*Leo Tolstoy, in “Anna Karenina” (1878)
Hephzibah Anderson opened her review of If Only I Could Tell You in The Guardian of 26.2.19 with:
“If there’s one group of professionals more indebted to the unhappy family than psychiatrists, it’s novelists.”
It’s a very favourable review, making me want to read the novel – “Without the padding of extraneous scene-setting, her psychological acuity becomes all the more winding” – and its author Hannah Beckerman has as her pinned Tweet: “All your writing life – amidst the anxiety & neuroses & failures – you hope for a glowing review on @GuardianBooks.
Today, that wish came true.
Thank-you @HephzibahA for a review I *might* just have to frame & put on the wall in my study.”
I’ve also enjoyed reading about Beckerman’s walk along “The Holborn route” with Peter Ackroyd for the Financial Times of 25.4.14:
“…We’re making relatively slow progress so far. Ackroyd recently tore a ligament in his leg which makes walking fast – or long distances – painful: a cruel trick of nature for someone who loves pounding the streets of the city.
“My hobby was always walking. That’s what I did most of. Experiencing the sensation and the atmosphere of it and getting the pavement underneath your feet is very good therapy.”
I wonder whether such therapy is necessary when you’re producing as many words a year as Ackroyd.”
I’m still pondering that last sentence.
