The back cover says that this the first of a series of twelve books each one by a different writer who writes about one month. Annelies Verbeke writes here about September drawing on about fifteen years of her diaries (one year is missing).
It is an incredibly short book, an essay. The printed thing looks to be just over a hundred pages but that includes a taster for the next book and a few pages given over to numbered squares each representing one day of the month, perhaps one day there will be a series of stickers to stick over each of those squares, in the mean time however there is an essay about sixty pages long, I found it all to brief to get my teeth into.
The idea I found more intriguing than the execution. At points there seem to be patterns emerging - when Verbeke has a book released she visits three towns, has an interview, and a photoshoot. She refers to herself in the third person as 'the author' which puts me to mind of Julius Caesar and Asterix, the thought gives me a smile. She sees in the pages of the diary films that she went to see in the cinema and which she has forgotten entirely, sees the reminders of visits of friends, and of a bad romantic relationship .
She refers to the eleventh of September attacks in the USA and mentions Isaac Babel taking his school entrance exams twice, the first time a family bribes the school to get their own child in and their is no room left on the classroom bench for little Isaac, so he has to go through the whole process again the following year. I remember that took place in Odesa and the story ends with his memory of a pogrom and his then idealisation of a Tsarist army officer sitting on his horse, wearing beautiful yellow gloves, who has his soldiers stand by while Jewish homes and businesses are burnt. All of which puts me in mind of the current war. Implicitly there is a hint that we live our lives as we can but mostly don't find them particularly memorable. She mentions getting ready for first days at school of which I don't remember any.
Montaine's essays are very loose and apparently free-wheeling, but they can feel profound and personal; perhaps I just wasn't in the mood, but I didn't get a sense of Annelies Verbeke's Septembers.