Vertigo sits somewhere between a collection of short stories and a novel. Its chapters, each a fragment of a woman’s life, connect to give not an entire story but hints and impressions of the woman’s personality, relationships and her understanding of and position in the world. Walsh’s protagonist – childlike in many ways (“the washing-up liquid smells of sweeties”), vulnerable, yet also profoundly observant and astute – embodies the most bewildering aspects of womanhood. She assumes different roles – mother, wife, daughter, mistress – with disparate responsibilities. She becomes suffocated (often, literally unable to breathe) by feelings of inadequacy. Introspective, detached and curiously inexpressive, she seems to hover over any occurring action as though observing rather than taking part. A description of her vertigo neatly reflects her inability to connect or belong: “Vertigo is the sense that if I fall I will fall not toward the earth but into space. I sense no anchorage.” Beautifully simple and unembellished, Walsh’s writing – most captivating in its ability to unnerve – is cleverly revealing of her protagonist’s unique and sensitive personality.
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