Rachel Cusk is not a people pleaser. The prolific, award-winning British author’s novels are often plotless, discursive and frustratingly obtuse. Yet Cusk has found a large fan base for her work, mainly because she is a deft excavator of the human psyche, a writer who can articulate emotional states with uncanny precision and insight.
On a formal level, Cusk’s new book, “Life Of M,” closely adheres to the rigorously calibrated approach that has been so successful for her across 11 novels. In classic Cusk fashion, “Life of M” unfolds from the inside out. It is resolutely internal and hermetic, told from the point of view of a highly observant and self-conscious narrator. When Cusk writes that a character’s smile “had a sweetness that almost seemed to reproach those who looked at it for their dim and suspicious view of life,” it’s that “almost” which saves the line from sinking of its own weight, one of Cusk’s nuanced brushstrokes that give her prose lift and bounce.
“Life of M” is a two-hander. The primary driver of the narrative is an unnamed writer who has approached a famous actor — the M of the title — with the proposition of ghosting her autobiography. This is the extent of Cusk’s setup. The novel is about as stark and stripped of biographical details as a Samuel Beckett story. Cusk is far more interested in how the writer’s identity is unmoored by the actor, and how the world bends to M’s will and thus changes its shape in her presence: “Standing in the street, I realized that I could not be myself around M. She was friendly, generous, disarmingly modest, yet everything I did or said in her company was false. It was as if I was acting, while M came across as authentic and real.”
Interspersed between these scenes are chapters that shift time and tone. They appear at first to be the writer’s own story, reflections on the past and life apart from M; the “we” in these sections might be referring to siblings or partners. But they are too strange to be memoiristic: “In the evening we flower; like strange nocturnal plants we put out our display.” Then: “Even if we spend the evening at home this feeling of integration, or our interior and our exterior fusing together, occurs.” Are we in M’s head? Is the collective pronoun meant to be a proxy for her private and public selves? These sections are the least effective parts of Cusk’s book, as they are frustratingly indeterminate and hazy.
As the writer and the actor spend time together, and the narrator tries to pry open some small window into M’s psyche, the process of gathering material is constantly being thwarted by M’s casual instructability. It seems M has perfected the art of using candor as a carapace, so that the image of her authentic self recedes the more Cusk’s writer spends time with her. M is not governed by the usual impulses of the civilian; she has no use for love or hate, desire or abnegation. “Acting involved pretending to be other people, whose own emotional states —such as she understood them — could preoccupy her for a time,” writes Cusk. “Once they were completed, she was as locked out of these recordings as the millions of other eyes that watched them.”
M and the writer move through highly mediated spaces that amplify certain features and downgrade others, a kind of edited, hyperreal landscape. M researches a part in a mansion that has been meticulously art-directed to resemble the house of a family who in fact never lived there. Cusk describes these spaces in great detail, as if they were fetish objects. The mansion’s interior is “not heavy or dark,” she writes, “rather it is light and mellow and the panels have finely carved patterns around their edges.” It is the seduction of surfaces Cusk is exploring here, the ways we are taken in by so much that is chimerical: lavish interiors, actors, our own doubled selves.
Cusk has previously explored this gap between truth and signifiers of truth in her “Outline” trilogy. But “Life of M” feels different, perhaps because the world feels far different than it did eight years ago, when “Kudos,” the last book in the trilogy, was published. Now that we have fallen straight through the looking glass of the internet, that gap has narrowed to the extent that we are having far greater difficulty discerning reality from its uncanny simulations. Sadly, we are complicit in this occluding of authentic experience. Millions of us toggle so frequently between our real lives and the well-curated fantasyland of our social media personas that it’s scrambled our neural pathways. We are living the double consciousness of public figures no less readily than a celebrity like M. The notion of a “complete inversion of internal and external that fame brings about” is no longer exclusive to the famous.
According to internet gossip, Cusk’s M is in fact a shadow portrait of Natalie Portman. And there are strong hints in the text that indicate this might be the case. But to think of this novel solely as a journey to the center of Portman’s mind is not only irrelevant; it cheapens Cusk’s project. What the novelist is getting at here resonates far beyond a single celebrity. This is a short, potent book that has much to say about the spiritual rot of our present culture.
Weingarten is the author of “Thirsty: William Mulholland, California Water and the Real Chinatown.”
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