A very poignant and emotively written narrative focusing on the life of Lucia Joyce, daughter of the Irish writer James Joyce. From the very beginning of the novel the angst is evident and the force of the writing never lets up until the end. The first person narrative allows the reader to see into the hidden psyche of the very troubled and complicated Lucia, through her journey and final descent into mental illness, and exploring her complex and destructive relationship with her family: the contrasting love and frustration between her and her father; her anger, bitterness and eventual hatred between her and her mother; and the controversial exploration of her relationship with her brother.
Throughout the novel the biographical details are presented to the reader, focusing chronologically on the years 1928-1934, with Lucia telling her story of the events of these years, interspersed with episodes when she is under the care and guidance of Carl Jung at his psychiatric clinic in Zurich. Reading her story and imagining walking in her shoes gives the tale a sense of urgency and focus that makes it impossible not to spiral into the madness of the world she exists in: the affairs which never really take off; the imaginary and, ultimately, unrequited dreams of love and marriage; the complexity of the family unit and their inscrutable way of life; the talent for dance that just fades into nothing. All of these things combined cannot fail to move the reader and make us feel a deep sense of sorrow at what seems to be a pointless and unfulfilled life, leading to a feeling of deep dissatisfaction by the end of the novel - not as a result of the excellent language, descriptions, and overall style of the author, but at the sheer pointlessness of a life that never seems to go anywhere, despite such promise.

This fictionalised account of the life of Lucia Joyce, James Joyce’s poor disturbed daughter, just didn’t work for me. There was so much I didn’t like about it. I’ve nothing against fictionalising the lives of real people but such accounts need to be based on the reality of the lives, and Abbs admits that she had very little to go on. Most of the primary sources were destroyed and Lucia’s life is very little documented. So Abbs made most of it up. Not so much the actual verifiable facts, but the dialogue, conversations and most importantly Lucia’s thoughts - even though Abbs tells us herself that she could find out almost nothing about Lucia’s inner life. So what do we have left? A romanticised tale of an emotionally damaged young woman who saw her dreams of success as a dancer thwarted by family pressure , whose relationships came to nothing, and who ended up in a mental asylum, alienated from her mother and brother although still cared for by her father, who, however, could do nothing to help her. That mush is verifiable. But we can be sure of so little else that occurs in this novel. Her relationship with Beckett is undocumented, as is that with Alexander Calder. We don’t know whether she ever met Zelda Fitzgerald, although Abbs has her doing so. We don’t know what questions Jung asked her when she was in analysis as her medical records have been destroyed. And we certainly don’t know whether there was incest within the family – and to suggest so on no evidence seems completely unjustifiable. Abbs hasn’t just used her imagination to fill out the few known facts, she has simply invented virtually everything and for me that is unforgivable. The portrait we have here of Lucia is really the only one we have and we don’t know if any of it is true. I don’t even think it is very good as a novel. The dialogue is often clunky. Nora Barnacle speaks a sort of stage Irish (did she speak like this?) and the romantic interludes with Becket et al are straight out of Mills and Boon. I am well aware that the book has garnered many accolades and enthusiastic reviews and that I stand alone here, but stand alone I must. Read with caution.