On attention, slowness, and the quiet elation of reading Sally Rooney

Reading Sally Rooney always has this effect. I forget it between books, bemused and slightly put off by the unhinged hype that surrounds a Rooney release, but as soon I’m back within her pages, I feel it—this warm glow that starts small, a hum in the back of my throat, and grows into a kind of quiet, invisible elation. The effect of the Sally Rooney novel lasts even after I’ve slipped the bookmark inside, to start work or go to sleep. My surroundings look more vibrant. Or warmer. I am pleased by how soft my duvet feels when I slide my legs from left to right. I sip coffee and stare into the distance, like an indie movie heroine on a train. My mood is lifted.

What I’m describing is attention—nebulous as it is, and so difficult, I'm realising, to describe. What Rooney does, when you read her sentences slowly and carefully—rather than in a giant glug like I instinctively want to do—is zero in on detail. She seems to love to describe detail. Not in the 19th and 20th century novelist way of page-long descriptions of landscape, but on tiny detail. The placement of a hand on a thigh. The colour and texture of a sofa cushion. Read her sex scenes. They got on for pages. There is no cutting to the morning after. No, she wants us to know how these characters move, talk, smell, react.

I find this with Deborah Levy’s writing too, and I think I’ve written about it here before. I re-read Levy’s trilogy of memoirs when my dad was seriously ill in hospital a few years ago and her attention to detail focussed my mind in a way that was deeply comforting. I enjoyed the ritual of boiling the kettle and pouring the water over the tea bag while life felt about as far from enjoyable as it’s possible to be. To just concentrate on what I was doing in that moment. That felt good and peaceful.

As a person with regular and severe anxiety this practice of attention is hugely relieving. I was going into London last week for a talk at the Southbank Centre with a friend. We met beforehand for pizza and a glass of wine and then walked towards the river, past the huge circular IMAX cinema and commuters rushing towards Waterloo station. It was strangely warm, for October, humid and a little uncomfortable. I was also reminded, as soon as I walked into the Southbank Centre of a panic attack I’d had in there years ago. Needless to say, I started to feel anxious soon after we’d taken our seats. The lights dimmed and the speakers walked onto the stage. I started to think about escape, about worse case scenarios, how I was going to get home as quickly as possible (not easy, I live a long way away from Central London). But then something stilled, almost as suddenly as the panic had sprung. I drank some water. I listened to the podcaster on the stage talking about my favourite podcast series: being funny, being interesting. She was on stage and looked so relaxed. I could barely stay in my auditorium seat, I thought. What a skill she has—how inspiring. I did stay. I crossed my legs, shimmied down in my seat a bit and started to relax. I payed attention to what was being said on the stage, I looked around at the incredible theatre space I was in. I felt cultured and happy to be sitting beside my friend who I don’t get to see very often. I enjoyed myself and when the event was finished I hugged my friend goodbye and felt elated on the journey home.

Related to all of this is something I am constantly striving to do: to live more slowly, more deliberately. I was getting good at it, my stress levels were pretty low. I was—as I’m sure most holistic therapists would commend me for—going about my daily routine with a sense of purpose and mindfulness. (Very demure). I actually think it’s kind of revolutionary. The effect that something as simple as paying attention to what you are doing with your body has. I would make my morning coffee not in an under-slept, chaotic haze (which by the way is not quicker) but calmly. When the bathroom needed cleaning I’d just put a podcast on, or an audiobook, and methodically make my space a nicer one to be in.

I got bad at it again though, over the summer. When work got busier and I got more stressed. I felt under pressure constantly. For most of June, July and August I was finishing a day of work and flopping onto the sofa, mindlessly scrolling, putting off going into the kitchen to cook dinner, getting hungrier and grumpier by the second. I’d make dinner in a crazed attempt at speed. Leaving detritus all over the sides and the kitchen floor. Seemingly not realising that if my mindset was different I’d probably save myself the extra work that my chaos was causing.

Autumn is here now. My favourite time of year. And though nothing has really changed—the level of work, pressure and social engagements is pretty much the same—I had a minor breakthrough a couple of weeks ago. A holiday to Norfolk and catching up on sleep helped, but yes, my brain feels less chaotic. My days feel less chaotic. I’m making time to bake and listen to music and go for a walk, and when work feels stressful or difficult I’m feeling more able to take a step back and see the situation for what it is (usually: people being unreasonable).

That chaotic time over the summer also coincided with (caused?) a complete inability to concentrate on a book. It was infuriating. (Audiobooks helped). My concentration is back now, so not only am I physically able to read Intermezzo with any kind of momentum, but I’m also reaping the rewards of Rooney’s ability to make you slow down and enjoy her work on a sentence level. It’s unique—normally I find I either read with momentum, barely taking in the sentences in order, just ploughing forward to find out what happens next. Or I read slowly and deliberately to fully enjoy the craft of the sentence. The emphasis on atmosphere and skill as opposed to what is happening to the characters.

It’s October—arguably the best month of the year. It’s time to lie on the sofa all afternoon with the fire blazing and a book open in your lap. Slowness and attention abound. I think I’m at my happiest when I feel calm. Perhaps calm, contentment, is what I should strive for instead of happiness. One generally follows the other, and if not—at least there’s some peace. Sometimes it comes easily and sometimes it doesn’t. That’s life I suppose. I just know that rushing through life makes me stressed and sad, and taking my time—to watch an episode of Detectorists before bed (the most gentle tv show!) or to tidy up or to bake something comforting—makes life feel easier.