This is the true strength of the novel, implicit in its striking title alone: the focus on intimate connection, the ways in which we painfully tether ourselves to family, ideas and things, enmeshing our life in the tangled undergrowth of the past while ceaselessly beating on towards the present. She writes in a retrospective voice, Danny narrating his childhood and adult experiences with tenderness, weariness and hard-worn wisdom. The tone of The Dutch House is soft, even when its subject matter is meaty: grief, abandonment, family breakdowns.

This was probably due to my recent confinement to an English degree syllabus, where little writing from the last two decades made it onto my reading list and warm voices like Patchett’s (bookshop owner and author with a southern sweetness) were scarce. This book, in its cover alone, promises so much of a story that I couldn’t help but hold it to those expectations and judge.Īlthough Patchett has had no short run of success, winning multiple literary prizes with a body of work stretching from political thrillers to relationship sagas, I was unaware of her before picking up The Dutch House. It promises a lot on first sight: intimacy, connection, aesthetic beauty, the compelling pull to look. It is Maeve Conroy, sister of narrator Danny, painted as a young girl by the artist she is in love with. The burning gaze of the young woman who adorns the front cover is transfixing. Ann Patchett’s The Dutch House is a novel that stares back.

Reviews of the dutch house