When I picked up this book, I figured it’d either be great but decidedly middlebrow (i.e. perfect for someone too tired to read anything but through the paraliterary) or TikTokSlop with no in-between. Instead, I got a well-written novel that, unfortunately, was an ephemeral product of the middle class privilege it sought to explore.

The teenage Joni Wilson and her friends are growing up in some quaint British seaside town stagnating in the wake of its bygone heyday of tourism. They’ve known each other since primary school, alternately becoming friends and enemies as part of and as a result of the typical gossip, cliques, and drama that come with maturing and failing to mature. Through this story, Clark examines the emptiness of White (with a capital ‘W’) middle-class life: there is no intrinsic meaning to it, no great political struggles besides switching currencies, no pervasive strife with which to examine the character of the class. The characters just go about their day through high-school dramas and minor Tory scandals. Out of seemingly nowhere, Joni’s burned alive by her three friends.

Her mother cannot find a cause to channel her anger and misery after the burning. It’s an isolated incident; the girls were arrested the following day. There won’t be a ‘Joni Wilson Bill’ to prevent school shootings or drunk driving, to fund leukemia research or mental health resources. Despite being such a terrible, life-altering event, it goes unremarked upon in the national news cycle as it cannot be placed in a larger context.

Years after her death, true crime podcasts (incidentally one is named Cliterati, which would make a great username for a book reviewer) attempt exactly that. The novel is told as the nonfiction account of a journalist visiting the town to set the record straight, to clear up any misconceptions around the case. As the tale progresses, we learn about Tumblr accounts and cyberbullying, pagan fixations and local legend.

It’s easy to say Clark bites off more than she can chew by trying to capture all of these topics, by trying to paint a picture of four lives and a town in a relatively short novel. If we look at all of these plot point, however, it becomes apparent that they’re constituents of that emptiness: paganism to fill the void of weak or no religiosity, history to replace interesting contemporary events, social media to replace meaningful interpersonal reaction, cyberbullying to replace more real struggle, subtle sexism and racism to replace subjugation.

Only a product of suburban malaise could write such a novel, but no-one can make it universal, transcending cultures and interesting regardless of class. To do so, the novel would have to be a more universal investigation of bourgeois alienation or depression, similar subjects, yes, but ones the storyline is not conducive towards. Clark realizes this and doesn’t try to do so; it’s clear the story is peculiarly British and distinctly of the 21st century. Unfortunately, however, for those who come from a different background, the vapidity is frustrating. You want to say “Get on with it and stop moping about. I don’t care.” It’s the classic unempathetic response to depression, but applied to a collective ennui. More importantly, by picking such a shallow muse, she limits herself and the story. Everything seems petty and trivial, and ultimately the book feels like a lot of moving parts and storylines for a one-note message—soft times -> soft people -> shallow lives -> pervasive ennui & mild depression -> simmering discontent manifesting in sporadic violence—that’s already apparent to most outside observers. The novel's a decent distraction from work, but little more.

Penance

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