A Girl is a Half-formed Thing

So, after Lionel Shriver's wonderful dissection of sibling relationships, let's continue with the whole brother-sister vibe with Eimear McBride's debut novel,  A Girl is a Half-formed Thing.

I jumped straight into the first chapter, carried along on a torrent of ingenious prose, tossed this way and that by the fierce current, arms flailing, tumbling over and over, trying to get my bearings. Every now and then catching a glimpse of the sky and the river bank, or an overhanging branch to grasp hold of and pull myself up.

This is the only way I can describe what it is like to be immersed in the wild rapids of Eimear McBride's writing, constantly looking for points of reference, then recognising where I am, only to be swept away again. This book is like nothing I've ever read before, and for her to conceive it and dare to write it this way is a virtuoso feat.

My first sense was one of panic, followed shortly by consternation: "Oh no, a novel with fractured syntax, surely not all the way through?" I feared I'd never be able to stick with her anguished stream of consciousness, but reader, I persisted; for it is compelling, and has far too many resonances with my own background, steeped in Irish Catholic guilt.

I can't say that it was an enjoyable experience, and if you are looking for a light holiday read, or are of a nervous, sensitive or depressive disposition, this isn't for you. The stripped down prose somehow enables her to say more than if she had put all the flesh on the literary bones, but I couldn't empathise with her girl at all, except in her childhood flashbacks of playing with her brother. Eventually, I was confused and disgusted by her inner dialogue, and her actions, feeling tainted by my acquaintance with her. Maybe this is the reaction McBride is looking for? It's a good job this girl and this novel are half-formed, because if the gaps were filled in, it would verge on pornographic voyeurism! I found myself worrying about the novelist's own mental state, like one worries about the well-being of actors who inhabit their characters' dark personalities on the stage every night. Just where did she get the inspiration for such a damaged soul?

I cannot recommend this book. I did not enjoy this book. However, I can recognise  and applaud her creative genius. McBride's prose has raw power, laying bare her characters' souls, eliciting the kind of connection I feel with truth and reality and being alive as when I read poetry. She is utterly fearless.

It is an amazing debut novel, full of literary chutzpah, expressing the best and the worst that the human spirit is capable of. I just found it too uncomfortable staring into the abyss, spectating as a poor, damaged, lost soul spirals into anguish and despair. By the end I had RSI from watching her press the self-destruct button once too often.

So, a novel novel, and one that has already garnered The Bailey's Women's Prize for Fiction 2014, against some very stiff competition. It's not The Emperor's New Clothes. It is the real deal, but a deal that lost its appeal quite quickly for this particular reader.