Vertigo

August 10, 2015
Walsh’s penetrating short story collection evokes the titular feeling of dizziness. “I sense no anchorage,” the narrator says in the title story, “I will pitch forward, outward and upward.” It’s a statement true of both the writing and the women in it; all share a detached tone, as if speaking from the end of a tunnel, and what one character describes as “uncontrol,” lives lived in language more than action. This continuity of tone often makes it difficult to tell where one narrative drops off and another begins, as the stories are linked loosely together in flashes of syntax, which read like poetry and sometimes retreat into italicized, third-person meditations. In “Claustrophobia,” a woman’s relationship with food runs parallel to her relationship with her mother. In “New Year’s Day” a woman’s description of a party where “everyone knew how to keep some distance” is joined to her lover’s recounting, a moment later, of all the women he’s cheated on her with. “Online” is about a woman who discovers her husband has been online dating. Any navigational difficulties are worthwhile, as Walsh is an inventive, honest writer. In her world, objects may be closer and far more intricate than they appear; these stories offer a compelling pitch into the inner life.

Starred review from August 1, 2015
Less a collection of linked short stories-though it is that, too-than a cinematic montage, a collection of photographs, or a series of sketches, Walsh's book would be dreamlike if it weren't so deliciously sharp. At an oyster restaurant looking over the French sea, a women contemplates the likelihood that her husband is currently having an affair. "Where my husband is, it is not lunchtime yet," she says. "If my husband sleeps with the woman he will do so in the evening. As he has not yet done so, as he has not yet even begun to travel to the city where she lives, to which he is obliged to travel for work whether he sleeps with her or no, and as I am here in the oyster restaurant at lunchtime in another country, there is nothing I can do to prevent this." This is Walsh at her best, towing the line between an equation and a poem. The rest of the stories are equally precise. "Vertigo" is a snapshot of the family's holiday among ruins ("predicated on spending as little as possible"). In "In the Children's Ward," the woman waits for news from a nurse with kissing kittens printed on her apron. For the woman-for women in general, perhaps-Walsh's vision of domestic life requires an identity in constant flux. With the witty and unsettling "Young Mothers," Walsh presents motherhood as a kind of regression: "Pregnant, we already wore dresses for massive 2 year olds." In "Online," the woman finds her husband's digital affairs and tries on his lovers' personas. "What do you like for breakfast?" she asks him, not untheatrically-the difference between her and the lovers is that she already knows the answer. ("That is where the women online have the advantage," she observes.) With wry humor and profound sensitivity, Walsh (Fractals, 2013) takes what is mundane and transforms it into something otherworldly with sentences that can make your heart stop. A feat of language.

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