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.
The Ring begins not with love, but with loss — a loss so immense that love becomes its echo. Reading it beneath the mechanical sighs of the oxygen machine, I found myself tracing the same circularity the title promised: love turning into death turning into memory turning into text. Steel’s 1980 novel stretches across generations, continents, and wars, but what it truly documents is the haunting of history—how trauma travels like an heirloom, passed down through gestures and silences.
In the story of Ariana von Gotthard, the privileged daughter of a German general who falls in love with a Jewish writer, we see Steel attempting her most ambitious act yet: translating the spectacle of history into the intimacy of emotion. This isn’t the sentimental Paris of her earlier works, but Berlin under siege — a world where ideology corrodes love from within.
Ariana’s journey from innocence to exile feels almost biblical in its inevitability. Yet, like Kristeva’s notion of the abject, her suffering isn’t just historical; it’s ontological. She becomes a body that history expels — the unwanted remainder of a civilisation devouring itself.
Reading this while tethered to IV lines, I felt an odd identification with her suspended state — a life both sustained and threatened by tubes, borders, and the slow circulation of something alien inside the veins. Ariana’s exile is not unlike illness: both are betrayals of home.
In The Ring, Steel uses the symbol of the heirloom ring — passed from mother to daughter — as a Derridean trace, a signifier that never fully lands. It signifies love, yes, but also guilt, inheritance, and the impossibility of closure. Every time it changes hands, it loses and gains meaning, like a sign caught in translation.
There’s a moment early in the book when Ariana’s mother, desperate and defiant, presses the ring into her daughter’s hand as their world collapses. It’s a simple gesture, but Steel’s prose, for once, trembles with restraint. “Keep it,” she says, “so you’ll remember who you are.” I paused there, my own hand half-numb from the IV needle. What do we keep, really, when everything collapses? What part of the self survives the wreckage — the memory or the scar?
Steel, who often writes in broad emotional brushstrokes, finds unexpected subtlety here. She lets history itself become a lover — violent, possessive, jealous. Ariana’s love for Manfred is not just forbidden by politics; it is unthinkable within the symbolic order of her time.
And that’s where Kristeva would whisper: the semiotic — that primal, feminine pulse beneath patriarchal law — erupts here as love. Ariana’s defiance is not political so much as maternal and bodily.
She carries within her the memory of a world before division, before names, before the borderlines of race and nation.
Barthes’ shadow flits too across the text — particularly in the way Steel writes about letters. The war separates lovers, and what remains are fragments: notes, postcards, and words that travel farther than bodies can. “I wait for you in every hour,” one letter says. In Barthes’ A Lover’s Discourse, waiting becomes the purest form of love — a performance of faith in language itself. Ariana’s letters, like mine written in my head to a world outside Bellona, are proof that desire survives absence, though altered, weakened, perhaps even purified by it.
The novel moves inexorably toward tragedy. Manfred’s death (inevitable as a refrain) comes not as a shock but as punctuation — the full stop history demands. Yet Steel resists despair. Ariana gives birth to their daughter, the future bearer of the ring, the living continuation of love’s syntax.
Here, The Ring becomes not a love story but a meditation on transmission — how memory survives through blood, through ritual, through objects that outlast the living. Derrida would call this hauntology: the persistence of presence through absence, of the dead through the living.
When I reached the chapters set in postwar America, I realised the story had quietly changed genres. It was no longer a romance but a recovery narrative — the reconstruction of identity from ruins. Ariana’s daughter, Arianna (the doubling of names itself a recursion), grows up between worlds, unsure which language or country truly belongs to her.
That sense of dislocation felt eerily close to my own in the hospital: the body no longer belonging fully to itself, every breath mediated by machines, every thought filtered through the pharmacological fog.
Steel writes this second-generation story with less finesse but equal sincerity. The ring passes again, and each time it does, the gesture grows fainter — like a photocopy of a memory. By the end, the heirloom is less an object than an idea: the residue of all the loves and deaths it has witnessed.
That’s when I began to understand what Steel might have intuited without ever theorising—that love, to endure, must become abstract. It must shed its body, its history, its narrative. It must turn into a symbol, fragile yet indestructible.
There’s a small passage near the novel’s close that hit me harder than I expected: Ariana, now older, sits by the sea, the ring glinting faintly in the afternoon light. She no longer wears it as a keepsake but as a reminder of endurance. “It isn’t what it was,” she says, “but it’s what remains.” I read that line again and again, until it dissolved into my own reality — my IV drip, the soft tick of the heart monitor, the hum of life reduced to remainder. Perhaps that’s what all survivors eventually learn: not how to rebuild, but how to live among remnants.
And isn’t that what literature does, too? It preserves the remainder. Steel’s prose, unfashionable as it may be, becomes a kind of secular scripture — the melodrama of survival turned mythic. Beneath its sentimentality lies a profound understanding of how trauma is metabolised into story. Every repetition of love’s loss is both an act of mourning and of rebirth.
As I closed the book, I imagined the ring itself — heavy with invisible fingerprints, gleaming faintly against the dim light of the ward. Its circular perfection mocked the linear cruelty of time. The past does not vanish; it loops. The ring, the wound, the reader — all turning endlessly, all bearing the mark of what once was and refuses to fade.
In the end, The Ring is less about the endurance of love than about the endurance of its trace. Steel, knowingly or not, writes as a historian of emotion — chronicling not the great wars but the quiet aftershocks that linger in the heart’s architecture. Reading it in illness, I felt history and body converge: both fragile, both unfinished, both ringed with echoes.
And when I finally drifted into sleep, the book slipping from my hand, I dreamed of circles—of rings, of oxygen tubes, of the looped rhythm of breath. In that dream, I understood what Ariana had known all along: that to live after loss is to keep turning, gently, endlessly, around the empty center of love.
Go for it. It makes you warm and feverish.