("Banishing Verona")

[fiefoe]

There are plenty of literary novels with (sometimes tenuous) Italian connections. Obviously this works - if Margot Livesey had named this "Banishing Savannah" instead, (lovely and creepy as Savannah might be,) I doubt I would have taken it home with me.

Unfortunately and somewhat predictably, this is one of those enervating novels. They are usually excellently wrought around daily nothings, the characters usually sport their eccentricities artfully, and their conviction of love comes out of nowhere. Here, on page 6: 'A sentence appeared in Zeke's head: I'd like to tie you to the bed. How did that get there, inside his brain, about this woman?' I usually trust the author, but this is asking a bit too much.

These books can hold one's attention to the wispy/ironic end if one's not careful. The dessert equivalent is soufflé - deucedly hard to make, gorgeous to look at, but in the final analysis, not my cup of tea. (Yep, mixing metaphors. I'm feeling daring.) I knew what I was getting into when I picked up the book, but I again overestimated my affection for good writing alone.

• (The lovers just met.) He was no longer certain she was ugly, only that he wanted to keep looking to make sure. But in the empty room he did not dare. This must be why people had furniture, not just for comfort but, like clothing, for camouflage.
• And then - surely all the buses of London rose an inch into the air - she leaned forward and pressed her lips, gently, to his. (on page 8)
• By the end of five minutes, he was holding on to himself, a kite on a gusty day.
  
• Who could believe that furnishings and objects were inanimate when you saw how, ownerless, they lost their luster? And what of us, he thought,... Aren't we too diminished when nothing reflects our spirits?
  
• But (his mother) rolled over him like fog: inescapable.