The Summer without men by Siri Hustvedt

Another one of my favourite writers; she of What I Loved (which was creepy and awesome and confusing) and The Sorrows of an American (unnerving and suspensful) but this sadly, was not my favourite book. I find her writing in this to be a little overwrought, or maybe over-thought, like she was trying to prove how smart and erudite sh

e is. Making a massive assumption on someone whom I’ve never met, I’d put money on her being fiercely intelligent, likes to fight with her husband after a glass of red too many and slightly high-strung. I like these women but she seems high maintenance (is this being sexist? I’m sure I could say the same of male writers – Franzen would be slightly off kilter for sure. Eggers, definitely). Can you make this judgement based on their writing? I point to cases of some other favourite female writers and say yes: I’m looking at you Joan Didion and Lily Brett. Anyway, back to the book. Man cheats on wife of many years with a young Frenchie, woman rents a house out of town and teaches a writing class for teenage girls, makes friends with the young neighbour and her family, gets visits by daughter, sees shrink, husband asks for wifey back at the end. No-one gets blown up, there is not much action, just the slow breakdowns and build-ups of human relationships. The whole thing is a little bit plodding, a little bit “let’s spend time in psychoanalysis land”, but there are rays of sunshine. Like when she as the teacher spends time with the bratty teenagers as they turn on each other (bought back many memories) and her friendship with her mum’s subversive nursing home buddy Abigail, who reminded me of my Gran. The rest is….mas o menos.