REVIEW: "Swimming Home" by Deborah Levy

I like books. But since starting a Literature course at university I’ve found it harder and harder to find a writer who makes me say “Yes! This is what a novel should be!”.

In fact, about a year ago I had little concept of there being any debate about what novels should or shouldn’t be. Books were books, and I either liked them or I didn’t.

This change in attitude saddens me a little and I’ve lost a few well-thumbed friends along the way. But now when I appreciate books it’s on a whole new level. I’m harder to impress, but it’s harder to change my mind once a book sticks. To continue this metaphor: Deborah Levy has rolled her novel Swimming Home in super-glue and stapled it to my forehead.

This may seem a melodramatic attitude, and I’ve tried to keep it subtle. The book has been on our coffee table for a week now and sometimes finds its mysterious way into my housemates’ doorways. They’ve yet to take the bait and with such an innocuous cover I can’t really blame them.

Swimming Home tells the story of Kitty Finch and her fiery entrance into the Jacobs’s family holiday. Kitty claims a mix up with villa bookings, but her true intentions towards father and poet Joe Jacobs soon ram a chisel into the fissures already woven within the family. Set in France, Levy’s description is divine. Her talent at unfurling a scene is a lot calmer and more controlled than the reaction it evokes. The characters are as enchanting and intriguing as any, but what really solidifies the novel’s brilliance is the kaleidoscope of viewpoints Levy so masterfully orchestrates. It feels as though the author is guiding you at every point, so the sudden change towards the end of the novel is powerful in its ability to unsettle.

Oh no. It seems I have oversold…but my passion for this novel far outstretched any expectations I had for it, and I hope you have a similar experience. Swimming Home is, unusually, a book that can be enjoyed both for plot and for artistic value –so don’t dismiss it just because you aren’t doing a Literature degree. If you do you’ll miss the bit where an old woman attempts to flirt with a hippy by the beach, and we can’t be having that.

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