This review was written in that dim corridor of days between the 22nd and 28th of October, 2025—a week blurred by the hiss of oxygen and the slow drip of IV lines at Bellona Nursing Home & Diagnostic Centre Pvt. Ltd. I was then a reluctant guest of illness, recovering from an infection that had seized both lungs and kidneys. Forgive, therefore, the infrequent tremor in my language; it bears the soft delirium of painkillers and the fragile clarity of a mind half-dreaming between fever and thought.
Summer’s End is one of those Danielle Steel novels that pretends to be about love but is, in fact, about the ghost-life of time—that strange residue left behind when desire ends but the calendar does not. It tells the story of Deanna, who is young enough to hope and old enough to know better, bound in a marriage that feels like a house built on sand.
There is a kind of aching stillness to her life, a summer that never fully arrives. Reading it now, from the antiseptic white glare of the hospital, I couldn’t help but feel how Steel’s language, for all its simplicity, is built around a Kristevan melancholy, where every sentence carries the undertone of something unspoken, something that leaks through the syntax like oxygen through plastic tubing.
Steel has a way of making pain ordinary—domesticated even—and that’s what fascinates me. There are no grand philosophies in her prose, but there’s an unconscious philosophy humming underneath: that every romance is a text written against time’s entropy.
Deanna’s affair with Ben, the artist, becomes not just a rebellion against her husband, Marc, but against narrative linearity itself. It’s as if she refuses to remain within the plot designed for her. “She was living again,” Steel writes—and I, reading it, tethered to IVs, felt that same flicker: the faint re-entry of the self into life’s syntax after drifting in ellipses.
Barthes, if he were alive to annotate Steel, might have called this the grain of sentimentality—the way cliché becomes sacred when experienced sincerely. The book is soaked in clichés, yes: the lonely wife, the passionate lover, the tragic ending. But like the repetitions of prayer, their power is in their recurrence. I remember thinking that Steel’s clichés operate as Derridean supplements: they fill the voids left by what cannot be said. Deanna’s words to Ben are less dialogue and more invocation, the signifier clinging to its own echo.
And perhaps that’s what made me linger—because the hospital room, too, is a kind of repetition machine. The beeps, the nurse’s footsteps, the morning thermometer—all versions of the same sentence, spoken differently each day. Reading Summer’s End turned into a strange mirror: Deanna trapped in her marriage, me trapped in my convalescence, both waiting for the season to end.
Steel’s novels often get dismissed as middlebrow escapism, but beneath their glossy surfaces lie fractures that theory can’t quite ignore. The way Deanna’s love affair is structured—inevitable, doomed, luminous—follows not Freudian drive but Kristeva’s chora, that pre-symbolic rhythm where meaning isn’t yet fixed. The sea, the sun, the summer—they’re all symbols of fluidity, of the semiotic before language hardens into logos. Deanna’s body becomes a site of translation between the two: the structured world of her husband and the untamed semiotic of her desire.
And yet, for all this passion, Summer’s End is haunted by absence. Ben dies, as lovers must in order for sentiment to achieve mythic density. His death doesn’t simply close the story; it opens a void that reorganises Deanna’s identity. She learns, finally, that love’s permanence isn’t in its duration but in its residue—what remains when it’s gone. Reading that line, I felt something unclench inside me. In illness, one learns this too: the body’s endurance is not its strength but its memory of pain.
The book’s style, for all its simplicity, is built on repetition and echo. Steel uses the same adjectives again and again—beautiful, lonely, strong, fragile—and while most critics see that as laziness, I think it’s closer to a Kristevan stutter. Meaning resists closure, circles around itself, refuses to stabilise. The language performs Deanna’s longing. When she says she’s “afraid to be happy,” the phrase loops back endlessly, until happiness itself becomes terrifying—a form of death.
And here’s the strange confession: as I read, I began to map my IV drips to Steel’s emotional rhythm. The slow rise and fall of saline mirrored her waves of passion and regret. The oxygen hiss became a Barthesian breath of the lover, that fragile sound that both sustains and betrays desire. My room blurred into her beach house. The scent of disinfectant mingled with imaginary sea breeze. I became Deanna—waiting for something irreversible to happen.
Steel’s genius—if we may use that word—is not in her sentences but in her sentiment architecture. She knows exactly when to let hope bloom and when to let it wilt. Summer’s End isn’t a book about love triumphing; it’s about love surviving through loss, and that’s what makes it endure.
When Deanna finally accepts her grief, she does not return to her husband out of duty; she does so out of narrative necessity. The text demands closure, but the reader is left haunted by the open wound of what was. That is where Derrida would smile—the supplement has replaced the original.
There’s a moment near the end—small, almost forgettable—when Deanna stands by the sea and realises she is not the same woman she was before. That’s the kind of line that slips under your skin. I read it twice, thrice. The afternoon light through my hospital window turned golden, the world quiet, and I thought of how every recovery is a kind of return to the self through the detour of suffering. The self, like Deanna, must fall apart before it can name its own desire.
And what of summer itself? It ends, of course—it must. But Steel doesn’t let it die; she suspends it in narrative amber, a perpetual dusk between fulfillment and regret. That’s why her novels, for all their romantic melodrama, remain strangely timeless. They operate not in chronological time but in emotional kairos—the moment out of time when feeling crystallises into myth.
In the final pages, Deanna is alone again, but the tone is not despair. It’s serene, resigned, luminous. She has internalised her loss, as if grief were the only stable language left. Barthes called this the neutral, the space between passion and detachment, where language no longer burns but glows faintly. That’s where the novel ends.
And that’s where I too found myself—half-breathing, half-thinking, no longer desiring to escape my bed, only to observe the slow movement of time around me.
Summer’s End became less a novel and more a mirror—one where I saw my own recovery and my own quiet renunciations reflected back. In its simplicity, it whispered the only truth both lovers and patients eventually learn: that everything beautiful must be brief, and everything brief must be remembered precisely because of that. The summer ends, but its light stays on your skin.
And so, when I closed the book, the drip had slowed, the nurse had gone, and the world felt suspended. I realised Steel had done something I hadn’t expected—she’d turned the machinery of sentiment into a form of revelation.
In her world, love and loss are not opposites but twins. And in mine, lying beneath the dim blue light of Bellona, that truth felt as close to healing as anything medicine could offer.
Give it a go.