Books: “Intermezzo” by Sally Rooney

Admittedly, there are some words I tend to overuse. Like “admittedly.” And “basically.” And the word “genius” regarding a writer or filmmaker who’s just, well, very good.

But there’s one writer for whom genius isn’t an exaggeration: Sally Rooney. Only she could write a book that surpasses all her previous novels, including “Normal People.” Title of the new work: “Intermezzo.”

The word has multiple meanings: an unexpected move in chess, an interlude in music, and a pause in life. It could not be more appropriate here: the protagonists are two brothers, Peter, age 32, a successful Dublin barrister, and Ivan, an introverted chess nerd, age 22. They are grieving over the recent death of their father, and the tension from this sad pause in their lives exacerbates their already fragile relationship.

To make things more complex, both are involved with women who are not exactly right for them. Peter has an off-again, on-again relationship with his longtime GF Sylvia, also 32, but due to a disabling automobile accident, she can no longer enjoy sex with him. So with her tacit permission, Peter has started a second affair with a much younger student, Naomi who has a nose ring, tats and is borderline homeless.

Meanwhile, Ivan the chess nerd has fallen for Margaret, a woman 12 years his senior. Margaret lives in a small town, is married (but separated) from an alcoholic, and while she is falling hard for Ivan, is mortified at the fact that her romance may become public.

Few writers I’ve read have the ability to get inside the heads of their male characters like Rooney has, especially in this book. Peter, who uses work, drugs, and alcohol to avoid his emotions, is at heart kind of a creep. As the brothers share a meal in a restaurant, Pete arrogantly wonders aloud how “normal” a woman Margaret could be, dating Ivan, a naive grieving man 13 years her junior. When Ivan hears the word “normal,” Ivan goes into a rage, breaking off the relationship entirely.

Rooney, a self-proclaimed Marxist, is often dismissed as a lightweight, a millennial favorite, or—shudder—a “romantic novelist.” Please tell me the last time a Harlequin romance writer credited Wittgenstein, T.S. Eliot and Bertrand Russell in their final notes. Just read the book and hopefully you’ll develop the same swooning relationship with Sally Rooney that I have.

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