Cressida Connolly

Something sensational to read in the train

Sophie Ratcliffe’s The Lost Properties of Love is full of interesting questions. What, for instance, was Anna Karenina reading on the train?

issue 09 February 2019

Any memoir is a form of double-entry book-keeping, in which what has been lost is reckoned against what has been gained. It’s always easier to fill in the ‘lost’ column, since boasting is discouraged; sadness gets more attention, too, as it’s generally supposed to be more interesting than contentment.

Sophie Ratcliffe includes an actual list of her losses in this wonderful and highly individual book. The items include an Australian opal her uncle gave her, a purse snatched from her at St Petersburg railway station, her father, and the exact memory of a lover’s face. ‘Not that your face was much to write home about,’ she adds. ‘Not that I could write home about it in any case. Happily married women don’t write home about other men’s faces.’ No. Perhaps what they might do instead is write a book, recording that face in plain sight.

I began The Lost Properties of Love on the 7.48

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