In Grace Murray's witty and assured debut novel, an emotionally detached English student at a New York college tells a big lie, sparking a exploration of truth and deception. The lie—claiming her father has died when he is alive in Lichfield, England—serves as a catalyst for Charlotte's relationship with fellow student Katarina and an unpacking of her psychology.
Murray's prose is energisingly precise and original, with the campus setting providing rich comedy and social commentary. The art school satire is excellent, as when Charlotte's academic adviser says, 'We don't like failing people here,' and she responds, 'I know,' recalling previous student projects like 'de-shelled M&Ms' and 'a felt-tip drawing of Jeff Buckley'. The comedy is perfectly judged, never overplayed.
But this is also a sad novel. Charlotte's relationship with Katarina is doomed from the start, undermined by Charlotte's deception and emotional detachment. Murray creates a distinct sense of the women's opposing natures: Katarina's buoyant sweetness versus Charlotte's coldness. Charlotte admits, 'Lying was one of the only things I did for myself, the only time I felt active, a real person.'
Occasionally, Charlotte's dissociated voice feels overdone early on, but the cumulative effect is powerful. There is a subtle shift towards greater depth and emotion as the novel progresses. By the end, Charlotte's narration has changed from deliberately alienating to deeply moving, with scarcely a false note.
Murray resists a neat, sentimental resolution. One reservation is a late-stage revelation that partially explains Charlotte's lie; it feels underexplored. Overall, however, Murray displays keen narrative instincts and a perfect ear for prose. At just 22, she has written a superb debut for a writer of any age.
