Sally Rooney's Intermezzo (2024) Review

Sally Rooney, the Irish novelist celebrated for Normal People and Conversations with Friends, returns with Intermezzo (2024), published by Faber & Faber. Dubbed the voice of millennial angst, Rooney crafts a poignant tale of two brothers, Ivan and Peter Koubek, navigating grief, family, and fractured relationships after their father’s death. The book’s thesis explores how loss reshapes familial bonds and personal identities, revealing the messy, human struggle to connect: “People can care about each other and still be separate, you know” This narrative serves as a wake-up call, exposing the ground reality of emotional isolation in a hyper-connected world.

For Indian readers, its raw portrayal of familial duty and societal pressures resonates deeply, making it a must-read for those grappling with modern life’s complexities. Rooney’s intimate, conversational style, like a friend unpacking a heartfelt story, invites readers to reflect on love, loss, and resilience.

Intermezzo centers on Ivan, a socially awkward chess player in his thirties, and Peter, his older, high-flying lawyer brother, as they navigate life after their father’s death. Set in Dublin, the novel alternates between their perspectives, blending stream-of-consciousness for Peter and a more linear narrative for Ivan, exploring themes of grief, masculinity, and unconventional relationships.

The story opens with the brothers at odds: “Ivan doesn’t know what Peter’s life is like, Peter doesn’t know what Ivan’s life is like” (Rooney, 2024, p. 12). Ivan, introspective and reserved, begins a relationship with Margaret, an older woman: “He’s not sure why she likes him, but she does” (p. 45). Peter, meanwhile, battles addiction and despair: “Peter’s life is a series of rooms, each one emptier than the last” (p. 33). Their father’s death exposes old wounds: “They loved him, but they didn’t always like him” (p. 19).

Ivan’s bond with Margaret stirs family tension: “You’re sleeping with someone older than our mother was, Ivan, it’s weird” (p. 89). Yet, it brings him clarity: “For the first time, he feels like he’s living his own life” (p. 102). Peter’s unraveling is vivid: “He takes another pill, because what else is there” (p. 67). He reconnects with Sylvia, an academic, and Naomi, a younger student: “Sylvia talks ideas, Naomi talks life, and Peter just listens” (p. 134).

The novel argues that grief forces reckoning with identity: “Loss doesn’t just take the person, it takes something from you too” (p. 156). Ivan finds purpose through Margaret: “She makes him want to be better, not just for her, but for himself” (p. 178). Peter’s path is messier, marked by fleeting connections: “He’s trying to hold it together, but it’s like clutching water” (p. 201). Family ties, though strained, endure: “They’re brothers, that’s the thing, no matter what” (p. 245).

Rooney offers no neat solutions, suggesting healing comes through acceptance: “You don’t fix grief, you live with it” (p. 289). The brothers’ halting reconciliation shows progress: “They talk, not easily, but they talk” (p. 312). The novel’s strength lies in its raw honesty: “Life is messy, and pretending otherwise is a lie” (p. 334). It ends on a hopeful note, with Ivan and Peter finding fragile peace: “Maybe love is just showing up, even when it’s hard” (p. 389).

The book’s greatest strength is its intimate, unfiltered portrayal of grief, capturing the messiness of human connection. Rooney’s prose, sharp yet tender, feels like a friend sharing a quiet truth: “People can care about each other and still be separate, you know” (Rooney, 2024, p. 78). The alternating perspectives enrich the narrative, with Ivan’s grounded voice balancing Peter’s chaotic stream-of-consciousness: “Peter’s life is a series of rooms, each one emptier than the last” (p. 33). This stylistic choice mirrors the brothers’ emotional divide, resonating with Indian readers familiar with familial tensions.

The exploration of unconventional relationships, like Ivan and Margaret’s age-gap romance, adds depth: “She makes him want to be better, not just for her, but for himself” (p. 178). Rooney’s focus on masculinity—vulnerable yet flawed—is compelling: “He’s trying to hold it together, but it’s like clutching water” (p. 201). For Indian youth, this challenges rigid gender norms. The novel’s global perspective on emotional isolation speaks to readers concerned with social change, particularly in fast-paced, urban India.

Rooney’s dialogue shines, capturing real human friction: “You’re sleeping with someone older than our mother was, Ivan, it’s weird” (p. 89). The lack of quotation marks, a Rooney hallmark, creates intimacy, pulling readers into the characters’ minds. The book’s emotional realism, grounded in small moments, is universal: “Maybe love is just showing up, even when it’s hard” (p. 389). Its compact length ensures accessibility, ideal for time-pressed readers.

The novel’s focus on Irish urban life can feel distant for Indian readers. Cultural specifics, like Dublin’s social scene, lack parallels to India’s caste or rural dynamics: “They talk, not easily, but they talk” (p. 312). An intersectional lens addressing class or community pressures would enhance relevance. Peter’s stream-of-consciousness, while evocative, can overwhelm: “He takes another pill, because what else is there” (p. 67). Indian readers, accustomed to linear storytelling, may find it disorienting.

The female characters, like Sylvia and Naomi, feel underdeveloped: “Sylvia talks ideas, Naomi talks life, and Peter just listens” (p. 134). They serve Peter’s arc more than their own, a missed opportunity for depth. Solutions to grief are vague, leaning on emotional acceptance without practical steps: “You don’t fix grief, you live with it” (p. 289). Indian youth, facing structured challenges like exams, may crave clearer guidance. The novel’s scope, limited to two brothers, narrows its exploration of broader societal issues.

Why Indian Youth Readers Must Read This Book

Indian youth, juggling academic pressures and societal expectations, will find Intermezzo a mirror to their emotional lives. Its raw take on grief speaks to students facing the weight of exams and career choices: “Loss doesn’t just take the person, it takes something from you too” (Rooney, 2024, p. 156). In a system driven by rote learning, the book’s call to embrace messy emotions is a wake-up call.

The focus on family duty hits home: “They’re brothers, that’s the thing, no matter what” (p. 245). Indian youth, often bound by familial obligations, will relate to Ivan and Peter’s struggle to reconcile. The novel’s challenge to masculinity norms, showing men as vulnerable, aligns with India’s shifting gender dynamics: “He’s trying to hold it together, but it’s like clutching water” (p. 201). This is vital for young men navigating societal expectations.

The unconventional romance between Ivan and Margaret offers hope: “She makes him want to be better, not just for her, but for himself” (p. 178). For youth facing judgment over personal choices, this resonates. The book’s global perspective on isolation reflects urban India’s fast-paced life: “People can care about each other and still be separate, you know” (p. 78). In a job market where degrees do not guarantee success, the brothers’ resilience inspires: “They talk, not easily, but they talk” (p. 312).

For youth playing catch-up in a globalized world, Intermezzo is like a friend sharing a story over chai, urging them to embrace their emotions and relationships. It challenges the pressure to conform, making it a must-read for those balancing dreams and the ground reality of modern India.