![]() ![]() During sex, an exchange that occurs, for Trish, in minutes and concludes with a quick “thank you,” she reflects: “This is our training. (People don’t always credit how grim this author can be, but to read Russell is to realize that you can have invention without joy.) Behind the playful deployment of epidemiological jargon lies Trish’s grief over the loss of Dori: “Sometimes I think the right doctor could open my chest and find her there … frozen inside of me, like a face in a locket.” And beneath the ingenuity that calls sunshine “the coagulant of consciousness, causing us to clot into personalities, to cohere once more on our pillows each morning,” is a dread that human relationships have become too transactional to mean anything. ![]() Instead it is signature Russell: a fanciful, droll, elaborately thought-through allegory with a dark center. ![]() This sounds like a lot of plot-I’ve yet to mention the two sinister Irish brothers who originally made their fortune in ergonomic toilets-but it doesn’t feel that way. ![]()
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