Normal People by Sally Rooney - A reflective essay
I like books about the human condition. I like books that explore the thoughts and moral compasses of more or less ordinary people, living more or less ordinary lives. Though it might sound somewhat contrary to what fiction should aim to emulate, I like books where not a lot happens in terms of plot, but in which we learn a lot about the world, about its people and its structures. I like novels that observe as opposed to present. Normal People is a story about growing up, first love, identity and power, amongst many things. It is not a boy (Connell) meets girl (Marianne) story – it is a visceral, deeply vulnerable and intimate exploration of unsaid words, miscommunication and navigating loving someone else, when you are still yet to navigate loving and knowing yourself. It is an extraordinarily gentle and sensitive, yet raw and painful telling of a story of two people who find such a solace in one another, that they cannot fathom a vaguely similar feeling in any of their other friendships, neither romantic nor sexual partners. It is the first time I have considered that perhaps some dependencies in romantic relationships are not toxic. Maybe some dependencies exist when two people realise that they are simply better people when they are together, because their world makes more sense. As Marianne laments:
No one can be independent of other people completely, so why not give up the attempt she thought, go running in the other direction, depend on people for everything, allow them to depend on you, why not.
The beautiful monochrome cover image by Henn Kim depicts two people embracing in a tin, as in a tin of sardines. My first reading of this cover image was of closeness and intimacy – of the proximity of sardines in a tin. I also considered that the partially opened tin represents Connell and Marianne’s relationship which, for most of the book is more or less a secret, though clumsily and unsuccessfully kept, at that. This is mirrored in the cryptic ways in which Marianne and Connell frequently communicate with one another – with the missed tones in voice and the awkwardly phrased sentences, lacking in transparency. I picked up from another reading recently that the tinned food depiction also represents the longevity of Marianne and Connell’s relationship, akin to the long or no expiration date of tinned food. Their relationship, though fractured and traumatic at times, always comes back around. Whether they are trying out being friends, friends with benefits, or a couple, the foundation of their special relationship sustains, and so, is preserved.
Henn Kim: Canned Memories / 기억 통조림
I want to keep these memories for a long time
아주 오랫동안 간직하고 싶은 기억들
A special first love
Marianne and Connell’s initial meetings are embellished with all of the innocent and child-like feelings of fervour having a crush on someone for the first time. The reader is instantly transported to cringe-worthy memories of their first crush, but so few of us will have felt a connection as special as our protagonists’ when we were at school. Despite this, most of us could mark out very easily in our past relationships when we said I love you for the first time, the feelings of adolescent giddiness and euphoria after being kissed, and having sex for the first time. In Normal People, this innocence is presented in a very realistic way, which resonates with us – with the awkward fumbling with clothes, the suggestive inquiry of ‘Can we take our clothes off now?’ from Marianne as Connell kisses her in her childhood bedroom at what might have been 5 in the afternoon; Lorraine, Connell’s mother, seconds away from completing her work as a cleaner downstairs.
Consent is handled delicately; there is a persistent theme of both characters being completely aware of Marianne’s willingness to let Connell do whatever he wishes to her, yet he is so respectful, and so gentle with her. The first time they have sex, Marianne’s very first, Connell constantly reassures her and checks on her, and tells her that it is okay to stop if it hurts or she doesn’t want to carry on. We pause as he diligently puts on a condom. They both ask one another ‘Does that feel good?’ throughout the intimate scenes as we progress through the novel. This is one of the few times that men in Marianne’s life do not abuse the power they have over her, or take advantage of her taste for submission. Sex is extremely important in Normal People, but not in a wholly sexy way. It is a love language of Connell and Marianne’s that stays consistent throughout the book – effortlessly and seamlessly, conversation is continued through sex, and this is depicted admirably in the TV adaptation by Lenny Abrahamson. It is not a dramatic show with lavish lingerie, impish teasing or a montage of vibrating sheets, it is real and honest and bare-faced intimacy, which is one of the many things that makes Normal People so refreshing.
Marianne and Connell’s unique spark between one another is a constant frame of reference for readers, against their ensuing relationships with others in the course of four years, especially for Marianne. It is elementary that we remember that Connell is Marianne’s first love, and vice versa. The love they have for another is fiercely and terrifyingly unmatched. Ergo, the exploration of love beyond their first is for both of them, an overwhelmingly upsetting and frustrating experience, for both our protagonists as well as the reader. Marianne finds herself in progressively worsening relationships during her time at Trinity, usually whilst navigating some semblance of a relationship with Connell. First, we see her trying out someone shiny and distinctly un-Connell-like, apart from being an English student, when she dates Gareth. Gareth is nice enough, but he is pretentious, far too perturbed by the opinions of others, and is somewhat snobby. He is quite dissimilar from Marianne and they break up without much ado.
Enter Jamie, a slimy, controlling, and unbearably pompous boy in Marianne’s friendship group. Other readers may sympathise in that I cannot fathom why Marianne would put herself through a relationship with that piece of work: except, insofar as we know Marianne is experimenting with her masochism, and her slow descent into playing the submissive, because of her belief that she deserves to feel pain. This might be one of the most heart-breaking themes in this novel, as we see Marianne’s self-worth and self-esteem in the gutter after the first time Connell lets her down. After breaking up with Jamie, on her Erasmus year, Marianne embarks on her most disturbing escapade yet, as she pursues a toxic relationship with Lukas. In the BBC series, Marianne is depicted as extremely thin, with bruises on her arms and wrists; a victim of abuse. It is extremely uncomfortable viewing, and it highlights the punishment Marianne has inflicted upon herself, and how men abuse their power over her.
Throughout the novel, from the moment Alan’s friend inappropriately grabs Marianne, to when Alan breaks Marianne’s nose, Connell constantly remains the consistent beacon of light for her. He constantly reassures her that he would never hurt her, and when he feels surges of physical power over her, he feels ashamed and anxious. Ironically, after the first time Connell tells Marianne he would never hurt her, he invites Rachel to the Debs. Connell and Marianne’s physical relationship is sacred and innocent, and Connell would never sacrifice or endanger this. But when it comes to emotional pain, he is, despairingly, far more obtuse, and repeatedly inflicts pain upon Marianne, much to the frustration of readers. In Connell’s defence, it is perhaps far easier to draw lines at physical violence than it is to define emotional violence (and is it always easy to define it?), but for Marianne, the pain is equally visceral; one and the same.
Connell’s sole notable relationship outside of his with Marianne is with Helen. This relationship is described softly. With ease, Connell is able to tell Helen he loves her, meet her parents, and go to social gatherings with her. Connell’s relationship with Helen marks an emotional maturation that Connell quite simply had not reached when he was at school, when he first met Marianne, again, to the great frustration of the reader and no doubt himself. Despite the ease at which this relationship is navigated, after his school-friend Rob’s death, Connell quickly realises that his only solace comes from Marianne’s presence in his life, not Helen’s. When Connell falls into a deep depression, the only person that can help him is Marianne. Helen is wary of Connell’s relationship with Marianne, and confronts him about it, asking Connell why he acts weirdly around Marianne.
How I act with her is my normal personality, he said. Maybe I’m just a weird person.
Identity - normal vs. weird and the importance of intellect
Part of the central premise of the book relies on the unique positioning of Connell and Marianne in relation to their peers and everyone else around them. Neither of them ever feel quite ‘normal’, which creates obstacles in their everyday interactions. Both characters are complex, but between them exists a certain normalcy which they cannot access in their other relationships – they understand one another in a way nobody else does. Despite this, Connell thinks that Marianne makes him do weird things. Sometimes he considers these ‘weird’ feelings to maybe represent his actual identity, sometimes these weird things frighten him. This recurring theme is coupled with the character development we observe in the book, as two people navigate growing up together, growing into their identities as they navigate life after school. Connell and Marianne constantly try out things that make them feel weird or normal, but towards the conclusion of the book it appears that they have accepted that their favourite version of normal is the version that exists within their relationship.
One preoccupation of everyone at Trinity is of intelligence. We are showered with peacocking from various characters who are desperate to showcase their acumen. Connell is astounded by the number of people who turn up to their class seminars to ramble performatively about books they have not read. Connell and Marianne are exceptionally bright: we know this from their grades at school; it is something that makes them stand out, and creates attraction between them. Affectionately, they are constantly describing one another as the ‘smartest person I know’ to other people. It is interesting that they consider one other smarter than the other. ‘Smart’ could be coded - for not only academic intellect, but a recognition of some level of emotional intelligence that they see in one another, that they do not feel they have in themselves – that makes them look up to and respect one another. ‘Smart’ also seems to be the first word that comes to mind when asked to describe the other to other people.
The role of social class
A particularly interesting aspect of Connell and Marianne’s relationship dynamic, that is scarcely tackled in other ‘love stories’ (at least not modern ones) is the persisting and underlying theme of social class. We are subtly introduced to this when we are told that Connell’s mother is a cleaner for Marianne’s family. Regardless of Marianne’s comfortable background, she is the odd, unpopular girl in school, whilst Connell has friends and is admired by everyone. This is a narrative triumph on Connell’s part: a working-class hero who is intrinsically ‘better’ than the upper-middle class girl for whom his mother works. However, as the novel progresses, we see class becoming a barrier not only to Connell’s life and his individual aspirations, but as yet another obstacle in his and Marianne’s relationship. Upsettingly, we see that when Connell loses his part-time job at the café, he cannot afford to stay in Dublin for the summer and so returns to Carricklea, feeling unable and ashamed to ask Marianne if he can stay with her – noting that it feels too much like ‘asking her for money’. This is a pointedly harrowing part of what was prior to that moment, a perfect time in their relationship, described poignantly by the following exchange:
‘When we were together in first year of college, she says, were you lonely then?’
‘No. Were you?’
‘No. I was frustrated sometimes but not lonely. I never feel lonely when I’m with you.’
‘Yeah, he says. That was kind of a perfect time in my life to be honest. I don’t think I was ever really happy before then.’
We know that Connell is acutely aware of the fact that the money that Marianne’s mother pays his mother, is funnelled back to him, his clothes, his food, at home, and so anything he buys for Marianne is somehow indirectly paid by her and her mother anyway. It adds yet another facet to their complicated courtship from the offset. Despite this pervasive theme, Connell and Marianne only first discuss money in the summer between their second and third year, when they both have been awarded the Trinity Scholarship which gives them full board for five years of further study, including accommodation and tuition fees. This is a substantial deal for Connell and means he no longer needs to work on weekends to pay his rent, that he has some money left over to go interrailing with Niall and Elaine, and visit Marianne’s holiday home in Italy, which is where the conversation topic first materialises.
Connell feels left out at Trinity where everyone is constantly comparing how much money their parents earn, and swanning around in balmy southern European holiday homes that their parents own. He can’t reconcile his life at Trinity with his life at home, which is a source of great anxiety to him, and contributes to his fragile mental health. He tells Marianne that that is why she fits in here – everyone else is rich like she is, and they like her because she is like them. Compared to Marianne at school, she is popular at university, and reinvents herself as more confident, fashionable and assertive than we saw her previously. She surrounds herself with romantic partners who come from similar walks of life, with whom she has lavish, hedonistic parties and dinners made from scratch, paired with copious wine. This creates a further divide between her and Connell; Connell does not enjoy the company of Marianne’s rich friends. Marianne, however, acts, or arguably is, removed from her privilege. When Peggy describes Connell’s chain as ‘Argos chic’, it makes Marianne cringe, as, presumably, she cannot imagine why Peggy felt a need to comment – is it really that important? Eventually, Marianne realises that most of her new ‘friends’ liked her for her big townhouse and for her popularity – and she is ashamed of herself for pandering to them, instead of simply being herself. She felt for the first time in her life as if she had real friends, but most of these friends turn out to be disposable and fickle. In Sweden, Marianne ruminates on this and increasingly misses Connell, as she realises he is one of the only people who understand her.
Keeping up appearances
Partly explored with themes on social class, we see the need to feel accepted by friendship groups of which Connell and Marianne are a part, become a barrier to their own special relationship. At first, it is Connell, the popular boy at school, who hurtfully wants to keep the relationship between himself and Marianne a secret, because he does not want his friends to find out. Connell abuses Marianne’s loyalty here and we are transported to the final blow to their friendship at this stage, when he invites Rachel to the Debs instead of Marianne, which Marianne later describes as humiliating. Later in the book, Marianne makes friends with rich students who come from similar backgrounds to herself, and Connell does not fit in. During the exploration of both of these social bubbles, first Connell’s and later Marianne’s, it transpires that the two still have a special bond that cannot be fabricated in any of their other friendships, the realisation of which allows them to be together (in their special way) at the end of the novel.
All these years they’ve been like two plants sharing the same plot of soil, growing around one another, contorting to make room, taking certain unlikely positions.