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272 pages, Hardcover
Published January 1, 2022
I have found in my relatively short experience that life has a way of giving me springs and autumns, one thing always following another and all seeming to vanish as quickly as they come. Ephemerality is what everything feels like in the end. I think I got the idea from Mum when she told me the stories of our family, the stories that had shaped us and brought us here. What the relatives she spoke about all seemed to share was a life that ebbed and flowed around them, one tide always giving way to another, so they were caught and pulled in different directions, every move they tried to make for themselves beset and foiled by some countermovement, so no matter what they tried to do to change their worlds, they always seemed to end up back where they started. Back on the farm. What became of their lives seemed to be out of their hands. They were just drawn through time by deep, irresistible currents.
There are different kinds of good writing. Technical skill – good prosody, pace, description and so on – counts for a lot, as does the ability to tell a story well. But there is another quality I look for, and it can’t be learned at writing classes. It shines out when characters are granted their complexity and handled with empathy and compassion, and it comes, I think, from being a decent human being. Judging by this tolerant and insightful debut, Norris has it in spades
I’ve known there was another life, a ghost life, happening just under the surface of my own – a boy I’d left behind in the wood who never grew up, who no one ever went back to rescue, who couldn’t even be reached if someone tried to find him now. Like a record playing in another room. That’s what became of my childhood. I’ve never done anything about it. I’ve never gone back, or sought out a therapist to talk things through. The only concession I’ve ever made to the memory of that boy is that every time I move out of a flat or a house and into a new one, I always make sure that I leave a day early. I’ll spend the day moving boxes into the new place, and then after dinner on the day I move, I’ll go back to the place I’ve left, and let myself in with the key I’ve kept, and check the rooms and cupboards one last time. I’ve rescued some useful things that way. A jacket I left on the back of a bedroom door. A scarf on a coat hanger. A crystal glass that belonged to my grandmother. What I’ve always hoped I’ll find, though, is the real original self I left behind. But that boy is never there waiting for me.
As I try to go forwards through the story of my life, the feeling takes hold that somehow I am going in the wrong direction, that really what I want to be doing is going back, not flicking through the picture book towards its ending. I can’t find it, the secret of myself, the person I’m supposed to be; the key is lost, and I feel it must lie deeper, I must have lost it earlier, it must be buried longer ago. What I am trying to fight against is a sense that I regret having lived my life, that I would almost rather my life had never happened than for so much of it to be lost and unrecoverable. I don’t want to feel like that. I want to feel like I’m glad about where I’m going.
The Welsh have a word for this feeling, hiraeth, but there’s no word in English. And that’s strange, really, when you think about it. Because what country could be more haunted, more crowded by the remnants and the echoes of lost worlds than rain-soaked England? How could a feeling be more English than this one? It is a failure of our language, a failure of our culture, not to know how to speak of the things left behind