Cover image for Emotionally weird : a novel
Emotionally weird : a novel
Atkinson, Kate.
Personal Author:
First Picador USA edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Picador USA, 2000.
Physical Description:
343 pages, 2 pages ; 25 cm
General Note:
"First published in Great Britain by Doubleday ..."--T.p. verso.
Format :


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X Adult Fiction Central Closed Stacks
X Adult Fiction Open Shelf

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Critical acclaim for Kate Atkinson:"Startlingly original" (Johanna Stoberock, The Seattle Times)"Really comic, really tragic, bracingly unsentimental." (The Boston Sunday Globe"An effervescent, affecting delight." (Rebecca Radner, The San Francisco Examiner Chronicle)"Atkinson's language is a joy." (Valerie Sayers, Commonweal)"Full of ambiguities and neat surprises." (Katharine Weber, The New York Times Book Review)"Vivid and intriguing....fizzes and crackles along." (Penelope Lively, The Independent)"Luminescent....sure and sophisticated, poetic and darkly comic."(Amanda Heller, The Boston Globe)On a weather-beaten island off the coast of Scotland, Effie and her mother, Nora, take refuge in the large, mouldering house of their ancestors and tell each other stories.Nora, at first, recounts nothing that Effie really wants to hear-like who her real father was.Effie tells various versions of her life at college, where in fact she lives in a lethargic relationship with bob, a student who never goes to lectures, seldom gets out of bed, and to whom Klingons are as real as the French and the Germans.But as mother and daughter spin their tales, strange things are happening around them.Why is Effie being followed?Is someone killing the old people?And where is the mysterious yellow dog?In a brilliant comic narrative which explores the nonsensical power of language and meaning, Kate Atkinson has created another magical masterpiece.

Author Notes

Kate Atkinson was born in York, and studied English Literature at the University of Dundee. She earned her Masters Degree from Dundee in 1974. She then went on to study for a doctorate in American Literature but she failed at the viva (oral examination) stage. After leaving the university, she took on a variety of jobs from home help to legal secretary and teacher. Her first novel, Behind the Scenes at the Museum, won the 1995 Whitbread Book of the Year ahead of Salman Rushdie's The Moor's Last Sigh and Roy Jenkins's biography of William Ewart Gladstone. It went on to be a Sunday Times bestseller.

Since then, she has published another five novels, one play, and one collection of short stories. Her work is often celebrated for its wit, wisdom and subtle characterisation, and the surprising twists and plot turns. Her most recent work has featured the popular former detective Jackson Brodie. In 2009, she donated the short story Lucky We Live Now to Oxfam's 'Ox-Tales' project, four collections of UK stories written by 38 authors. Atkinson's story was published in the 'Earth' collection. In March 2010, Atkinson appeared at the York Literature Festival, giving a world-premier reading from an early chapter from her forthcoming novel Started Early, Took My Dog, which is set mainly in the English city of Leeds.

Atkinson's bestselling novel, Life after Life, has won numerous awards, including the COSTA Novel Award for 2013. The follow-up to Life After Life is A God in Ruins and was published in 2015. This title won a Costa Book Award 2015 in the novel category.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 3

Booklist Review

Alone on a small, blighted island off the coast of Scotland, at a deserted ancestral house, Effie and her mother, Nora, tell each other stories to pass the time. Revising one certain story as she goes along, Effie offers up her mundane life at college, where dodging professors, writing papers, and figuring out how to break up with her Star Trekjunkie boyfriend without his noticing consume most of her day. However, to keep Nora happy, Effie spices up her story with a suspicion of murder, the disappearance of a yellow dog, and the possibility of being followed by a stranger. Nora, on the other hand, avoids telling Effie the one story she desperately needs to hear--the truth about her biological father. Effie's and Nora's stories begin to overlap and converge in a way that is unexpected. Atkinson's smart, funny novel explores the power of storytelling and blurs the line between fact and fiction to the point where readers are never quite sure what is real and what is only a really good story. --Carolyn Kubisz

Publisher's Weekly Review

When Atkinson's first novel, Behind the Scenes at the Museum, beat out Salman Rushdie's The Moor's Last Sigh for the 1995 Whitbread Book of the Year Award, a controversy in the British press ensued. But this imaginative and unconventional writer strikes back at her detractors in her third book (after Human Croquet), skewering the academic literary establishment with understated but spot-on humor, while telling an imaginative tale both outrageously funny and poignantly human: Tom Robbins meets John Irving. Euphemia "Effie" Andrews, a 21-year-old Scot and student at the University of Dundee, arrives at a remote, barren Scottish island to swap life stories with her mother, Nora. Effie comes with a slew of tales about the free-love and druggy chaos of her early 1970s college life, and also armed with questions for Nora, determined to learn the truth about their family history. That is, if Nora is her mother, and if any of the stories either of them tell are true ("My mother is a virgin"). These are unreliable narrators in top form, keeping readers guessing delightedly throughout. The author uses different fonts to intertwine several narratives, including hilarious entries from Effie's, and her classmates', novels-in-progress, while these excerpts are interrupted by Nora's snide commentary. Effie's academic hijinks may be a bit exaggerated, since she's slogging along on a paper on George Eliot while living with occasional electricity and a continually stoned boyfriend. But truly alarming things are happening in Dundee: someone is killing residents of a retirement home, and a strange woman is following Effie. While the narrators' constant backtalk can be tiresome, Atkinson's clever and sophisticated prose preserves the voices' sparkling energy. Readers may guess the family secret before it is revealed, but that doesn't steal any thunder from the unsettling and utterly original denouement. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

Stories within stories clutter the landscape of this second novel by Atkinson, whose Behind the Scenes at the Museum won the Whitbread Award in 1995. It is 1972, and 20-year-old Effie and her 37-year-old mother, Nora, are holed up in the family cottage on a forsaken Scottish island, where they tell each other the secret details of their lives, sometimes truthfully, sometimes not. Effie's narration concerns her and her slovenly, oddball University of Dundee classmates, detailing bits and pieces of their master's theses in between scenes of their dodging the homework demands of their psychologically messy professors. Nora is equally cagey about her own story, which ultimately reveals the identity of Effie's father. Atkinson is a clever writer, suffusing her work with fresh humor, sharp word play, and the occasional touch of magic realism. But readers will find themselves agreeing with Nora's directional asides to Effie (speed up the pace, too many characters) as they stay with this overlong tale, hoping for more surprises than there are. For larger libraries.--Beth E. Andersen, Ann Arbor Dist. Lib., MI (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



Chapter One A MONDAY MORNING AND MY DREAMS WERE INTERRUPTED AT SOME unearthly hour by the doorbell ringing with a shrill urgency that implied death, tragedy or a sudden, unexpected inheritance. It was none of those things (not yet anyway), it was Terri. It was only seven o'clock and it seemed likely therefore that rather than being up early she hadn't actually been to bed at all.     Small and thin, Terri was dressed, as usual, in the manner of a deranged Victorian governess. She had the pale pallor of a three-day-old corpse on her cheek and, despite the dark on the unlit stair, was wearing Wayfarer Ray-Bans.     Although I had opened the door, Terri's finger remained on the doorbell, as if she had been struck by rigor morris while pressing it. I forcibly removed the finger, almost having to break it in the process. She held out a hand, palm up, and said, `Give me your George Eliot essay,' her face as expressionless as an assassin's.     `Or what -- die?'     `Fuck off,' she said succinctly and lit up a cigarette in the manner of a film noir villainess. I shut the door on her and went back to bed and the warm, slack body of Bob with whom I lived in urban squalor in a festering tenement attic in Paton's Lane, former residence of Dundee's reviled yet noble-hearted poet, William Topaz McGonagall. Bob rolled over and muttered some of his usual sleep gibberish (`The leopard's going to miss the train!' `Got to find that radish,' and so on).     Bob, known by some people as `Magic Bob', but for reasons which were obscure and not based on any sleight-of-hand on Bob's part, was in fact an unmagic Essex boy, Ilford born and bred, although when he remembered, he affected a monotonous, vaguely northern accent to give himself more credibility with his peers.     Like me, Bob was a student at Dundee University but said that if he had been in charge of the university he would have thrown himself out. He seldom handed in an essay and considered it a point of honour never to go to a lecture and instead lived the slow life of a nocturnal sloth, smoking dope, watching television and listening to Led Zeppelin on his headphones.     Bob had recently discovered that he was in his final year of university, he had already repeated second year twice -- a university record -- and for a long time had presumed that somehow he would remain a student for ever, a misconception that had only recently been cleared up. He was supposed to be studying for a joint degree in English and Philosophy. If people asked him what his degree was in he always said `Joints,' which he thought was a brilliant joke. Bob's sense of humour, such as it was, had been developed by the Goons and honed by The Monkees. Bob's screen hero was Mickey Dolenz, right back to Mickey's early days as Corky in Circus Boy .     Bob was an unreconstructed kind of person, his other hero was Fritz the Cat and he had a complete lack of interest in anything that involved a sustained attention span. Nor was he political in any way, despite the three unopened volumes of Das Kapital on his bookshelf -- which he never could explain, although he had a vague memory of joining a radical Marxist splinter group after seeing If at the cinema. He was prone to the usual obsessions and delusions of boys his age -- the Klingons, for example, were as real for Bob as the French or the Germans, more real certainly than, say, Luxemburgers.     The doorbell rang again, less insistently this time, and when I opened the door Terri was still there. `Let me in,' she said weakly. `I think I've got frostbite.' Terri was a little mid-western princess, a cheerleader gone bad. She may have once had corn-fed kin back in the heartland (although it was easier to imagine her being hatched in the nest of a prehistoric bird) but in time they had all either died or abandoned her. Her father, an executive with Ford, had enrolled her in an English Quaker boarding-school during a brief secondment to Britain and had carelessly left her there on his return to Michigan.     Terri liked to keep her ethnic origins chameleon, sometimes hinting at Italian, sometimes pogrom-fleeing Russian, a touch of the Orient, a hint of the Hebrew. Only I knew the dull mongrel mix of Irish navvies, Dutch dairymen and Belgian coalminers who by mere genetic chance had given her the appearance of an exotic houri or a handmaiden of Poe. We were the best of friends, we were the worst of friends. We were the sisters we'd never had. I felt sorry for someone so at odds with the mainstream of humanity. Sometimes I wondered if my role in Terri's life wasn't to mediate between her and the living, like a vampire's assistant.     Although she hated staying in it, Terri did have her own ruffled lair in Cleghorn Street -- an unappealing cold-water flat that wasn't good for much other than storing her coffin of earth. In a rare fit of activity she had painted it purple throughout, a colour-scheme that did nothing to alleviate her own darkness. At least Terri, unlike myself, had worked out her future destiny -- she was going to marry a very old, very rich man and then `screw him to death'. She wouldn't be the first, but I doubted whether she would find a suitable candidate in Dundee.     I fumbled around in the dark for a candle. We were in the midst of a discontented winter of strikes and three-day weeks which meant there was no electricity this morning. If I had been capable of forethought, which I feared I never would be, I would have bought a torch by now. I would also have managed to acquire a Thermos flask. And a hot-water bottle. And batteries. I wondered how many three-day weeks it would take before civilization began to break down. Sooner for some than others, I supposed.     From the window I could see that across the water in Fife they had electricity. The houses of Newport and Wormit were studded with cheerful lights as more purposeful people than us embarked on their day. If it had been daylight we would have had a magnificent view of the rail bridge and its freight of trains, the black iron lacework curving lazily across a Tay that was sometimes silvery, often not, and which in today's dark dawnlight was like a ribbon of tar running past the city.     In the bedroom, Bob was still fast asleep. In these night-like days of hibernation his waking hours were even more severely curtailed than usual.     `The butterfly's got the cornflakes,' a sleepfaring Bob warned us in a loud voice.     `I don't know what you see in him,' Terri said.     `Neither do I,' I said gloomily.     It couldn't have been his looks that attracted me, as Bob looked much like everyone else did -- the Zapata moustache, the gold hoop earring, the greasy Royalist locks curling over badly deported shoulders. He looked, if anything, like a tramp -- an impression reinforced by the second-hand army boots and the oversized air-force greatcoat he habitually wore.     Bob had recently discovered the meaning of life, a discovery that seemed to have made no difference whatsoever to his everyday existence.     I met Bob the first week I was at university. I was already eighteen years old and thought that I could discern a certain librarian caste to my features and was afraid I would end up a lonely figure, forever wandering a spinster wasteland, and it was mere chance that Bob was the first person to cross my path the morning I decided to lose my virginity.     I met him when he ran me over. Bob was on a bicycle and I was on a pavement, which perhaps gives an indication of whose fault the accident was. I broke my wrist (or rather, Bob broke my wrist), and the exciting combination of circumstances -- drama, blood and a brown-eyed man -- all served to make me think that destiny had spoken and therefore I should listen.     Bob hit me because he swerved to miss a dog. The man who would sooner run over a woman than a dog introduced himself by bending over me where I lay on the pavement, staring at me in amazement, as if he'd never seen a woman before, and saying, `Wow, what a bummer.'     The dog came out of the accident unscathed, if a little surprised, and was returned to its tearful owner. Bob rode to the Dundee Royal Infirmary in the ambulance with me and had to be physically stopped from inhaling the gas and air. Terri had finally taken her sunglasses off after tripping over Bob's boots left carelessly in the middle of the floor. There were many drawbacks to living with Bob, not the least of which was the way he created a mysterious amount of self-replicating debris that constantly threatened to engulf him.     With no power and the cupboard bare, we had to imagine breakfast. Hot chocolate and cinnamon toast for Terri, while I preferred Braithwaites' `Household' blend tea with one of Cuthbert's wellfired white rolls, its outside crisp and blackened, its inside filled with doughy white air. We remained hungry, however, for you cannot really eat your own words.     `Well, at least being up at this hour means we'll make it to Archie's tutorial on time for once,' I said, without any great enthusiasm, but when I looked at Terri closely I realized she had fallen asleep. She should take more care, she had just the kind of sluggish metabolism that gets people buried alive in family crypts and glass coffins. In some ways (but not in others) Terri would have made the perfect wife for Bob -- they could have simply slept their way through married life. Rip van Winkle and Duchess Anaesthesia, the lost, sleepy daughter of the Romanovs.     I gave her a little pinch and said, `You know you shouldn't--' but then I came under the sleep spell as well.     Sometimes I wondered if we weren't all unwittingly taking part in drug trials being conducted covertly by a pharmaceutical company, perhaps for a drug with the opposite effects of speed. They could just call it Slow when it hit the market. Perhaps that was who was watching me -- an undercover research assistant observing `the effects of Slow on his unsuspecting guinea-pig. Because I was sure someone was watching me. (`Well, you know what they say,' Bob said, in what I think was a misguided effort to comfort me, `just because you're paranoid it doesn't mean they're not out to get you.')     For several days now I had been aware of the unseen eyes on me, of the inaudible feet dogging my every footstep. I hoped it was merely the projection of a heated imagination rather than the beginnings of some paranoid delusional breakdown that would end on a locked ward in Lift, the village where the local mental hospital was located. (`Take more drugs,' was the advice of Bob's best friend, Shug.)     I woke up with a jolt. My head had been pillowed uncomfortably on the edge of Wittgenstein's Tractatus and the book had left a painful gouge in my cheek. Terri was making little whimpering noises, dreaming about chasing rabbits again.     I shook her awake, `Come on, we're going to be late.' My new resolution, rather late in my final year I realized, was to attend all the lectures, tutorials and seminars that I was supposed to. This was in a vain bid to curry favour with as many of the English department staff as possible because I was now so behind with my work that it was becoming increasingly unlikely that I would even be able to sit my degree, let alone pass it. I didn't understand how I'd got so behind with everything, especially when I was trying so hard to keep up.     Terri was even more behind than I was, if that was possible. The George Eliot essay (`Middlemarch is a treasure house of detail, but an indifferent whole.' Can Middlemarch be defended against this criticism by Henry James? ) was just one of the many pieces of work that we hadn't managed to do.     I dressed as if for a polar expedition in as many clothes as I could find -- woollen tights, a long needlecord pinafore dress, several reject men's golfing sweaters that had been acquired in a St Andrews Woollen Mill sale, scarf, gloves, knitted hat, and, lastly, an old beaver coat, bought for ten shillings in the pawn shop at the West. Port, a coat that still had a comforting old lady smell of camphor and violet cachous about it.     `Ontological proof,' Bob shouted mysteriously in his sleep -- a concept he wouldn't even know the meaning of if he was awake.     Terri grimaced and replaced her sunglasses and pulled on a black beret so that now she looked like a deranged governess engaged in guerrilla warfare. A Weathergirl.     `Let's do it,' she said, and we slipped out into the shock of a morning that crackled with cold so that every time we spoke our breath came out in cold white clouds like the speech bubbles in the Beano . We trudged up Paton's Lane and as we turned onto the Perth Road, the invisible, ever-watchful pair of eyes monitored our progress.     `Maybe it's the eye of God,' Terri said. I was sure God, if he existed at all, which was highly unlikely, would have better things to do with his time than watch me.     `Maybe he doesn't,' Terri said. `Maybe he's like a really ... trivial guy. Who knows?' Who indeed.