There’s no other writer like Rachel Cusk in my life—well, maybe Deborah Levy—whose work I am so desperate to love, and yet I’ve never closed one of her books feeling completely satisfied.
It’s a me thing, I know. I’m not here to rain on anyone’s parade—ha. There’s just an abstractness to Cusk’s work that doesn’t resonate with my simpler tastes. I catch glimpses of her artistry, obviously. I’m not completely blind. And I enjoyed a lot of “Parade,” as an examination of artists and the multitude of constraints and pressures they face in order to create it. But the further I got into “Parade,” the more I felt like a buoy lost at sea.
I suppose I just like my stories firmly contoured, Cusk refuses to conform to structure. I admire her for it, for sure, but I think I’m at a point now where I just have to admit, it’s not for me.
Written By Sime 