What I Was by Meg Rosoff

The narrator of What I Was is Hilary, an old man who is recalling his days as a teen boy in the early sixties. In 1962, after been expelled from two previous schools, he was sent to St Oswald’s, a boarding school in East Anglia that specializes in “hopeless cases”. He feels trapped in school, and one day, while lagging behind on a cross-country run, he meets Finn, another teenager who lives alone in a cottage by the sea. Hilary immediately feels drawn to Finn, and as he returns to the cottage again and again, the two become friends.

This is only the beginning: you quickly realize that the story is going somewhere, but that somewhere is not what you expect it to be. Yes, there is a twist. Or rather, a revelation that changes your perception of the whole story. I know that sometimes saying there is a twist can be enough to spoil a book, but in this case, I really don’t think it'll be. I’m not going to say “you’ll never guess”, but I was actively on the lookout for clues because I remembered Dewey’s review, and I still didn’t see it coming. I think there’s a particular reason why this happens, which has to do with certain biases, certain expectations we all have. And I think that making us pause and think about them is part of what this book is meant to do. I would love to go on at length about this, but sadly I can’t, or I’ll start giving you hints unintentionally.

What I Was is a beautiful story about love and longing and growing up. And about other things too, like memory and history and our collective blind spots. I think I enjoyed it even more than How I Live Now, and I really loved that book. There was something about the emotions Hilary was experiencing that really spoke to me. It’s a bit unsettling, but I don’t think it’s uncommon for a young person to feel strongly drawn to someone and not being sure if they want them or if they want to be them. And that’s what happens in this book. Finn symbolizes freedom, and a kind of life completely unlike Hilary’s—and for that reason, desirable despite its difficulties.

I also loved the silences between the two of them (Finn is not much of a talker), the small but meaningful gestures, the details, the little things. It all felt so familiar to me—pressing yourself against a silence because you cannot bear to put certain things into words, scrutinizing it for meaning, endlessly reliving every moment in your memory in search of a hint, a sign, anything you might have missed.

What I Was is also about how idealizing a person can sometimes keep you from seeing who they really are; can make you miss what’s right in front of your eyes. And then who do you love? The person or the construct in your head? I wish I could say more about how this book deals with these questions—I thought it was quite ingenious and unique. But i can't do that without giving too much away.

And there’s the longing. I think I said this about How I Live Now, but I’ll say it again: Meg Rosoff expresses longing beautifully. It’s done differently in this book—the writing style is actually quite different— but it’s just as lovely. Don’t take my word for it, though. Here’s proof:

I wanted to say, Jesus, Finn, didn’t anyone ever talk to you? But I could imagine that no one had. People around here didn’t waste words; language was a tool, not a treat. You didn’t roll it around on your tongue, revel in it.
I sighed. And yet…how was it that Finn’s silences turned my words to dust? No matter how heartfelt my thoughts, the noises I made when I was with him took on the quality of monkeys jabbering in trees. While his silence had the power to shatter glass.

As it was, nothing happened except the two of us watching the sea come in and go out again, listening to the birds, sheltering from the rain when it came and lying silent as the sky changed from blue to white to gold. For hours we lay side by side, breathing softly together, watching thin rivulets of water run down the cliffs and into the sea, feeling the world slowly revolve around us as we leant into each other for warmth—and for something else, something I couldn’t quite name, something glorious, frightening, and unforgettable.

I studied Finn the way some other boy might have studied history, determined to memorize his vocabulary, his movements, his clothes, what he said, what he did, what he thought. What ideas circulated in his head when he looked distracted? What did he dream about?
But most of all, what I wanted was to see myself through his eyes, to define myself in relation to him, to sift out what was interesting in me (what he must have liked, however insignificant) what distil it into a purer, bolder, more compelling version of myself.

There are things I need to tell you, but would you listen if I told you how quickly time passes?
I know you are unable to imagine this.
Nevertheless, I can tell you that you will awake some day to find that your life has rushed by at a speed at once impossible and cruel. The most intense moments will seem to have occurred only yesterday, and nothing will have erased the pain and pleasure, the impossible intensity of love and its dog-leaping happiness, the bleak blackness of passions unrequited, or unexpressed, or unresolved.

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