After some impressive accolades for her 2011 collection of short stories, The Rule of Last Clear Chance, Judith McCormack has published her first novel, Backspring. The novel follows a trio of characters who are each grappling with their respective identities in relation to their professions, and centres on an architect named Eduardo, his partner Genevieve – a mycologist (studying fungi) – and a mutual friend named Patrick.
Early in Backspring Eduardo is caught in an explosion and fire while walking through a market. The explosion and the fallout are the catalyst for ensuing spirals of self-doubt and crisis for the three characters. As Eduardo becomes increasingly distant, Genevieve and Patrick find themselves drifting toward one another.
McCormack is particularly adept at using the framework of art and philosophy to show her characters’ inner lives. Music, astronomy, design, and theatre provide nuanced backdrops for the decisions made in the novel. Genevieve plays in a string quartet in her spare time, Patrick expounds about the constellations, and design is a religion for Eduardo.
As the novel unfolds a pattern in the scenes where characters hold forth about their deepest passions reveals a chronic disconnect between them. McCormack has a tendency to have one character explain something in heartfelt detail while the listener almost always reverts to uninterested jokes. Though this can feel a bit tedious, it reveals the one-sidedness of each of the character’s lives. They don’t seem to hear one another or know how to listen. Appropriately, it is the way that McCormack continually shifts between external and internal dialogue that satisfyingly counterbalances the apathy that overtakes her characters.
The internal voices of the characters address one another directly. Though these exchanges are concretely in the non-verbal and imaginative realm, they count more than the “real” dialogue does. McCormack’s use of this inner telepathy is interesting, but it isn’t until the novel begins to wrap up that it is given free rein. Once the unspoken words are flying more freely, the novel and characters find greater definition.
In Backspring, McCormack shows a special dexterity in subject matter (the pursuits of her characters) but also in her phrasing and imagery. For example, when Genevieve is being shown a particularly gorgeous Japanese bowl McCormack beautifully unfolds the moment:
“Wabi-sabi is an aesthetic—a way of looking at things. About the beauty of things that are flawed. A cherishing of imperfection, of transience.”
Genevieve feels as if she has just discovered her side of an argument. You see? she wants to say to Eduardo. But see what?
McCormack freely allows her characters these moments of repose, letting sometimes mundane moments ring out and echo back in more interesting ways.
But for all the introspection and attention to unseen currents some passages of the novel felt a bit distant from what was most interesting for me as a reader. For example, Eduardo recalls being taken to see a deep chasm as a boy. He and his family have been brought to see the river below. Rather than dwelling on the spectacle and the weighty image of the abyss, Eduardo (and McCormack) focus on an impressive bridge that sits astride the gorge. The bridge and the author’s handling of the moment are a wonderfully complicated set of factors that convey what is great and perhaps also overlooked in Backspring. As McCormack relates the moment, she hastily moves past the image of the gorge, transferring the interest to his family and separating him from the image:
Look at that rock, said his father.
Look at that water, said his mother.
Look at that bridge, said Eduardo.
How did they make it?
Given the personal difficulty that Eduardo is undergoing as this memory floats to the surface I couldn’t help wondering about the abyss. The bridge is a beautiful image, but feels like it is only half of what matters about the moment.
The novel is a character study that brushes up against some weighty themes but perhaps takes on more strands than it needs to. McCormack explores classification versus the unclassifiable, art versus pragmatism, Anglo versus Francophone versus everyone else, and many threads that deal with what it means to be devoted. The breadth of disciplines and interests explored here can sometimes pull you away just when it is getting interesting and meaty.
Overall Backspring is a well-written and smart novel that unfolds many moments of profound and subtle beauty. McCormack’s treatment of details and prose are refreshing, confident, and attentive. Biblioasis has done a marvelous job of presenting the book, and Kate Hargreaves’ cover design is both eye-catching and finely tuned to the tone of the novel.
Biblioasis | 264 pages | $19.95| paper | ISBN# 978-1927428870
‘Backspring’ by Judith McCormack
Book Reviews
After some impressive accolades for her 2011 collection of short stories, The Rule of Last Clear Chance, Judith McCormack has published her first novel, Backspring. The novel follows a trio of characters who are each grappling with their respective identities in relation to their professions, and centres on an architect named Eduardo, his partner Genevieve – a mycologist (studying fungi) – and a mutual friend named Patrick.
Early in Backspring Eduardo is caught in an explosion and fire while walking through a market. The explosion and the fallout are the catalyst for ensuing spirals of self-doubt and crisis for the three characters. As Eduardo becomes increasingly distant, Genevieve and Patrick find themselves drifting toward one another.
McCormack is particularly adept at using the framework of art and philosophy to show her characters’ inner lives. Music, astronomy, design, and theatre provide nuanced backdrops for the decisions made in the novel. Genevieve plays in a string quartet in her spare time, Patrick expounds about the constellations, and design is a religion for Eduardo.
As the novel unfolds a pattern in the scenes where characters hold forth about their deepest passions reveals a chronic disconnect between them. McCormack has a tendency to have one character explain something in heartfelt detail while the listener almost always reverts to uninterested jokes. Though this can feel a bit tedious, it reveals the one-sidedness of each of the character’s lives. They don’t seem to hear one another or know how to listen. Appropriately, it is the way that McCormack continually shifts between external and internal dialogue that satisfyingly counterbalances the apathy that overtakes her characters.
The internal voices of the characters address one another directly. Though these exchanges are concretely in the non-verbal and imaginative realm, they count more than the “real” dialogue does. McCormack’s use of this inner telepathy is interesting, but it isn’t until the novel begins to wrap up that it is given free rein. Once the unspoken words are flying more freely, the novel and characters find greater definition.
In Backspring, McCormack shows a special dexterity in subject matter (the pursuits of her characters) but also in her phrasing and imagery. For example, when Genevieve is being shown a particularly gorgeous Japanese bowl McCormack beautifully unfolds the moment:
“Wabi-sabi is an aesthetic—a way of looking at things. About the beauty of things that are flawed. A cherishing of imperfection, of transience.”
Genevieve feels as if she has just discovered her side of an argument. You see? she wants to say to Eduardo. But see what?
McCormack freely allows her characters these moments of repose, letting sometimes mundane moments ring out and echo back in more interesting ways.
But for all the introspection and attention to unseen currents some passages of the novel felt a bit distant from what was most interesting for me as a reader. For example, Eduardo recalls being taken to see a deep chasm as a boy. He and his family have been brought to see the river below. Rather than dwelling on the spectacle and the weighty image of the abyss, Eduardo (and McCormack) focus on an impressive bridge that sits astride the gorge. The bridge and the author’s handling of the moment are a wonderfully complicated set of factors that convey what is great and perhaps also overlooked in Backspring. As McCormack relates the moment, she hastily moves past the image of the gorge, transferring the interest to his family and separating him from the image:
Look at that rock, said his father.
Look at that water, said his mother.
Look at that bridge, said Eduardo.
How did they make it?
Given the personal difficulty that Eduardo is undergoing as this memory floats to the surface I couldn’t help wondering about the abyss. The bridge is a beautiful image, but feels like it is only half of what matters about the moment.
The novel is a character study that brushes up against some weighty themes but perhaps takes on more strands than it needs to. McCormack explores classification versus the unclassifiable, art versus pragmatism, Anglo versus Francophone versus everyone else, and many threads that deal with what it means to be devoted. The breadth of disciplines and interests explored here can sometimes pull you away just when it is getting interesting and meaty.
Overall Backspring is a well-written and smart novel that unfolds many moments of profound and subtle beauty. McCormack’s treatment of details and prose are refreshing, confident, and attentive. Biblioasis has done a marvelous job of presenting the book, and Kate Hargreaves’ cover design is both eye-catching and finely tuned to the tone of the novel.
Biblioasis | 264 pages | $19.95| paper | ISBN# 978-1927428870