On the contrary, the writing is poised – but as if on the edge of a precipice. By using words like ruminative or meditative to describe the book, I am not implying it is messy or haphazard. She would page through medical textbooks, looking at images of 'bodies dissected or described', reading case files and contemplating 'all the many ways there are to see inside ourselves and still I feel that, correctly understood, they might constitute a key – '. One section details the period after her mother’s death when she would spend days and days reading aimlessly about science and history, seeking 'a way to understand myself by analogy, a pattern recognised in other lives which might be drawn across my own to give it shape and, given shape, to give it impetus, direction'. The narrative brushes back and forth in time, bringing unexpected connections to the surface. Sight is narrated by a nameless young woman who, pregnant with her second child, meditates on her mother’s death and its aftermath, her relationship with her psychoanalyst grandmother, and how difficult it was to decide to have her first baby.
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