Sarah Orman delivers a rare literary critique that treats fiction not as escapism, but as a diagnostic tool for our fractured reality. Rather than simply reviewing plots, Orman dissects how Sarah Moss uses the mechanics of narration to expose the fragility of the human body and the suffocating weight of social expectation. For a reader navigating a world defined by isolation and uncertainty, this piece offers a masterclass in how literature can articulate the unspeakable.
The Architecture of Memory and Dissociation
Orman begins by anchoring the discussion in Moss's memoir, My Good, Bright Wolf, framing it as a complex exploration of anorexia that refuses the standard first-person confession. Orman writes, "Moss's solution—including the voices in italics that I could hear in Morven Christie's brilliant audiobook reading—reminds me of one of the best writing pieces of writing advice I've ever received: 'Put the problem on the page.'" This structural choice is not merely stylistic; it is a psychological necessity. By shifting to a second-person address and then a detached third-person narrative during the author's relapse, Moss effectively conveys the profound dissociation that accompanies severe eating disorders.
The commentary highlights how Moss interrogates the literary canon itself, noting that the memoir is "a book made of other books." Orman observes that Moss's unflinching analysis of classics like Little House on the Prairie" forces readers to reconsider "literary heroines, whiteness, and restraint." This is a bold move, suggesting that the stories we consume in childhood actively shape our relationship with our own bodies. Orman notes that while some might find the literary exegesis dense, the result is a narrative that is "weirder and wilder than this description implies," as Katy Waldman wrote in The New Yorker*.
Critics might argue that blending literary criticism with personal trauma risks diluting the emotional impact of the memoir, yet Orman convincingly argues that the analysis deepens the tragedy by showing how cultural narratives fuel the disorder. The memoir's use of fairy tale archetypes, such as the "owl" father and the "wolf" protector, transforms a personal struggle into a mythic journey, allowing the reader to witness the author's internal battle without being overwhelmed by it.
"The Fell reveals the inescapable truth that we are all connected even when we seem to be at our most isolated."
The Physics of Isolation and the Pandemic Experience
Moving to Moss's fiction, Orman shifts focus to The Fell, a novel set during the pandemic that captures the specific terror of confinement. Orman writes, "Reading Moss's pandemic novel reminded me that my pandemic in a red state in the U.S. was entirely different from other people's pandemic." This distinction is crucial; Orman uses the book to illustrate how the same global event manifests differently depending on geography and circumstance. The novel's protagonist, Kate, breaks quarantine not out of malice, but out of a desperate need for air, driven by the belief that "houses need to breathe."
Orman points out the ambiguity of Kate's actions, noting that Moss "leaves it to the reader to decide whether Kate is actually suicidal or just driven to the brink by lack of human contact." This refusal to provide a clear moral judgment is what makes the novel so powerful. Orman paraphrases the book's emotional core, describing the perspective of Kate's son, Matt, who waits for news in a state of suspended animation. The commentary highlights a specific passage where Matt smashes his mother's deodorant bottle, a moment of raw grief that Orman describes as "almost unbearably poignant."
The argument here is that the true horror of the pandemic was not just the virus, but the social fragmentation it caused. Orman suggests that The Fell is a "new kind of pandemic novel" where "the possibility of infection is less terrifying than the other consequences of Kate's decision to leave the house." This reframing challenges the dominant narrative of the era, shifting the focus from biological survival to the psychological cost of isolation.
The Surveillance of the Self in *Summerwater*
In her analysis of Summerwater, Orman draws a parallel to Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, describing the novel as "Mrs. Dalloway at the loch." The piece explores how Moss captures the "shut-in energy" of a society under lockdown, even though the book was written before the pandemic. Orman writes, "There is a sense of surveillance; we catch glimpses of the other characters through each narrator's eyes, often behind windows." This technique creates a claustrophobic atmosphere where the external world feels both threatening and inaccessible.
Orman highlights the novel's treatment of Brexit as a background disaster, noting how a young girl tells a child of an immigrant family, "You're supposed to have left, you know, people like you, did you not get the message?" This moment underscores the novel's central theme: the erosion of community and the rise of xenophobia. Orman argues that Moss is a "master class in close third person," capable of inhabiting the minds of characters who are often at odds with one another.
The commentary also touches on the physicality of Moss's characters, particularly the middle-aged Justine, who goes for a run at 5 a.m. to escape the noise of her neighbors. Orman notes the irony in Justine's internal monologue, where she criticizes the neighbors while simultaneously judging her own husband's behavior. "It puts you off, lying there listening to aggressive peeing from someone who could perfectly well just bloody sit down but won't because in his head the masculinity police are watching," Orman quotes, illustrating how internalized social norms dictate even the most private moments.
The Weight of History in *Ghost Wall*
Finally, Orman examines Ghost Wall, a novel set in an Iron Age reenactment that serves as a critique of patriarchal control. Orman writes, "Does anyone really doubt what will happen when a modern-day patriarch gets to spend a few days pretending that he's transported himself and his dependents 2,500 years into the past?" The novel's protagonist, Silvie, is trapped in a simulation of ancient brutality that mirrors the oppression she faces in her own life.
Orman connects this fictional narrative to Moss's own memoir, suggesting that the author often sends an "emissary" to watch over her younger self. In Ghost Wall, this emissary is Molly, an older girl who befriends Silvie. Orman writes, "Through the older girl, like she did with the wolf, Moss appears to be sending an emissary to keep watch over younger versions of herself." This recurring motif highlights Moss's interest in female solidarity as a form of resistance against systemic abuse.
The commentary concludes by noting Moss's unique approach to her craft. Orman quotes Moss on the relationship between running and writing: "If I'm writing or about to write, I think about my book almost all the time except when I'm running or knitting." This separation of physical and mental labor suggests that for Moss, the act of writing is a continuous, internal process that requires moments of physical release to sustain. Orman argues that this discipline is what allows Moss to maintain such a high level of narrative control, even when dealing with the most chaotic and disturbing subject matter.
Bottom Line
Orman's commentary succeeds in elevating Sarah Moss from a popular novelist to a vital voice for our times, proving that her work offers more than just entertainment—it offers a mirror to our collective anxieties. The piece's greatest strength lies in its ability to connect the intimate details of Moss's narrative techniques to the broader social and political currents of the last decade. However, the analysis occasionally assumes a level of familiarity with literary theory that may alienate readers seeking a simpler introduction, though this is a minor flaw in an otherwise brilliant dissection. Readers should watch for how Moss's exploration of isolation and memory continues to evolve as the world moves from the pandemic era into a new phase of global uncertainty.