weekend Charlotte Wood
An Australian novelist’s novel of glory in old age
Three women in their 70s get together to clean up their deceased friend Sylvie’s beach house. They are: Jude, a Type A perfectionist who used to work as a restaurant manager, is now a “domestic woman”. The writer Wendy resembled Susan Sontag in his heyday and is now increasingly forgotten. And Adele, a struggling actor whose partner has just kicked her out, left nothing in her name, leaving a terrible sly self-awareness. It was 50 years later that people began to look down on you. Being a certain age, you are not affected by insomnia or insomnia, but what you want more than what you lost, where you are in your career, why your lover does not return text messages, children, insomnia, boobs and body , The state of friendship, etc. are all sticking to the element of femininity, not old age (of course, these two conditions must coexist).
Jude, Wendy, and Adele have problems like we have. But that doesn’t mean that the novel isn’t soaked in symbolism. Wendy’s older dog Finn staggers in almost every scene that is weak, confused, and incontinent. At the beginning of the weekend, Jude looks at him through the kitchen window and recalls, “There is no glass window between them.” “This was what happened to animals, and to humans he all failed, collapsed, and collapsed. It was pathetic.”
Then there’s the setting – a coastal town where temporary people live, Bittou, “Holidaymakers or the people who served them”, a kind of Purgatory on the Gold Coast, sunscreen and sea breeze. Nestled on a hillside, Sylvie’s house is equipped with a mechanical elevator that rattles like a broken Jacob’s ladder as a woman and her various luggage climb up and down the hill. There, they perform a Marie Kondo-style purge of what Sylvie left behind, foreseeing the release of their long-buried dissatisfaction with each other.
What gives this novel its brilliant, refreshing, candid spine is that each of its protagonists is still alive (often miserably) and less afraid of death than irrelevant. I read the weekend of the week. Eighty-five-year-old Dame Judi Dench became the oldest person on the cover of British Vogue, and soon after, a photo of 70-year-old Vera Wang wearing a sports bra became a hot topic. When I emphasized these words, it seemed like there was a great coincidence about everything I didn’t lose. Please do not sink. She wanted more. “
Best Paperback of the Month: Alan Davies, Monique Roffey, and the “Almost Perfect” Ghost Story | Book
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