Book Reviews: A Closed Eye

“Perhaps most women did. Perhaps most women had unfulfilled life left in them, and sought a way to use it.”
― Anita Brookner, A Closed Eye

​A Closed Eye by Anita Brookner is a quietly devastating portrait of a woman whose life feels half-lived. Centering on its protagonist, Harriet Lytton, and the shadowy, almost spectral figures that orbit her, the novel unflinchingly explores themes of suppression, longing, regret, and a deep spiritual unease. Brookner’s prose lingers, subtle yet piercing, capturing the ache of a life constrained by silence and choices never fully made.

Harriet is married off at a young age to Freddie, a man old enough to be her father. Her childhood, shaped by a kind of muted simplicity, leaves her aloof yet deeply invested in her inner world—a refuge she never truly grows out of, even as we follow her into middle age. Harriet’s story isn’t dramatic or extraordinary; rather, it’s the story of many women who bury their deepest desires, convinced they cannot, or perhaps should not, act upon them. Brookner captures this quiet tragedy with unsettling precision, showing how a life can appear orderly on the surface yet remain profoundly unfulfilled underneath.

Harriet & Freddie: A Match Made in Purgatory

Harriet and Freddie's relationship is void of any real emotional connection. It is sustained by a mutual sense of duty: Freddie provides for Harriet, while Harriet assumes the role of caretaker as he ages. Yet they never seem to move beyond the surface of their relationship, despite having many opportunities to do so. Their marriage is one of convenience—offering Harriet and her parents financial security, and granting Freddie a sense of validity after the ridicule and failure of his previous marriage.
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What strikes me most about their relationship is their quiet awareness of each other’s misgivings. They both seem to know what the other might be thinking or feeling, yet neither acts on it. Harriet is displeased with Freddie’s approach to sex, while Freddie resents Harriet’s tendency to overthink and her seemingly dispassionate response to intimacy (which, of course, is difficult to fault her for, given she was married off without any prior experience). If only they had the courage to be vulnerable and honest, they might have been able to come to a healthy resolution that would've made them both happy.

I think that when Harriet gives birth to her daughter, Imogen, it further fractures the couple. Imogen is a sharp contrast to Harriet—boisterous, confident, and unafraid to pursue what she wants. She openly disdains her parents’ hollow relationship, which only deepens Freddie’s insecurity about his age and Harriet’s insecurity about her half-lived life. Imogen presses on both of their shadows, a child born not out of love but out of tradition—because, of course, married couples are expected to have children. After all, that’s what fills the void, isn’t it?

The reason I think Harriet and Freddie’s relationship is a match made in purgatory is that both of them seem, throughout the book, to be waiting for something else to happen. They are neither truly present nor co-existing with one another; they neither love nor hate each other, but have simply grown accustomed to each other out of necessity and habit. Their relationship goes nowhere—it’s like one long, drawn-out sentence you wish would just end.

Jack: Another Life

Harriet’s distaste for her own life is most evident in her obsession with Jack, her best friend Tessa’s husband. It’s deeply concerning—at times even borderline frightening—the way Harriet thinks about him. She constructs and is consumed by a fantasy world she wishes could exist, but lacks the courage to make real. Throughout the book, I was never quite sure why she latched onto Jack.

Jack is narcissistic, selfish, and a womanizer. He doesn’t care for Tessa and only half-tolerates his daughter, Lizzie. He’s always gone, never fully there—which might serve as a metaphor for how Harriet feels about him: a lingering shadow, never closer than arm’s length. Harriet constantly refers to Jack as if his entire existence embodies her desire, imagining what it would feel like to be close to a man like him. Her perception of Jack is deeply skewed, shaped by her need to see what she wants rather than what is real. To her, he is the closest thing to freedom, and so she clings to him.

Jack and Harriet do share a kiss toward the end of the story, but it changes nothing in Harriet’s life. It’s also striking—and somewhat unsettling—how Harriet continues to romanticize Jack even after Tessa dies. To fall in love with the illusion of one’s deceased best friend’s husband is, undeniably, strange. I don’t think Jack was ever truly invested in Harriet; he was curious, but curious in the same way he was about everything else. Harriet cast him as a kind of savior, which, in the end, completely backfires.

The Tragedy of Intellectualizing 

Harriet’s tragedy isn’t her life itself, but her inability to act on her desires. The book reads like one long stream of consciousness, immersing us in Harriet’s mind and showing the world through her eyes. Yet the problem is that Harriet is fully aware of her mistakes and shortcomings, and despite being in a privileged position to change them as she grows older, she does absolutely nothing.

Harriet over-intellectualizes herself and her life; instead of living, she merely thinks about living. She could have had an affair with Jack, left Freddie, started working, she could have ___________. Harriet knows that things need to change, but instead of taking action, she waits for the cruelties of life to do it for her. Her daughter Imogen dies young in a car accident, her best friend Tessa dies after complications from giving birth to Lizzie, and her husband Freddie dies of old age. Even in the face of all these losses, Harriet still doesn’t understand what it means to live.

To be so trapped in one’s own head that no action is taken is what breeds many of the soul’s ailments. Holding ourselves back—almost oppressively—fuels insecurities and anxieties, and leads to a life half-lived, devoid of real substance, meaning, or connection. In the end, Harriet is depicted sitting alone, thinking of Imogen’s face—again, thinking, but not taking action for herself. She lives through her daughter, she lives through Tessa, she lives through Lizzie, almost as if vicariously experiencing life through them.

What would it have been like to live? To actually act upon your instincts, to trust your intuition, to build deep relationships. Perhaps Harriet didn't even have to do much to change her life. If only she had put in effort to go beneath the surface of her own imposed superficiality, she might have not ended up so alone and bored.​

Thoughts Are Not Actions

Harriet’s life was one long daydream, and Brookner deliberately leaves us with no conclusion to her story. What does Harriet do now that everyone she lived for is gone? There’s nobody to care for, nobody to obsess over, nobody to intellectualize. Thoughts are merely the chatter of the mind—a kind of evolved mechanism for detecting danger that may or may not be real. This mindless chatter, and the unrealistic thoughts that accompany it, are like clouds in the sky: we can observe them, but we don’t have to absorb them.
Harriet took her thoughts far too seriously, as if they were the very force of existence itself. But life isn’t lived in the mind—it is lived right here, in this moment, in the real world. I think many women who have had to survive their lives, for whatever reason, become vessels for who they could have been. Instead of becoming their truest selves, they are often forced by life to adjust, to suppress, to hold in. These conflicts feel particularly present for women with unrealized lives and potential, beaten down by their circumstances and a sense of being stuck, so that instead of making changes, they retreat further into themselves.

A Closed Eye is a lesson for all women: keep both eyes open, even when it hurts. Even in the face of life’s pain and unfairness, you must watch for yourself and see the world clearly. With one eye closed, you see only half the picture—and life isn’t enjoyable when you’re too afraid to face it. Dive in fully, act with courage, and keep moving forward even if you don't know where the hell the road is. 

Stumbling forward beats standing still.