this is (definitely) not a review: ‘hotel du lac’, by anita brookner


I have no interest in writing anything about this book. I’d rather just talk about it endlessly and how I finished reading it today for the ??th time and how sorry I am that I haven’t kept a list on the inside cover of the places I’ve read it because then I could add —

Among the lily pads, in the marsh, in a  boat named Lulabelle, on this September morning while a family of swans that I’ve been watching all summer is out for a sail, the young ones still brown, and the way they follow their parents, not even the hint of a desire to break from the pack.

For anyone who has had the pleasure… some reminders:

… a tall woman, of extraordinary slenderness, and with the narrow nodding head of a grebe…

he disliked the more sociable aspects of his calling, but had nevertheless booked a table in a cathedral-like restaurant, where the patrons cowered in worship before the marvels to be set in front of them.

[the] good… always think it is their fault when someone else is being offensive… [the] bad never take the blame for anything.

… The pianist has worked out his engagement and would now return to his winter occupation of giving private lessons to unmusical schoolgirls.

… Edith was obliged to listen to Mrs. Pusey’s plans, which were as usual, extensive, without being awarded any interest in her own. Reciprocity was a state unknown to Mrs. Pusey…


For anyone who hasn’t had the pleasure…. in a nutshell, the story is this:

woman stays in small Swiss lakeside Inn, observes guests, discovers meaning of life.




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