Like Shakespeare’s Sonnets, ‘Practice’ Finds Beauty in Digression

PRACTICE, by Rosalind Brown

A novel that is mostly about the deskbound drama of study: The heart quickens, no? Not for all readers, I suppose. In search of larger stakes, novels of student life have generally scanted the slow labor of scholarship as such, or the reckless midnight dash to the term-paper deadline.

Instead, as in Evelyn Waugh’s “Brideshead Revisited,” university may involve champagne, plovers’ eggs and the “low door in the wall” to gilded love and disappointment. Or more sober lessons about sex and capital — as in the novels of Sally Rooney. “We read in order to come to life,” says the narrator of Claire-Louise Bennett’s “Checkout 19.” It is hard to think, however, of a novel that describes as precisely as Rosalind Brown’s “Practice” does what happens when an ardent young person sits down to read and learn and write.

It is January 2009 and Annabel, an undergraduate at Oxford, is preparing to write an essay about Shakespeare’s sonnets that’s due tomorrow. “Essay” here means, Oxbridge-style, a short piece on a theme of the student’s choosing, to be presented at a weekly tutorial. Annabel wakes early on a Sunday in her dorm room; admires a pre-dawn darkness that seems to her “like the beginning, or maybe the end, of a novel”; huddles against the cold she hopes will keep her focused and addresses herself to what William Wordsworth called “the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground.” (The phrase supplies Brown with an epigraph.)

Annabel’s intention is to become all heart and mind, but the irritant body insists on intervening. She drags herself to the bathroom, makes breakfast, frets about the effect of coffee on her metabolism, thinks about the older man she’s seeing and wonders whether to masturbate. All the while, the sonnets “gaze whitely back at her.”