Hamnet | Maggie O'Farrell

    She grows up feeling wrong, out of place, too dark, too tall, too unruly, too opinionated, too silent, too strange.  She grows up with the awareness that she is merely tolerated, an irritant, useless, that she does not deserve love, that she will need to change herself substantially, crush herself down if she is to be married. She grows up, too, with the memory of what it meant to be properly loved, for what you are, not what you ought to be. 
    There is just enough of this recollection alive, she hopes, to enable her to recognize it if she meets it again.  And if she does, she won't hesitate. She will seize it with both hands, as a means of escape, a means of survival. She won't listen to the protestations of others, their objections, their reasoning.  This will be her chance, her way through the narrow hole at the heart of the stone, and nothing will stand in her way. (49-50)

Over the next while, she observes him carefully, in the manner of a doctor watching a patient.  She sees how he cannot sleep at night but then cannot rouse himself in the morning. How he rises at midday, groggy, whey-faced, his mood flat and grey.  The smell of him is worse then, the sour, rank scent soaked into his clothing, his hair.  His father comes to the door, shouting and bawling, telling him to stir himself, to put in a day's work.  She sees how she, Agnes, must remain calm, steady, must make herself bigger, in a way, to keep the house on an even keel, not to allow it to be taken over by this darkness, to square up to it, to shield Susanna from it, to seal off her own cracks, not to let it in. (158)

Agnes lifts her chin a little higher. There is no disgrace, says the straightness of her back.  There is no problem in our marriage, says the proud, outward curve of her middle.  There is no failing in the business, say her husband's shining boots. (176)

She presses the muscle, presses and presses, as if she might draw juice from it.  She senses mostly noise, at first: numerous voices, calling in loud and soft and threatening and entreating tones.  His mind is crammed with a cacophony, with strife, with overlapping speech and cries and yells and yelps and whispers, and she doesn't know how he stands it, and there are the other women, she can feel them, their loosened hair, their sweat-marked handprints, and it sickens her but she keeps holding on, despite wanting to let go, to push him away, and there is also fear, a great deal of fear, of a journey, something about water, perhaps a sea, a desire to seek a faraway horizon, to stretch his eyes to it, and beneath all this, behind it all, she finds something, a gap, a vacancy, an abyss, which is dark and whistling with emptiness, and at the bottom of it she finds something she has never felt before: his heart, that great, scarlet muscle, banging away, frantic and urgent in its constancy, inside his chest.  It feels so close, so present, it's almost as if she could reach out and touch it.
He is still looking at her when she releases her grip. Her hand nestles, inactive, inside his.
"What did you find?" he says to her. 
"Nothing," she replies. "Your heart."
"That's nothing?" He says, pretending to be outraged.  "Nothing? How could you say such a thing?"
She smiles at him, a faint smile, but he snatches her hand to his chest.

"And it's your heart," he says, " not mine."
(265)

I am dead:

Thou livest;

... draw thy breath in pan,

To tell my story

--Hamlet, Act V, scene ii

(215)

***

5/5. I'm in awe that anyone could write something so stunning and tragic. One of my top 5 favorite books. I promised no spoilers on this blog, so I won't say more. But WOW, wow wow.

If you've read this book-- did you feel the same? Let's chat!