Normal People

by Sally Rooney

Connell always gets what he wants, and then feels sorry for himself when what he wants doesn’t make him happy.

She has never believed herself fit to be loved by any person. But now she has a new life, of which this is the first moment, and even after many years have passed she will still think: Yes, that was it, the beginning of my life.

literature moves him. One of his professors calls it ‘the pleasure of being touched by great art’.

Back home, Connell’s shyness never seemed like much of an obstacle to his social life, because everyone knew who he was already, and there was never any need to introduce himself or create impressions about his personality.

Yes, but I’m still alive at work, says Joanna. It’s still me, I’m still having experiences. You’re not working, okay, but the time is passing for you too. You’ll never get it back either. But I can decide what I do with it. To that I would venture that your decision-making is also a social construct. Marianne laughs. She wanders out of the freezer aisle and towards the snacks. I don’t buy into the morality of work, she says. Some work maybe, but you’re just moving paper around an office, you’re not contributing to the human effort.

Do you think I judge you for being so idle? says Joanna. Deep down I think you do. You judge Peggy. Peggy has an idle mind, which is different. Marianne clicks her tongue as if to scold Joanna for her cruelty, but not with any great investment. She’s reading the back of a dried apple packet. I wouldn’t want you to turn into Peggy, says Joanna. I like you the way you are.

The place had that strange unfurnished cleanliness that lonely houses sometimes have. She seemed like a person with no hobbies: no bookcases, no musical instruments. What do you do with yourself at the weekends, he remembers slurring.

She recounts the goings-on, how she feels, how she surmises the others are feeling, and what she’s reading and thinking about. He writes to her about the cities they visit, sometimes including a paragraph describing a particular sight or scene.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, says Marianne. I don’t know why I can’t be like normal people.

But he always thought she was damaged, he thought it anyway.

staying completely silent, keeping her face and body expressionless and immobile, wordlessly leaving the room and making her way to her bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. Locking herself in the toilet. Leaving the house for an indefinite number of hours and sitting in the school car park by herself.

mentally unhealthy people are contaminated in some way and possibly dangerous. If they don’t attack the woman behind the desk due to uncontrollable violent impulses, they might breathe some kind of microbe in her direction, causing her to dwell unhealthily on all the failed relationships in her past.

He had just wanted to be normal, to conceal the parts of himself that he found shameful and confusing.

Not for the first time Marianne thinks cruelty does not only hurt the victim, but the perpetrator also, and maybe more deeply and more permanently. You learn nothing very profound about yourself simply by being bullied; but by bullying someone else you learn something you can never forget.

she wanted to stop all violence committed by the strong against the weak, and she remembered a time several years ago when she had felt so intelligent and young and powerful that she almost could have achieved such a thing, and now she knew she wasn’t at all powerful, and she would live and die in a world of extreme violence against the innocent, and at most she could help only a few people.

People are juvenile in their attitudes to sexuality, Joanna said.

Shame surrounded her like a shroud. She could hardly see through it.

No, I just mean you must be kind of lonely, he says. She pauses, the stick between her index and middle fingers. I’m used to it, she says. I’ve been lonely my whole life, really.

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.

It reminds her of how she used to feel in Sweden, a kind of nothingness, like there’s no life inside her. She hates the person she has become, without

feeling any power to change anything about herself. She is someone even Connell finds disgusting, she has gone past what he can tolerate.

I’m warning you now. People in town are talking about you. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I cared what people thought of me.

Things that happened to her then are buried in the earth of her body. She tries to be a good person. But deep down she knows she is a bad person,

corrupted, wrong, and all her efforts to be right, to have the right opinions, to say the right things, these efforts only disguise what is buried inside her, the evil part of herself.

He feels like he has ruined the life of everyone who has ever even marginally liked him.

He puts his hand on the sink. Where are you? he says. I’m at home. It’s not serious, it just hurts, that’s all. I don’t really know why I’m calling. I’m sorry. Can I come get you? She pauses. In a muffled voice she replies: Yes, please. I’m on my way, he says. I’m getting in the car right now, okay? Sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder, he fishes his left shoe out from under the table and pulls it on. This is really nice of you, says Marianne in his ear. I’ll see you in a few minutes. I’m leaving right now. Alright? See you soon.

Why have you got blood on you? says Connell. I think my nose is broken, she says. Who’s that? says Alan behind her. Who’s at the door? Do you need to go to hospital? says Connell. She shakes her head, she says it doesn’t need emergency attention, she looked it up online. She can go to the doctor tomorrow if it still hurts. Connell nods. Was it him? says Connell. She nods. Her eyes have a frightened look. Get in the car, Connell says. She looks at him, not moving her hands. Her face is still covered with the tissue. He shakes the keys. Go, he says.

I’m sorry to bother you, she says. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. Don’t say sorry. It’s good you called me. Okay? Look at me for a second. No one is going to hurt you like that again. She looks at him above the veil of white tissue, and in a rush he feels his power over her again, the openness in her eyes. Everything’s going to be alright, he says. Trust me. I love you, I’m not going to let anything like that happen to you again.

People are a lot more knowable than they think they are. But still he has something she lacks, an inner life that does not include the other person.

She closes her eyes. He probably won’t come back, she thinks. Or he will, differently. What they have now they can never have back again. But for her the pain of loneliness will be nothing to the pain that she used to feel, of being unworthy. He brought her goodness like a gift and now it belongs to her. Meanwhile his life opens out before him in all directions at once. They’ve done a lot of good for each other. Really, she thinks, really. People can really change one another. You should go, she says. I’ll always be here. You know that.