The First 70 Pages of “Outline,” by Rachel Cusk

A book review isn't premature if time is immaterial

I’m on page 70. You’d think that’s just not enough book to write a book review. But this is not that kind of book.

Here’s what I know: the narrator is on her way to a teach a writing class in Greece. Thing is, from page one, I’m getting the feeling that the class is of little consequence. Instead, Cusk casts a bloodless eye across seemingly random conversations with people she meets on the way—the guy she sits next to on the plane; fellow teachers; fancy friends of less fancy friends; etc. But these characters are more notable for their individual stories than for how they fit in a larger narrative—if there even is one. The narrator, so far, has been pretty quiet as she lets the characters she encounters spill themselves out with a bittersweet candor that can border on desperation.

But even that is too warm for this writing. I don’t get the sense that we’re driving towards anything like a plot, or an opinion, even. Details simply arrive, and Cusk leaves the rest to us.

“Music is a betrayer of secrets; it is more treacherous even than dreams,
which at least have the virtue of being private.”

“Outline” reminds me of my own hotel-bar-talks with wanderers who have lived and grown aware that it might not matter that they did. I remember backstage conversations with people in far-flung cities who would see me expressing something, and as a kind of thank you, would reciprocate by divulging unbelievable secrets. There’d be crying, hugging, gratitude for healing—things too intense for an introvert like me. I’d try my best to receive them, but on some nights I’d have to duck out of the club to hide from the intensity. I really do love people, and I want to help, and it breaks my heart. Really, it’s my own inadequacy and incompetence that crush me the most.

I don’t know how Jesus did it, but wow. Much respect.

“Outline” extracts all of that angst and hovers like a microphone in front of random faces as they spill, boast, lie, apologize, and stumble through logical hedge mazes, lost. People get hurt, leave, have children, lose fortunes, and marry into other fortunes. Cusk recounts all this with the clean brutality of a mirror.

I mean, I’m on page 70, and I honestly don’t think we’re driving toward anything like a conclusion—in this book, or maybe in life. And yet, it’s beautiful within the pages. There are vivid descriptions and observations, and darkly piercing moments of philosophy I’ll bracket or underline as if planning to return to them. Who knows, maybe I will. Maybe they’ll be little scenic rest stop markers for someone else.

“Living in the moment and living outside it - which was the more real?”

My dad had his own father’s books, and I remember flipping through one and seeing his penciled-in scratch marks and underlines. It was a brief moment of family archaeology—a discovery with no museum in which to showcase it. Now I can’t remember what he found interesting, and I don’t remember the titles of the books, and I don’t even know where those books went. A Goodwill in New Jersey? A library? A landfill?

I worked for two years at an online music magazine. I stayed in the office late and traveled to festivals to capture stories, interviews, photos, videos…and one day, they went out of business, and pulled the plug. It’s all gone, all of it. And that’s kind of how it is. But it can be wild and beautiful, for a while.

Yes, there’s always the possibility that Godzilla will show up on page 71, and honestly, that’s true of life, too. I think we all secretly hope for something epic like that (though maybe not so city-demolishing). It makes me think that more book reviews should be written in mid-reading, because the book was written in mid-living, and for this particular title, I feel like I’m closer to the heart of it now than I will be at the end. Last pages carry an intrusive burden of proof. All endings do.

I may be wrong; I wouldn’t know. But in the meantime, I’m suspended at an uneasy altitude, which is where the characters seem to live, and where Cusk seems to be writing from.

But who can say? I picture Cusk reading this and shaking her head, despondent. More likely, she’ll never see it, and I’ll keep reading “Outline,” and it will come to some sort of end point, even if it’s just the last, bone-dry word. And I’ll put my marked-up copy on my shelf, en route to a nearby Goodwill. Maybe. Or maybe not.

…or you could just buy me a coffee, if you like.