Review: Kathryn Bromwich’s debut thriller is a writer to watch

A feverish dream of a novel with a greenhouse atmosphere cranked high, “At The Edge of the Woods” is notable for authoritarian bravado. Its slim volume may be reminiscent of classy literary classics, from “Wide Sargasso Sea” and “Heart of Darkness” to “Wuthering Heights” and “Rebecca,” but the first time British writer Kathryn Bromwich has written a delightful, if bizarre, wilderness story that is all her own. creation.

It appropriately begins with mystery. An unnamed lone woman tells of her “daily ritual”: “In the morning, when my thoughts have not yet arranged themselves in their familiar evil forms and the day is still unformed, I wake before dawn and wrap myself in layer after a layer of coarse dirt. , heavy clothes, and walk deep into the woods as my eyes adjust to the velvety darkness.

Later, in a village: “I make myself smaller, softer, susceptible to human interaction. I put on neat, clean clothes and open my mouth into a smile, which I practice in the mirror until it is gentle and appropriate.” Although she was “raised as a docile girl,” the woman has shed that skin.

Bromwich reveals the woman’s recent past in boldly stylized chapters. She stumbled upon the remote cabin after getting off a train traveling to Italy via France. In the hut and surrounding forest – balms applied to her inner being – she studies “strange subversive novels of Russian existentialists”, as well as alchemical studies and French occultism. At night, she loosens her mind with “laudanum and cheap wine.” (Although the specific time frame is never disclosed, the woman’s purchases of laudanum in the pharmacy and references to telegrams suggest the early 20th century. Again, for Bromwich, historical veracity is not a cardinal rule.)

While the woman, Senora Laura Mantovani, may be on a healing journey, her unconventional choices, like the second path of Robert Frost’s poem, make all the difference.

Mantovani shows her ‘wild edges’ and describes strenuous walks in the woods, taking a lover from the village and creating a garden of magical fertility. She reveals a disturbing dependence on laudanum and further sketches her past. Born in Italy, she was adopted by a French aristocrat, a “terrible man” who now fills her with “a poisonous and overwhelming hatred.” He is cruel and abusive – calls her “a bad investment – damaged goods” and threatens to send her back to “the sewers” where she found her – and becomes mean as she gets older (Mantovani is not yet 40). In turn, she plans an escape.

After a sudden illness, Senora Mantovani Baudelaire reads and talks about a changed world that also highlights Bromwich’s maximalist prose: “The decrepit tree leaning against the windshield is still decayed, but its desiccation has taken on a kind of mournful beauty: its branches its frail phalanges, reaching out with a desire that reminds me of a consumptive heroine.

Sensing a profound change in herself and in the attitude of the villagers towards her – her hut is defaced with graffiti: “witch, bitch, witch – not very imaginative, I must say” – she begins to spin.

It “is hard to be sure of anything in these woods,” notes Senora Mantovani, perhaps reminding readers of another literary classic written closer to home: Margaret Atwood’s 1972 novel, “Surfacing.”

Beware of the forest, whispers Bromwich’s exquisite tale, their gifts are Trojan.

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