Frankie is falling. Slowly, her world is
being leeched of colour, dried and crisped as fallen leaves. The effort of
trying not to cry and fold up within herself is becoming suffocating. An uninspired
artist drowning in the hubbub of Dublin, Frankie reaches out to her saviour;
her mother. Returning to her childhood home, in seek of comfort or
understanding, of meaning or routine, Frankie finds none. In a nostalgic bid to
rediscover herself, and her art, she relocates to her grandmother’s bungalow,
empty now and reluctant to find a new owner following the death of its last
occupant.
Among dusty knickknacks and fading
memories, Frankie fights to stop herself being weighed down by a whirlpool of
despair; she attempts to rebel against indifference. All the while, she
embraces her own otherness or lack thereof, fuelled by longings and memories past.
She knows that she is on a path to a conclusion – an end – yet what form this
will take remains to be seen.
Dealing with depression, memory and one’s
reason for being, it seems strange that such weighty topics can provide for
such beautiful imagery, yet such is Sara Baume’s skill. She’s a magician.
Baume’s works require much contemplation. Carefully
arranged and powerfully hypnotic, she moulds words into what can only be seen as
timeless art. There is no singular aspect which makes A Line Made by Walking a
masterpiece (for that it is), it is a puzzle of smoothly interlocking pieces
which reveal a stunning image. I pity the reader who does not read this book.
Such was my love for this book (true fan
girling, no doubt) that I re-read the last chapter, desperate to wring out
every last drop of literary goodness, to keep the story with me. And I realised
that you could re-read this book many times and each time find something new;
something hidden beneath the lines that march across the pages. The story
evolves with the reader, revealing itself delicately yet forcefully. If that
isn’t great literature, then I don’t know what is.
A Line Made by Walking by Sara Baume is
published by William Heinemann London, an imprint of Penguin Random House.
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