical about the project of narrating subjectivity, and it is free of any markers of awareness of the traditions of the novel itself.
For me, a contemporaneous novel has to show some skepticism about received forms of narrative (why not? It's been over a hundred years since the 19th century naturalistic novel was critiqued by modernism), some wariness of the project of describing inner states and subjectivity (that's been on writers' agendas since Stein, Camus, and Beckett), and some awareness of its place in the history of novels since modernism and postmodernism (that's been part of modernism since Joyce, Pound, and Eliot). Otherwise--what else is there to say?--the novel is entertainment or nostalgia.
August 8, 2025
It’s either a hit or miss for me with Claire Louise Bennett, and I’m afraid this was a bit of a miss. The beginning was very promising and even though I didn’t really understand what exactly was going on I was still very fascinated. Also Bennett just writes beautifully.
In the end I guess I admired this more than I really liked it though, and I had some trouble finishing it.
Thank you Penguin Random House US and Edelweiss for the ARC.
In the end I guess I admired this more than I really liked it though, and I had some trouble finishing it.
Thank you Penguin Random House US and Edelweiss for the ARC.
Did Not Finish
October 13, 2025I just couldn't sustain my interest in this. In theory it's the kind of novel I usually love, but this one fell flat. It felt both self-indulgent and overly invested in depicting the minutiae of the protagonist's everyday.
November 23, 2025
It was all I could do to finish this tedious, repetitive trope. It was no better than the writing in my own journal, unedited. Even I can come up with a decent poem from time to time. I became so weary of the constant complaining of the main character. I’m actually rather proud of having finished it. It was character building.
January 5, 2026
Een boekje over leven tussen twee werelden, met herinneringen aan voorbije relaties die als draden verbonden blijven in het hoofd van het hoofdpersonage.
Aan jou om het op te rollen tot een bolletje.
Aan jou om het op te rollen tot een bolletje.
December 13, 2025
There are books that you don't read: they settle in. "Big Kiss, Bye-Bye" (2025) belongs to that rare territory where literature does not advance through plot or characters in the classical sense, but through presence. What Bennett constructs here is not a story about a relationship; rather, it is the continuous exposition of consciousness in action, lucid, sometimes cruel, but alive, always thinking about itself as it lives.
Full review at Narrativa X: https://narrativax.blogspot.com/2025/...
Full review at Narrativa X: https://narrativax.blogspot.com/2025/...
January 12, 2026
Have you ever eaten popcorn? Stale popcorn? And you were so desperate to crunch something you just kept eating it, and still, even though you were the one making the sacrifice ingesting the stale sad half popped puffs, the universe still said oh, here, and puts a thick old sliver of kernel right between one of your back molars and your gumline? You can’t see it, you can’t get to it with your tongue or your fingernails, it’s just wedged in there good. Then, you’re late for class. Crap. You don’t have time for this kernel business, today’s pop quiz day and you have no idea what’s going to be on it and it’s your most miserably boring class and you hate it but you’ve got to get a quiz grade on the board because you don’t need to fail it, and you go into class and the professor looks at you in the eye and gets his fingernails out and just DRAGGGGGGGSSSSS THEM ALONG THE DUSTY GREEN CHALKBOARD. “YOURE LATE!!!!! YOUVE MISSED THE QUIZ!!!! ZERO!!!!” and he just scrapes and scrapes and scrapes staring at you. And now you feel like you’re going to have diarrhea. Again. And you’re not going to make it to the bathroom. and the boy you liked is staring at you, and he says aloud in front of the entire class “wow you look more awful than usual today.”
Anyway that’s what this book sorta felt like.
Anyway that’s what this book sorta felt like.
September 18, 2025
This book is bananas. Couldn't put it down.
April 9, 2025
A beautiful, addictive work of interiority like only Claire-Louise Bennett can write. She scrapes at something deeply buried, deeply human, and completely unnamable.
January 15, 2026
I didn't make it through either Claire-Louise Bennett's first novels. There's an appeal to her voice, but these are works in shambles. Boring and pleasing to the ear.
December 23, 2025
This is one of my least favorite kinds of book — the one where the author clearly has writing ability but has used it to write something so dull that even though it was only a few hours long, it was painfully boring. I’m not even sure what exactly it was about — a woman’s relationship with a man named Xavier, I guess. But nothing happened. I’m fine with character-driven novels, but the problem with this one is that none of the characters were anyone I cared about even a little bit. They were not remotely interesting. The only thing I am reasonably confident that I know about the first person narrator is that she is an author. I literally cannot imagine why anyone would think that this was a book that needed to be written.
June 7, 2025
stellar weekend book. claire louise bennett writes in such a particular brute force stream of consciousness style, which with Pond I found somewhat dense and challenging, but here propelled me straight through. she also does such a good job with the internal monologue of a woman who’s a little fussy about her domestic situation
October 5, 2025
Mrs Dalloway did not buy the flowers herself
September 28, 2025
Heel mooi.
Het bitterzoets, licht triests en meanderend beschouwende karakter van de roman 'Dikke kus, dag-dag' heb ik koesterend tot me genomen. De geestige, haast hardop nadenkende stem van de ik-persoon door auteur Claire-Louise Bennett doet me mijn eigen pogingen tot liefde, contact en het bewust verbreken daarvan overpeinzen. Het verlangen naar herstel, en ook de zoete bevestiging van de onmogelijkheid daarvan.
Het is zoals Bennett zelf zei, een avond in De Balie: er gebeurt altijd zoveel meer in mijn hoofd, in mijn gedachten, dan in mijn echte leven. Zo is het.
''Ik dacht aan de uitdrukking 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 en hoe ik tegen Xavier had gezegd op een ochtend lang geleden dat het zo genoemd werd omdat steeds weer seks hebben met iemand op een heel natuurlijke manier diepe en alomvattende gevoelens van liefde en zorg en trouw opwekt. 'We zijn letterlijk liefde aan het maken,' zei ik tegen hem. 'Daarom voelt het zo intens en ongelooflijk en heerlijk uitputtend. We maken het. Liefde.'''
Chapeau aan de vertalers voor het zo goed weten over te brengen van de sfeer van deze roman en de stem van de ik-persoon in de Nederlandse taal.
---
Tijdens het lezen
60
Wát een fijne vertelstem! En wat een humor en moedwil en misverstand in kleine dingen als een opdringerige lopende rekening voor bloemen. Bennet schrijft als een stroom van emoties en gedachten die nog niet helemaal plaats krijgen terwijl de hoofdpersoon ze uit, en dat werkt betoverend.
69-74
Meest opwindende bijna-seks-scène die ik misschien wel ooit heb gelezen.
108
'''Rijke mensen hebben graag het gevoel dat ze ergens mee wegkomen, hè?' zeg ik. 'Dat klopt. En ze komen met akelig veel weg,' zei hij.''
---
Boek gekocht, totebag met quote gekregen, aardige lange man van Koppernik bedankt voor het mogen bijwonen van een avond met Claire-Louise Bennett in De Balie, Amsterdam. Topavond!
Het bitterzoets, licht triests en meanderend beschouwende karakter van de roman 'Dikke kus, dag-dag' heb ik koesterend tot me genomen. De geestige, haast hardop nadenkende stem van de ik-persoon door auteur Claire-Louise Bennett doet me mijn eigen pogingen tot liefde, contact en het bewust verbreken daarvan overpeinzen. Het verlangen naar herstel, en ook de zoete bevestiging van de onmogelijkheid daarvan.
Het is zoals Bennett zelf zei, een avond in De Balie: er gebeurt altijd zoveel meer in mijn hoofd, in mijn gedachten, dan in mijn echte leven. Zo is het.
''Ik dacht aan de uitdrukking 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 en hoe ik tegen Xavier had gezegd op een ochtend lang geleden dat het zo genoemd werd omdat steeds weer seks hebben met iemand op een heel natuurlijke manier diepe en alomvattende gevoelens van liefde en zorg en trouw opwekt. 'We zijn letterlijk liefde aan het maken,' zei ik tegen hem. 'Daarom voelt het zo intens en ongelooflijk en heerlijk uitputtend. We maken het. Liefde.'''
Chapeau aan de vertalers voor het zo goed weten over te brengen van de sfeer van deze roman en de stem van de ik-persoon in de Nederlandse taal.
---
Tijdens het lezen
60
Wát een fijne vertelstem! En wat een humor en moedwil en misverstand in kleine dingen als een opdringerige lopende rekening voor bloemen. Bennet schrijft als een stroom van emoties en gedachten die nog niet helemaal plaats krijgen terwijl de hoofdpersoon ze uit, en dat werkt betoverend.
69-74
Meest opwindende bijna-seks-scène die ik misschien wel ooit heb gelezen.
108
'''Rijke mensen hebben graag het gevoel dat ze ergens mee wegkomen, hè?' zeg ik. 'Dat klopt. En ze komen met akelig veel weg,' zei hij.''
---
Boek gekocht, totebag met quote gekregen, aardige lange man van Koppernik bedankt voor het mogen bijwonen van een avond met Claire-Louise Bennett in De Balie, Amsterdam. Topavond!
April 2, 2026
I should have trusted my gut on this. I knew that a story about a situationship with an old man named Xavier would be unrewarding. That's if you'd even consider this a story. It's one of those 'no plot all vibes' kind of books, which I do enjoy – but a good one requires a certain energy and cadence, which this one lacks. There's a fine line between 'minimalist writing' and vapid drivel. This book comes across as sterile as my dentist, whom I adore, because she's really sweet (shout out to Dr. Sandra, ILU). But she is a dentist after all, with her ice-cold scalers and saliva ejector sucking the joy out of me. It's simultaneously uncomfortable, intrusive, yet boring. Also do you know the feeling you get when you look at a contemporary art installation made of metal scraps and human hair from barber shops? The dissociation, the confusion? I get the same feeling from this.
Not actual excerpt, but my general impression of the book:
'Do you like flowers?' he asked. 'Some small ones are nice,' I said. 'Ok, I got you some VIP subscription with the florist on a credit basis,' he said, 'make sure you get yourself some nice flowers.' 'OK thanks,' I said. 'Hey you didn't buy flowers', he said. 'I didn't want so many flowers', I replied. 'Well you need to buy flowers, the flowers aren't going to buy itself', he said. 'Yeah yeah I will...'
'Buy more flowers!', he reminded me, 'why is there so much credit left untouched?' 'Ok look, I did go to the florist, but it's actually very difficult to hit fifty pounds with every purchase', I said. 'Then you need more flowers, better flowers,' he said. 'Don't you like a big, beautiful bouquet?' 'This whole setup is starting to give me anxiety', I said. 'Do I seem old to you?' he asked. 'Dude you're fucking 75 or something', I said.
Actual passage lifted from the book:
'Alright then,' he said, 'if that's what you'd like. And do I come up then, or what happens, darling?' 'No,' I said, 'don't come right away. When I've said your name, I don't know, three or four times, you simply reply, "Yes?" '"Yes?"' he said. 'That's all?' 'That's right, "yes."' I said, 'and then I'll say, "Can you come here, love?"' 'And then I come?' he said. 'Yes,' I said, 'then you come.' 'Good,' he said. 'That's good, darling.' 'I'm going up now,' I said. 'OK, love,' he said.
I will again quote directly from the book to summarize itself: "Here it was, unequivocally inviting me to feel triumphant and optimistic, and I felt nothing but mild disdain – because while it is true that things aren't what they were, nothing has changed. There really is nothing at all to get excited about. After the swim we had decaf flat whites and some sticky pastries."
Not actual excerpt, but my general impression of the book:
'Do you like flowers?' he asked. 'Some small ones are nice,' I said. 'Ok, I got you some VIP subscription with the florist on a credit basis,' he said, 'make sure you get yourself some nice flowers.' 'OK thanks,' I said. 'Hey you didn't buy flowers', he said. 'I didn't want so many flowers', I replied. 'Well you need to buy flowers, the flowers aren't going to buy itself', he said. 'Yeah yeah I will...'
'Buy more flowers!', he reminded me, 'why is there so much credit left untouched?' 'Ok look, I did go to the florist, but it's actually very difficult to hit fifty pounds with every purchase', I said. 'Then you need more flowers, better flowers,' he said. 'Don't you like a big, beautiful bouquet?' 'This whole setup is starting to give me anxiety', I said. 'Do I seem old to you?' he asked. 'Dude you're fucking 75 or something', I said.
Actual passage lifted from the book:
'Alright then,' he said, 'if that's what you'd like. And do I come up then, or what happens, darling?' 'No,' I said, 'don't come right away. When I've said your name, I don't know, three or four times, you simply reply, "Yes?" '"Yes?"' he said. 'That's all?' 'That's right, "yes."' I said, 'and then I'll say, "Can you come here, love?"' 'And then I come?' he said. 'Yes,' I said, 'then you come.' 'Good,' he said. 'That's good, darling.' 'I'm going up now,' I said. 'OK, love,' he said.
I will again quote directly from the book to summarize itself: "Here it was, unequivocally inviting me to feel triumphant and optimistic, and I felt nothing but mild disdain – because while it is true that things aren't what they were, nothing has changed. There really is nothing at all to get excited about. After the swim we had decaf flat whites and some sticky pastries."
March 9, 2026
For years, since the release of her first novel Pond in 2015, Bennett was someone I was curious about but unsure of. I got around to it in 2025—ten years later. (This isn’t uncommon for me. I often circle new-to-me writers for years before finally getting to them). I loved it. Soon after, I read her second novel Checkout 19, and now I’ve read this, her third—and I think it’s bloody fantastic. She is now an auto-buy, auto-read author for me, and one of my favourite and most interesting contemporary writers.
Wonderful voice, impeccable rhythm. Bennett is so good in her attention to the everyday. I read fiction because it complicates the ordinary, and Bennett is a master at that. She makes the ordinary feel interesting, uncanny, and alive.
Wonderful voice, impeccable rhythm. Bennett is so good in her attention to the everyday. I read fiction because it complicates the ordinary, and Bennett is a master at that. She makes the ordinary feel interesting, uncanny, and alive.
Read
January 10, 2026Have you read the first three volumes of On the Calculation of Volume and are looking for more looping narratives that use repetition and circularity as a literary device? Well I have the book for you. If you haven’t read Pond please correct that immediately and then this and Checkout 19 will be waiting for you. Nobody writes like Claire-Louise Bennett. Here she puts a breathless stream of consciousness narration style into full effect. I’ll be talking a lot more about this book on my February new release wrap up video with Bri Lee.
February 15, 2026
this was very middle of the road for me - not necessarily bad, has a distinct style that i enjoy, but i don’t see it sticking in my memory. it’s a quick read with CLB’s trademark descriptions about the home and nature, but the relationship subplot didn’t pull me in. lacked the musings on reading/writing that i appreciated in checkout 19, and the solitude of pond is broken here. feels like it’s trying to make a point about intimacy while holding the reader at arm’s length, never giving enough context about the narrator’s relationship with xavier to let you form any real feelings about it. maybe this will eventually benefit from a reread like checkout 19 did but for now, it’s at the bottom of my CLB ranking.
March 8, 2026
now i know how my friends feel when i accidentally tell stories at the pub in the most long winded way possible
thanks claire-louise bennett for kickstarting my process of atonement
(idk if it’s a me problem but whatever story this was trying to tell went completely over my head. i came into it v intrigued based on the blurb but sadly found the writing style insufferably try-hard and self indulgent in a way that really wasn’t for me)
thanks claire-louise bennett for kickstarting my process of atonement
(idk if it’s a me problem but whatever story this was trying to tell went completely over my head. i came into it v intrigued based on the blurb but sadly found the writing style insufferably try-hard and self indulgent in a way that really wasn’t for me)
Read
October 21, 2025Dnf'd halfway through the second chapter. Absolutely do not recommend the audiobook version, her tone is obnoxiously evil. Get me far away from whatever is going on here!
November 17, 2025
enjoyed this, don't ask me what it was about though x
January 19, 2026
Rolled my eyes several times during this one and almost gave up on it. nope, nope, nope
Read
January 27, 2026Nah
October 24, 2025
tl;dr Bennett’s breakup novel is driven by her signature anxious, almost claustrophobic interiority, highlighting everything that is ridiculous in relationships
The events of Big Kiss, Bye-Bye would, in a book with a ‘properly’ structured plot arc, take place during the first half of a final act. Of course, the Goldsmiths Prize-shortlisted Claire-Louise Bennett is no ‘proper’ author; she’s made her name in the modern literary consciousness with her singularly strange sense of interiority, her narrators the prose-heir to Molly Bloom.
We meet our nameless narrator in the throes of post breakup estrangement with her boyfriend(?)/sugar daddy(?) Xavier (pronounced by Bennett in the audiobook as “Zah-vi-ayy”), wondering where to go from there. The rest of the novel traces the period of moving from her current house to a different, more remote location, and that helps to frame her emotional journey, or at least, as much of an emotional journey as Bennett can undergo with her signature style: huge, unbroken paragraphs that span pages and pages.
In Bennett’s novel Checkout 19, the interior monologue felt both expansive and hypnotic. In Big Kiss, the narrator is obsessive, anxious, and circular. The many woes of relationships at every stage, the before, the during, and especially the after, are highlighted by the narration. One of the inciting incidents of their breakup was Xavier’s reaction to one of the narrator’s novels, which connects to fundamental differences between how the two of them view and value art, and the world. There is tangible frustration present in the narration, but it’s also laced with a cheeky, droll kind of humor, like the music of Dry Cleaning. Whether she ponders the logistical and capitalistic implications of a flower arrangement allowance…
…the agonies of asynchronous communication…
…or whether or not a cash prize validates your art…
…Bennett’s never sounded more human, more relatable. There is also a hike the narrator takes with a friend in the book's final chapter, which unleashes some of the funniest writing that Bennett's ever put to paper.
Bennett’s portrayals of romance and sex are even further explorations of humanity, and more specifically, womanhood. Chapter Four contains a “love” scene that is, GoodReads reviews reflecting, quite polarizing, but I found it utterly hypnotic, especially while listening to Bennett’s audiobook narration at the same time. The eponymous large smooch is drawn out over two pages of an unbroken paragraph, consisting of staccato imperative commands. An implied “you” feels rare and special for Bennett, and enhances the sense of (or, the longing for) connection that pervades the narrator’s brain for the remainder of the page count.
There are echoes of Checkout 19 in this novel; I found the dream sequences reminiscent of that novel’s more digressive tendencies. There is also a section towards the end of Big Kiss that somewhat mirrors the opening of Checkout 19, which is told through the POV of “we” versus “I”. In Checkout 19, the narrator waxes (and waxes and waxes) poetic about how “we” check out way too many books “don’t we” than we can possibly read: an addiction of sorts, to possibility. The “we” in Big Kiss feels like a somber coda by comparison, and an invitation for the reader to feel the heartbreak alongside the narrator. Both feel universal, both feel genuine.
I think, for as avant garde or experimental Bennett can appear, there is an endearingly humanistic core to her writing that, at its best, feels inviting and real (hence her use of “we”). The post heartbreak limbo is something that is felt by all, and Bennett explores the universal in the only way she can: turning a single detail around in her head over and over and over hoping to find something new, only to realize she’s written a novel about it.
“I moved away a couple of months ago, I’m not sure if you know that.” I’m not sure why I wrote that I left two months ago when in fact it’s only been two weeks and two days. Saying two months makes me feel stronger, more detached and independent, perhaps because it conveys that life, my life, continues, that I exist outside of and separately to his mind. That I am not always where he thinks I am. Maybe Xavier isn’t where I think he is. Perhaps he has managed to get away at last. (pp. 85-86)
The events of Big Kiss, Bye-Bye would, in a book with a ‘properly’ structured plot arc, take place during the first half of a final act. Of course, the Goldsmiths Prize-shortlisted Claire-Louise Bennett is no ‘proper’ author; she’s made her name in the modern literary consciousness with her singularly strange sense of interiority, her narrators the prose-heir to Molly Bloom.
We meet our nameless narrator in the throes of post breakup estrangement with her boyfriend(?)/sugar daddy(?) Xavier (pronounced by Bennett in the audiobook as “Zah-vi-ayy”), wondering where to go from there. The rest of the novel traces the period of moving from her current house to a different, more remote location, and that helps to frame her emotional journey, or at least, as much of an emotional journey as Bennett can undergo with her signature style: huge, unbroken paragraphs that span pages and pages.
In Bennett’s novel Checkout 19, the interior monologue felt both expansive and hypnotic. In Big Kiss, the narrator is obsessive, anxious, and circular. The many woes of relationships at every stage, the before, the during, and especially the after, are highlighted by the narration. One of the inciting incidents of their breakup was Xavier’s reaction to one of the narrator’s novels, which connects to fundamental differences between how the two of them view and value art, and the world. There is tangible frustration present in the narration, but it’s also laced with a cheeky, droll kind of humor, like the music of Dry Cleaning. Whether she ponders the logistical and capitalistic implications of a flower arrangement allowance…
“Aren’t they beautiful?” I would write underneath. But it did get tiresome, having to spend fifty. One week I spent thirty and she said she’d carry the twenty over to the following visit, so that meant I had to spend seventy next time I came in and the next time I went in there weren’t many flowers on display that I liked especially, so then I was in a real quandary. (pp. 59-60)
…the agonies of asynchronous communication…
If I were to email him, he would, if he was going to reply, reply almost straight away. He checks his emails at least once a day. Unless something has changed. Unless he has died. (p. 38)
…or whether or not a cash prize validates your art…
I was promptly sent a cheque for £500. I was over the moon, yet when I told Xavier I was pretty cool about it, as if it were only to be expected because actually, despite what he thought, it was a very good story, and look, here was a cheque for five hundred that attested to its indisputable brilliance. (p. 49)
…Bennett’s never sounded more human, more relatable. There is also a hike the narrator takes with a friend in the book's final chapter, which unleashes some of the funniest writing that Bennett's ever put to paper.
Bennett’s portrayals of romance and sex are even further explorations of humanity, and more specifically, womanhood. Chapter Four contains a “love” scene that is, GoodReads reviews reflecting, quite polarizing, but I found it utterly hypnotic, especially while listening to Bennett’s audiobook narration at the same time. The eponymous large smooch is drawn out over two pages of an unbroken paragraph, consisting of staccato imperative commands. An implied “you” feels rare and special for Bennett, and enhances the sense of (or, the longing for) connection that pervades the narrator’s brain for the remainder of the page count.
There are echoes of Checkout 19 in this novel; I found the dream sequences reminiscent of that novel’s more digressive tendencies. There is also a section towards the end of Big Kiss that somewhat mirrors the opening of Checkout 19, which is told through the POV of “we” versus “I”. In Checkout 19, the narrator waxes (and waxes and waxes) poetic about how “we” check out way too many books “don’t we” than we can possibly read: an addiction of sorts, to possibility. The “we” in Big Kiss feels like a somber coda by comparison, and an invitation for the reader to feel the heartbreak alongside the narrator. Both feel universal, both feel genuine.
I think, for as avant garde or experimental Bennett can appear, there is an endearingly humanistic core to her writing that, at its best, feels inviting and real (hence her use of “we”). The post heartbreak limbo is something that is felt by all, and Bennett explores the universal in the only way she can: turning a single detail around in her head over and over and over hoping to find something new, only to realize she’s written a novel about it.
March 9, 2026
“De stilte, de stilte. Mijn hele leven heb ik het gevoel gehad dat er iets achter me aan zat en tot mijn eigen ergernis keek ik te vaak achterom en bleef dingen voor me uit zien, dieren die waren bevroren in een vreselijke houding. Getroffen. Natuurlijk wist ik niet waar ik heen ging. Mensen die me waren voorgegaan hadden dat wel geweten en ik geloof dat het hun spoor was dat ik volgde, binnen zekere grenzen. Tot aan de waterval-.”
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