A new work of philosophical suspense. Penny, an artist, has lived in the same apartment for decades, surrounded by the artifacts and keepsakes of her long life. She is resigned to the mundane rituals of old age, until things start to slip. Before her longtime partner passed away years earlier, provisions were made, unbeknownst to her, for a room in a unique long-term care residence, where Penny finds herself after one too many “incidents.” Initially, surrounded by peers, conversing, eating, sleeping, looking out at the beautiful woods that surround the house, all is well. She even begins to paint again. But as the days start to blur together, Penny—with a growing sense of unrest and distrust—starts to lose her grip on the passage of time and on her place in the world. Is she succumbing to the subtly destructive effects of aging, or is she an unknowing participant in something more unsettling? At once compassionate and uncanny, told in spare, hypnotic prose, Iain Reid’s genre-defying third novel explores questions of conformity, art, productivity, relationships, and what, ultimately, it means to grow old.
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0This was trippy and funky and surprisingly insightful for a horror book (oops I didn't realize it was a horror novel). Some thought-provoking parts about death and the meaning of life. But also it was creepy and I love a good unreliable narrator. I lowkey still feel confused by the ending but I'm always confused by books whoops.
* I have all these records, but I don’t listen to music anymore. At one time, it wasn’t just stuff. It all meant so much to me. All of it. Marrow that has turned to fat.
* I’m starting to lose the intimacy of my memories. Most of my memories have stopped feeling like my own. I don’t believe them wholeheartedly the way I used to, and they don’t carry the same heft they once did.
* “Your paintings change?” “For me, they all do, That’s what I mean by a transfer. At the start, I have an idea for it, my own idea, certain feelings I’m trying to convey, but at some point, it feels like I give away possession of it, or lose it, and then it’s its own thing. I keep seeing it differently.” “The work changes as you change?” “Yes, it does. Truly. I’m different, and so are my paintings each time I see them. It’s an ongoing disruption over time. It’s purely emotional. My perspective changes, and that’s what painting is about. Perspective and ways of seeing. I hope that doesn’t sound too pretentious.”
* I enjoyed each stage of a piece equally. Except finishing. I could never finish. I hated trying to complete a piece. It seemed to final. I used to wonder if they had to be finished at all. “Of course they do,” he said. “You can’t start something new without finishing. You have to learn to make decisions and be ruthless with yourself.” Why couldn’t it always be a work in progress? Why not let it remain forever unfolding? To keep that transfer going. Framing a finished painting on a wall was never my objective.
* “I guess everyone would like more time,” I say. “I might have given a different answer before I got here. But more time would be good now.” I think about what more time would actually mean. For me, Pete, Ruth, Hilbert. More sitting around. More eating. More sleeping. I would get to paint more. But what would the work mean if it was endless? What would a relationship mean if it kept going forever? What would a day be if it didn’t end? More and more and more and more and more. It’s what everyone wants, so she says. “What if time was all you had? Maybe if we had all the time in the world, life would start to feel meaningless. Or worse.
* I never thought about how his desires would wane over time while his traits and mannerisms would intensity. As passions decrease, character is revealed.
* “This lie is one about life, that we need more of it, that we need to be more productive, produce more, that it has to be longer, that death is the enemy. It’s not true. Infinity is a breathtaking mystery, or so I used to believe. Now I know it’s not. Infinity is stagnant. It doesn’t expand. It can’t. It’s just immeasurable. It’s not a mystery, it’s simply endless.
* The tragedy of life isn’t that the ned comes. That’s the gift. Without an end, there’s nothing. THere’s no meaning. Do you see? A moment isn’t a moment. A moment is an eternity. A moment should mean something. It should be everything.
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