I keep coming back to Cusk's writing. I think I've read four of her books this year, and when I do I am, to be honest, always unsure as to why. It's not that she's not a great writer, because even if you don't like her work, it's pretty clear that she is. It's just that she writes from a place I barely recognise. Other people talk about how good she is at writing 'interiority' and there is that, but it always strikes me that the books read like anguish but from a really long way away. I feel like I'm looking down the wrong end of a telescope, struggling to focus. There is a detachment and passivity here that floats on the surface of what are clearly deeply felt emotions, particularly in this book. Her work reminds me of the paintings of Celia Paul. I'm not sure I love it, but I'm definitely fascinated by it. As the non-fiction account of the aftermath of a divorce this is not the shocking invasion of privacy I thought it might be given some critical responses to it. It seemed like an exercise in distance more than anything else.