We never quite make it to Battersea Park. By the time the narrator and his husband reach its gates, it’s time for them, and us, to return home.
The narrator is a writer, living just that little bit too far away from the park, inspired by eeriness of the Covid lockdown regime but also horribly blocked. All kinds of approaches to fiction beckon to him in his plight, and we are treated to not a few of them here.
Each section of this novel embodies a literary device. We begin, maddeningly, in ‘The Iterative Mood’ (‘I would have’, ‘She would normally have’ ,‘They used to’) and we end in ‘Entrelacement’, with its overlapping stories offering strange resolutions to this polyphonous, increasingly surreal account of lockdown. Every technique the narrator employs is an attempt to witness strange times using ordinary words.
Philip Hensher didn’t just pluck this idea out of the void.
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