Rachel Cusk

From the author of the Outline trilogy, a fable of human destiny and decline, enacted in a closed system of intimate, fractured relationships.

Second Place

From the author of the Outline trilogy, a fable of human destiny and decline, enacted in a closed system of intimate, fractured relationships. A woman invites a famed artist to visit the remote coastal region where she lives, in the belief that his vision will penetrate the mystery of her life and landscape. His provocative presence provides the frame for a study of female fate and male privilege, of the geometries of human relationships, and of the struggle to live morally in the intersecting spaces of our internal and external worlds. With its examination of the possibility that art can both save and destroy us, Rachel Cusk's Second Place is deeply affirming of the human soul, while grappling with its darkest demons.

A Novel

hessensitive

The truth was, Jeffers, I feared that if Tony got a dog, it would become the centre of his attention, and he would give it friendship and affection that should have come to me. I was in a sense in competition with this theoretical pet, may of whose characteristics- loyalty, devotion, obedience- I believed I already demonstrated. 

His character- that of a cherished, well-trained house dog- struggled to accommodate this turn of events, in which it was hard to discern a narrative wherein he played the central role, and since he was exhausted by the end of the day in any case, he retreated into a kind of dazed blankness, as though he had received a sort of concussion to his sense of self-importance. 

If it sometimes meant he couldn't altogether join in the fun, it didn't matter: the needle always swung back in his direction, because in the end living is a serious condition, and without Tony's common sense and practicality the fun would have run out fairly quickly in any case. But I liked fun and wanted to have it, and I wasn't practical in the way Tony was, and so I often found myself with nothing to do. Nothing to do! It has been my cry ever since I came to live at the marsh. I seem to spend a lot of time simply- waiting.

One night when Tony and I were going to bed, I flew at him in a rage and said all kinds of terrible things, about how lonely and washed up I felt, about how he never gave me any real attention of the kind that makes a woman feel like a woman and just expected me to sort of give birth to myself all the time, like Venus out of a seashell. As if I knew anything about what makes a woman feel like a woman! In the end I flounced off to sleep on the couch downstairs, and I lay there and thought about what I'd said and about how Tony never does anything to hurt or control me, and in the end ran back upstairs and jumped into bed with him and said:

"Oh Tony, I'm sorry to have said such terrible things. I know how good you are to me and I don't want to ever hurt you. It's just that sometimes I need to talk in order to feel real, and I wish you would talk to me."

We said goodbye at two in the morning at the entrance to the hotel, where he visibly- to the point of unchivalrousness- decided I wasn't worth whatever risk to his status quo our spending the night together would have represented. And I went to bed and hugged the memory of his attention until the roof seemed to lift off the hotel and the walls fall away and the huge starry darkness embrace me with the implications of what I felt. Why do we live so painfully in our fictions? Why do we suffer so, from the things we ourselves have invented?

He had a girl with him, Jeffers, a shocking little creature, nothing more than a painted child who was barely clothed- she sat on his knee with parted lips and the soft gaze of a dumb animal while he fondled, and nobody said or did anything to stop him. 

Tina ok

I could never reconcile myself to the fact that just as you’ve recovered from your own childhood, and finally crawled out of the pit of it and felt the sun on your face for the first time, you have to give up that place in the sun to a baby you’re determined won’t suffer the way you did, and crawl back down into another pit of self-sacrifice to make sure she doesn’t!

Some people write simply because they don't know how to live in the moment and have to reconstruct it and live in it afterwards.

Might it be true that half of freedom is the willingness to take it when it's offered?

It seemed to me there was nothing stable, no actual truth in all the universe, save the immutable one, that nothing exists except what one creates for oneself. To realize this is to bid a last and lonely farewell to dreams.

Elena!

“(…) it is truer to say, Jeffers, that we can consider our job as parents to have been accomplished without fatal error or wrongdoing when the small child becomes visible once more in the fully grown being.”

Kat Albanese

Does catastrophe have the power to free us?

the sun had risen higher and was driving back the shadows of the trees across the grass where we stood, and the water was likewise advancing, and so we were held between them, in one of those processes of almost imperceptible change that occurs in the landscape here, whereby you feel you are participating in an act of becoming.

the possibility that art—not just L’s art but the whole notion of art—might itself be a serpent, whispering in our ears, sapping away all our satisfaction and our belief in the things of this world with the idea that there was something higher and better within us which could never be equalled by what was right in front of us. The distance of art suddenly felt like nothing but the distance in myself, the coldest, loneliest distance in the world from true love and belonging. Tony didn’t believe in art—he believed in people, their goodness and their badness, and he believed in nature.

A love that makes no promise of relenting or of acquiescence is either an incomplete or a tyrannical love.

I had learned since then, I said, that I was naive to expect that other people would merely allow me to change when those changes directly interfered with their own interests, and the revelation that my whole life, which appeared to have been built on love and freedom of choice, was in fact a facade that concealed the most craven selfishness was deeply shocking to me. There is no limit, I said, to what certain people will do to you if you offend them or take away what they want, and the fact that at one time you liked or chose to be among those people is one of the central mysteries and tragedies of life. Yet it is only a reflection, I said, of the very conditions and substances out of which your humanity is made – it is the attempt by selfishness and dishonesty to reproduce themselves in you and to continue to flourish in the world. You might as well go mad, I said, as try to resist that attempt.

Not to have been born in a woman's body was a piece of luck in the first place: he couldn't see his own freedom because he couldn't conceive of how elementally it might have been denied him.

My individuality had tormented me my whole life with its demand to be recognised.

I was working, somehow, to free her from myself, when it appeared that what she needed was to take some of me along with her!

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I know how to be a woman. I believe that no one ever showed me.”

“It isn’t a question of showing,” he said. “It’s a question of being permitted.”

No, I don't want to be completed. I prefer to try outrunning whatever's after me. I prefer to stay out, like kids on a summer evening stay out, and won't come in when they're called. I don't want to go in.

I've never read anything like this before, I loved it so much.

nasya

“whatever my object-value as a woman, the powerful feelings of ugliness or repulsiveness that beset me were coming not from some outward scrutiny or reality but from inside my own self.” 

“the whole point was that I had to learn to live more in myself.”

The more I read it, the more grounds I have to believe that my current favorite genre of novels is the woman's fiction. All about woman’s books. Women who realize exactly what they're missing! Biological femininity after the fact! feminine unhappiness! lady versus void!

Begging was a form of freedom in and of itself, implying at least equality with the state of need. 

Back to my bs of reading a woman's mental monologue and enjoying it. My first Cusk, but far from my last.

3.5/5⭐️

From the acclaimed author of the Outline trilogy, a fable of human destiny and decline, enacted in a closed system of intimate, fractured relationships. Praise for the Outline trilogy: 'A landmark in twenty-first-century English literature.' Observer 'Precise and haunting ... Unforgettable.' Jenny Offill 'Achieves a kind of formal perfection ... masterly.' Sally Rooney 'A work of great stunning beauty, deep insight, and great originality.' Monica Ali A woman invites a famed artist to visit the remote coastal region where she lives, in the belief that his vision will penetrate the mystery of her life and landscape. Over the course of one hot summer, his provocative presence provides the frame for a study of female fate and male privilege, of the geometries of human relationships, and of the struggle to live morally between our internal and external worlds. With its examination of the possibility that art can both save and destroy us, Second Place is deeply affirming of the human soul, while grappling with its darkest demons.

Andréa Mellalieu

Well, I don’t think M could exist: the narcissistic conduct is pretty incongruent with the leveled-up self awareness in narration (I didn’t love the implausibility of an unbroken 200 pg letter ? or journal entry ? to Jeffers either, but I might be missing something). I couldn’t relate to any character, on any level, nor could I agree with most of her worldviews (let alone her declarations about motherhood) which make it a hard book to “love”. Still, 3-4 stars (what does that even mean) for the captivating writing, style and opportunities to reflect on my own values - I confess that I have more highlights and notes in this book than any other this year!

a book woven with exquisite musings and observations.

gorgeous. poetic, sharp, soft, lush, generous introspection and retrospection - that’s what i jotted down as take aways during the first half.

after the second half - wow, what a ride lol. some unexpected, surly character developments after such a warm, thoughtful introduction. still lovely nonetheless and enjoyed the stream of consciousness writing style very much.

a bit of midlife crisis, a bit of self-reflection and a bit of disruption to shake off and expose romanticizations that had been obscuring the health of living in the present.

a book woven with exquisite musings and observations.

gorgeous. poetic, sharp, soft, lush, generous introspection and retrospection - that’s what i jotted down as take aways during the first half.

after the second half - wow, what a ride lol. some unexpected, surly character developments after such a warm, thoughtful introduction. still lovely nonetheless and enjoyed the stream of consciousness writing style very much.

a bit of midlife crisis, a bit of self-reflection and a bit of disruption to shake off and expose romanticizations that had been obscuring the health of living in the present.

A rambly letter that is seemingly a woman going through a mid life crisis. a stream of consciousness, I devoured this story. My first cusk novel and I am so glad I have her others on my tbr so I can immediately pick something else up. 

An unnamed yet vibrant narrator who is in her 50’s invites a famed artist to her cabin with her family under the premise for inspiration, hoping that he paints her and garners a new muse. 

This was the definition of “no plot just vibes” with the main purpose of the novel seemingly being a dive into the consciousness and development of characters. Love, loss, marriage, childhood and motherhood, just over 200 pages this packs a punch and maintains a beautiful prose that reads like poetry. 

jaz ☁️

A rambly letter that is seemingly a woman going through a mid life crisis. a stream of consciousness, I devoured this story. My first cusk novel and I am so glad I have her others on my tbr so I can immediately pick something else up. 

An unnamed yet vibrant narrator who is in her 50’s invites a famed artist to her cabin with her family under the premise for inspiration, hoping that he paints her and garners a new muse. 

This was the definition of “no plot just vibes” with the main purpose of the novel seemingly being a dive into the consciousness and development of characters. Love, loss, marriage, childhood and motherhood, just over 200 pages this packs a punch and maintains a beautiful prose that reads like poetry. 

quite possibly the strangest book I’ve ever read. but love? 

Macy HB

Nileena S B

Thought provoking to the extend that makes you feel drained. Moody yet brilliant experience!

Raphaëlle

Hellboy TCR

Except for one melodramatic scene i am perfectly happy with my 5th Rachel Cusk book. Detailed review soon.

Stacey Rainey 

This is an odd book. One long conversation with the unidentified Jeffers as the main character revisits her life, her relationships, her faults and her ego/self. Not my favorite.

loved the vibes. didn’t really understand it. maybe i’m just dumb lol

Tailah Clarkson

Katie Chua

i loved this. more distinct than her outline trilogy...this story will stay in my mind for awhile. also thought it was mroe interesting to have read it in my freudian phase lol..lots of talk about self, reality, and the other. there is SO MUCH to dissect here!!!!!! im thinking about the setting, the characters, the role of art and language. wow

Ethan Hill

Fraser Simons

2.5 rounded up

This has been talked about to death already. Some interesting themes, fantastic voice and narration, but leans more vapid than profound to me. I suspect I will remember nothing of this in one months time. It was fine, forgettable.

Irem

Kafamı biraz topladıktan sonra söyleyecek çok şeyim var.

Clara Jo

Incredibly captivating prose. I could not put this down. It seems that the more beautiful I find a book, the less I feel I can offer the right words.

“There's a certain point in life at which you realise it's no longer interesting that time goes forward – or rather, that its forward-going-ness has been the central plank of life's illusion, and that while you were waiting to see what was going to happen next, you were steadily being robbed of all you had. Language is the only thing capable of stopping the flow of time, because it exists in time, is made of time, yet it is eternal – or can be.”

Gary Homewood

A woman and her husband in a house by marshlands, visited by her daughter and her boyfriend, a troubled artist and his companion.

Psychologically nuanced, power structures and relationships, the nature of art, the effect of landscape. A lot going on. Profound yet illusive.

I see this probably winning the Booker. That said, I found it to be a boring monologue of a woman who has had something bad happen to her and somehow never moved on from it. That it is told in a fake letter manner makes it much more sluggish and isolated me from the text, as sometimes "Jeffers" is told to remember things and we just never get told what they are. Like if you're stuck in a room with two old friends constantly making inside jokes and not bothering to include you in the conversation. And honestly, M is just a bad person all-around. Being in her head is not fun in the slightest.

The ending didn't make a lot of sense, either. I realize this is based on a memoir but if the memoir is anything like this I'll pass on that. 😂

Jales

Honestly, this deserves more than 5 stars.

Luna 🌙

The language of this book is astounding but there were a few parts that just simply through me off.

Second Place

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