Conversations with Friends A Novel
Reviews
3.75
Frances is a lot stronger than me because Nick would have sent me into the psych ward
Rec from Ella. Sally Rooney does an excellent job of writing characters I Despise yet deeply resonate with. I don’t want to passively let the world go by and only react in anger. But also fuck Nick oh my god if the devil can’t reach you he sends a man like that.
the way sally rooney portrays the complexity of human’s feelings will always be exceptional
Could not finish, could not care to
Disappointing. Good writing, but the story and the main character is stupid
called me out just a bit
An engaging portrait of richly imagined characters that highlights people’s flaws, insecurities and the messiness of relationships.
Classic Rooney
g
"You underestimate your own power so you don't have to blame yourself for treating other people badly." *** 3.5 stars. Once again, I am in awe of how Rooney writes. Everything just *flows* seamlessly. Frances is deeply flawed—but so is everyone else. Rooney did a great job with this book because the character's voice felt so authentic! It was a pleasure to read throughout. I was ready to give this 4 stars but I just can't accept the ending. It's messed up—but hey, that's real life for you
I truly refuse to believe that this was Rooney’s debut novel. How could someone have such complex insight on human beings at such a young age? I enjoyed “Conversations with Friends” so much, perhaps just as much as I’ve enjoyed all of her other work (or maybe a bit more than the rest?). It was incredibly interesting to explore the theme of conversations and how Frances, the protagonist, was coping with her life both with the meaningful conversations in her life and without. You could literally feel her suffering when she was all alone, unable to share her most deepest fears even though she didn’t want to admit it. Perhaps the only time I felt sadness in this book was when the pages were left without any conversation. They felt void, and empty, and sad. How much meaning can a conversation really hold? (“What is a friend? What is a conversation?”) And I am always amazed by Rooney, but perhaps here more than before, by the way she hides the thing that holds the most meaning in her books in between the paragraphs. No quotes, no nothing. The conversations are always hidden in plain sight. … I also feel like I gotta mention the main character because of the impact she had on me. I loved the inner path that Frances had to walk, her growth in so many ways but also her inability to grow. I dived so deep into her world view. Perhaps Frances, out of all of Rooney’s characters, had the most intriguing thoughts to me. I was mesmerized by her way of thinking, not always agreeing but always trying to understand her. Her flaws, as fucked up as they are, were so interesting to analyze. She is so different from me to the core and yet somehow the few similarities that I found between us both troubled me to no end and gave me some sort of an epiphany. The quote that I will remember long after I’ve closed this books is this one: “I worried that if I did turn out to have a personality, it would be one of the unkind ones. Did I only worry about this question because as a woman I felt required to put the needs of others before my own? Was ‘kindness’ just another term for submission in the face of conflict?” So much to think about. I love that Rooney always leaves me like this. (This was supposed to be one sentence but… when have I ever? I guess I had a lot to say about it.)
idk maybe i'll like it more when it's a tv show. kinda wanna rad normal people kind don't wanna
I have an issue with Sally Rooney’s writing because to me she romanticizes unhealthy and manipulative relationships, romantic and platonic. It does make me think though, about the self-worth we all perceive ourselves to have and how we allow others to alter or control that perception. I do appreciate that I learned several new words from this, acrimonious, bourgeoisie, etc.
the story was good but the way of storytelling is not for me
I find myself to be drawn to characters who struggle to articulate their emotions, recognize this inability and swim within it, as if marking themselves with self-deprecation is a source of pride... Is this simply what comes through in Sally Rooney’s writing style? Is this the type of people she finds herself drawn to? Is this how she views herself? I couldn’t help myself from wondering these things as I drew comparisons between the characters in Conversations with Friends and those in Normal People. She is so perfectly capable of holding conflicting views of every character in a story — outlining the way they see themselves and the way they are seen by others. Or maybe what I love is the way her characters view themselves in relation to those around them. Or is it the way she writes about intimacy? It often feels like her characters learn more about themselves through their intimate interactions, and then use that same intimacy as something that can be ripped away in an effort to cause hurt to the other party? Her characters can be so cruel... Whatever the case, Sally Rooney’s writing is exquisite. Being in 21-year old Frances’s world and seeing others through her eyes felt like a treat. As for her own opinions of herself... well, I’d love to Frances age, explore more of herself, and use her clear intelligence to craft a different narrative for her life. I’d like to believe that one day Frances will look back with amusement and think herself to be vapid and ironic. This to me perfectly describes how it feels to be 21. I’ll probably be hooked on Sally Rooney for eternity.
i need a moment
A very Sally Rooney’s Novel
sally bae you need to see a therapist
i have too many thoughts about this
(La review qui suit est un extrait d'un avis que j'ai posté sur un forum) [...] J'ai enchaîné avec un roman contemporain, Conversations with friends de Sally Rooney. J'avais adoré Normal People d'elle donc j'avais envie de tester. Encore une fois, j'ai beaucoup aimé sa plume incisive, le portrait qu'elle dépeint d'une classe sociale et la dissection de la psychologie de ses personnages. Ils paraissent tous très froids et morts, mais ce sont des carapaces qu'on apprend à briser au fur et à mesure et j'ai été séduite par l'humanité (certes, pas resplendissante) qui se dégageait d'eux. Encore une fois, Sally Rooney explore le thème des relations toxiques (amoureuses/amicales/familiales) et des relations de manière générale. J'ai énormément aimé les réflexions sur l'amour qui parsèment ce roman. J'ai trouvé super intéressant de découvrir les mille et une conceptions de l'amour que les personnages adoptent et délaissent au fil des pages. J'aime aussi beaucoup les dialogues, à la fois crus et froids, mais qui en disent tellement plus long qu'il n'y paraît... Les reps sont vraiment bien aussi, notamment la bisexualité de Frances que je trouve très bien abordée, et la rép de la dépression. L'amitié qui lie Frances aux autres personnages et notamment à sa copine/ex Bobbi est fascinante et touchante. “You can love more than one person, she said. That's arguable. Why is it any different from having more than one friend? You're friends with me and you also have other friends, does that mean you don't really value me? I don't have other friends, I said.” “It was a relationship, and also not a relationship. Each of our gestures felt spontaneous, and if from the outside we resembled a couple, that was an interesting coincidence for us. We developed a joke about it, which was meaningless to everyone including ourselves: what is a friend? we would say humorously. What is a conversation?” “If two people make each other happy then it's working.” Sa relation adultère avec Nick m'a fait pleurer plusieurs fois. On voit les fissures dans leur relation, des choses laides mais aussi des belles choses. Et je repense aussi aux échanges avec Melissa, notamment un email qui m'a émue aux larmes. En fait, dans ce livre, aucun personnage n'est totalement blanc ou noir. Ils sont tous pourvus de défauts et de qualités, et ils sont tous perdus, et ils se cherchent, se trouvent, se déchirent, se perdent, et changent. Et parfois c'est cruel, mais c'est aussi beau. Par contre, une fois de plus, je ne recommande pas de lire ce roman si vous n'allez pas bien.
the last chapter was absolutely phenomenal and exactly what i needed… i may need to read this again next time so that i can fully appreciate it.
I… really liked the way this book is written. It feels like a friend is telling you something.
There’s so many answers to the question “what is love?”, and I guess this could be one version. One unconventional version, but a version still.
But the most shocking thing for me about this book was… she spent €4.50 buying pasta, bread and tomatoes?! Like, I do that and it’s like $20.
An entertaining read, well paced, but lacking any likeable characters. Just annoying people making bad decisions. I do really like sally rooney’s writing but I think I’m just tired of reading books where the characters can’t just have a conversation.. also I don’t really rock with affairs.
Highlights
I realized my life would be full of mundane physical suffering, and that there was nothing special about it. Suffering wouldn't make me special, and pretending not to suffer wouldn't make me special. Talking about it, or even writing about it, would not transform the suffering into something useful. Nothing would.
You know, I still have that impulse to be available to you.
The idea of forgetting anything about you is kind of horrifying to me.
But at some level I still see you as the person who broke my heart and left me unfit for normal relationships.
Not that God existed in any material way but as a shared cultural practice so widespread that it came to seem materially real, like language or gender.
The truth is that I love you and I always have. Do I mean that Platonically? I don’t object when you kiss me. The idea of us sleeping together again has always been exciting. When you broke up with me I felt you beat me at a game we were playing together, and I wanted to come back and beat you.
I thought about all the things I had never told Nick about myself, and I started to feel better then, as if my privacy extended all around me like a barrier protecting my body. I was a very autonomous and independent person with an inner life that nobody else had ever touched or perceived.
I think I only appear smart by staying quiet as often as possible.
This was the role that seemed to appeal to him more than anything, listening to things and asking intelligent questions that showed he had been listening. It made him feel needed.
I thought of the story I had sent to Valerie that morning, a story which I now remembered was explicitly about Bobbi, a story which characterised Bobbi as a mystery so total I couldn’t endure her, a force I couldn’t subjugate with my will, and the love of my life.
You could die, I thought, and it was a nice relaxing thought at the time. I imagined death like a switch, switching off all the pain and noise, cancelling everything.
I knew that he didn’t want to see me any more. He was a patient person and I had exhausted the patience. I hated the terrible things I had said to him, I hated what they revealed about me. I wanted him to be cruel now, because I deserved it. I wanted him to say the most vicious things he could think of, or shake me until I couldn’t breathe.
I laughed to myself although there was no one there to see me. I loved when he was available to me like this, when our relationship was like a Word document which we were writing and editing together, or a long private joke which nobody else could understand. I liked to feel that he was my collaborator. I liked to think of him waking up at night and thinking of me.
It was important to me that Bobbi would never be able to deny that at one point she had liked me very much.
She couldn’t understand that I didn’t love him. You must love him, she told me when I was sixteen. He’s your father.
Eventually, at three or four in the afternoon, I got out of bed. I didn’t feel like writing anything. In fact I felt that if I tried to write, what I produced would be ugly and pretentious. I wasn’t the kind of person I pretended to be. I thought of myself trying to be witty in front of Nick’s friends in the utility room and felt sick.
Watching the soap bubbles slide silently down the blades of the kitchen knives, I had a sudden desire to harm myself. Instead I put away the salt and pepper shakers and went into the living room.
I started to realise how much time I spent appeasing him, being falsely cheerful, and picking up things he’d knocked over. My jaw started to feel stiff, and I noticed myself flinching at small noises. Our conversations became strained, and more than once he accused me of changing my accent.
When he came home from work in the evening I used to freeze entirely still, and after a few seconds I would know with complete certainty if he was in one of the moods or not. Something about the way he closed the door or handled his keys would let me know, as clearly as if he yelled the house down.
I learned not to display fear, it only provoked him. I was cold like a fish.
I was aware of the fact that he could pretend to be anyone he wanted to be, and I wondered if he also lacked a ‘real personality’ the same way I did.
My ego had always been an issue. I knew that intellectual attainment was morally neutral at best, but when bad things happened to me I made myself feel better by thinking about how smart I was.
I would open fifteen tabs on my web browser while producing phrases like ‘epistemic rearticulation’ and ‘operant discursive practices’. I mostly forgot to eat on days like this and emerged in the evening with a fine, shrill headache. Physical sensations reintroduced themselves to me with a feeling of genuine novelty: breeze felt new, and the sound of birds outside the Long Room. Food tasted impossibly good, as did soft drinks. Afterwards I’d print the essay out without even looking over it. When I went to get my feedback, the notes in the margins always said things like ‘well argued’ and sometimes ‘brilliant’.
I hated that everything I did was so ugly, but also that I lacked the courage to confront how ugly it was.
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