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Sara Baume

A Line Made by Walking

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Shortlisted for the Goldsmiths Prize “Baume is a writer of outstanding grace and style. She writes beyond the time we live in.”—Colum McCann “Baume leaves nothing unturned in this dark and sometimes funny excavation of the human heart.” —Minneapolis Star-Tribune “Fascinating, because of the cumulative power of the precise, pleasingly rhythmic sentences, and the unpredictable intelligence of the narrator’s mind.” —Guardian Struggling to cope with urban life—and life in general—Frankie, a twenty-something artist, retreats to her family’s rural house on “turbine hill,” vacant since her grandmother’s death three years earlier. It is in this space, surrounded by countryside and wild creatures, that she can finally grapple with the chain of events that led her here—her shaky mental health, her difficult time in art school—and maybe, just maybe, regain her footing in art and life. As Frankie picks up photography once more, closely examining the natural world around her, she reconsiders seminal works of art and their relevance. With “prose that makes sure we look and listen,”* Sara Baume has written an elegant novel that is as much an exploration of wildness, the art world, mental illness, and community as it is a profoundly beautiful and powerful meditation on life. *Atlantic “Baume’s writing is near-faultless.” —Financial Times “A novel of uniqueness, wonder, recognition, poignancy, truth-speaking, quiet power, strange beauty, and luminous bedazzlement.” — Joseph O’Connor
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300 trykte sider
Udgivelsesår
2017
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    I am only ashamed of all the knowledge and ideas which passed me by while I was busy obsessing about circumferences; about a body I never even liked in the first place.
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    What is it about crying? As if my body believes that squeezing all its salt out might somehow quell the sadness. As if sadness is a parasite which suckles on sodium chloride.
  • mpotahar citeretsidste år
    Twenty-six is not significant in a good way. It’s the age at which I become irrevocably closer to thirty than twenty. I wake on the morning of my birthday, and think at once: now I know, with certainty, that it’s too late to be a genius.

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