Intimacy is a novel that begins with a conclusion. Kureishi's narrator Jay has made a decision, the kind of decision that is usually reserved for the end of a novel, to leave his partner and his children. Jay has decided to walk out on his cosy life of middle-class, Guardian reading domesticity, in order to pursue his dreams. His dreams are nebulous, self-deluding and driven in the most part by a desire for freedom, for blank pages in his diary and for a young girl around whom he has built a rather shaky edifice of erotic and romantic fantasy. It is early evening when the novel begins. He has resolved to leave in the morning. This is a narrative of waiting, a long night of painful self analysis, of resentment, confusion, love and fear. Its brilliance lies in Kureishi's ability to allow the reader total empathy with but almost no sympathy for his protagonist. Jay is by turns childlike, childish, adolescent and bitterly adult. Above all, he is unrelievedly self absorbed. He is a man so well acquainted with himself (though sadly lacking in self-knowledge) that his painstakingly depicted masturbation is like an act of tired, well-worn and loveless marital sex.

This is an almost unbearably sad novel, an appallingly honest and almost anatomical dissection of 'the modern relationship'. The novel's central and irretrievably broken partnership is balanced by the marriage of the narrator's oldest friend, a man evangelically committed to fine ideals such as life-long partnership, honour and free education, a man who sits content in his conservatory whilst he and his beautiful wife read Christina Rossetti to one another. Kurieshi, however, presents this relationship as a kind of misplaced fragment of Victoriana, a sliver of palatable fiction in the midst of his harshly realist and contemporary narrative.

If this novel is autobiography then one can only wince in sympathy for Kurieshi's partner (presumably now ex), exposed in all her flawed vulnerability by his childish cruelty and unremittingly personal criticisms. If it is pure fiction then one must admire Kureishi's ability to project himself so entirely and convincingly into the role of middle-class, middle-aged, middle-brow loser. If, as I suspect, Intimacy, comes under the beautifully ambiguous genre of fictive autobiography, then Kureishi deserves praise for resisting the temptation to aggrandise his own fictional persona. No one comes out of this novel looking worse than the protagonist himself. This is a book of unnerving honesty; disturbing, powerful and intensely personal, a novel that runs on the aggressive energy of self-loathing. Though occasionally bitterly funny, Intimacy is pretty much relentlessly dark. he ambiguity of the ending does nothing to alleviate the gloom. Don't expect too much Kureishi's usual charm from this novel. This is a real departure from the norm. Don't expect to be cheered or heartwarmed either. If you feel that you need confirmation that the modern heterosexual relationship is an unsustainable anomaly, then this is the book for you.

Reviewed by Polly Rance

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