After how well I enjoyed the string of books I read just after I returned from England, I though I might continue reading moody, feminine books, which is what led me to pick up
The Gathering. I had reada another book by Anne Enright several years ago (before I started writing about each book I read individually). The book had been loaned to me by a friend of my mother's who loved her writing and loved
The Gathering in particular. But on the day I was at her house, she couldn't find it so she loaned me
The Enchanted Waltz instead. I didn't particularly like it, but still when I happened across a copy of
The Gathering years later (I don't remember the circumstances, but I think it must have been in a little free library) I decided to grab it, remembering the recommendation.
If moody, feminine books constitute a genre, it is not one I typically enjoy. My lack of enthusiasm for Elena Ferrante, for instance, has been documented. I look through my read books and I do see exceptions (Rachel Cusk must certainly fall into this category, and yet I adore the Outline trilogy). I have, for the most part, very little interest in reading books about marriage or affairs or parenthood, which I think are the major subjects of this moody, feminine idea of mine. The Gathering is about these topics and others. It's about loss and mourning. It was at times a beautiful book. It's certainly well written. But it wasn't for me.
