In August Blue, Deborah Levy’s narrative, we’re ushered into the whimsical fog of London’s winter, a season marked with molten twilight, where every piano note echoes like a desperate plea. It’s a seductive concoction, very much like the age-old liquor one sips in dimly lit bars; intoxicating and brimming with secrets.

Elsa M. Anderson, the British pianist with her fingers dancing intricately over ivory keys, seems reminiscent of a reincarnated soul from another era. She, originally christened as Ann, basks in her stage light, but soon finds herself overshadowed by the haunting presence of a doppelgänger. This isn’t just your run-of-the-mill twin tale; this motif, age-old yet brilliantly used, becomes a mirror to Elsa’s fragmented soul, a vestige of memories she’s long tried to bury. She’s dancing on the razor-edge of her forgotten identity, teetering between the allure of the past and the beckoning of the present.

Levy, with her literary strokes, paints a canvas portraying the classical music industry with shades of grey, bordering on coal-black. This isn’t a simple tale of a woman’s odyssey. No, it’s a scathing, burning commentary on an institution dripping in patriarchal residue. The industry, monolithic in its existence, stands as the Goliath to Elsa’s David, a world where she, with her unique artistry, finds herself trapped like a firefly in a jar – illuminating, yet confined.

What’s most intriguing about Elsa’s life isn’t just the melodies she crafts but the chameleonic identity she’s slipped into. Young Elsa, an orphan, is handpicked and sculpted by Arthur Goldstein. The man, with an eye for talent and perhaps a slight inclination towards playing God, reshapes Elsa’s existence, like a blacksmith forging iron under intense heat. Her transformation from Ann to Elsa is emblematic of the universal human quest for identity, a journey punctuated by echoes of our past lives. Her decision to douse her locks in blue, a hue reminiscent of a melancholic evening sky, signifies her constant yearning, her eternal conflict between the chains of her past and the vastness of her future.

Ambling through the corridors of Europe, with Vienna’s ghostly whispers and Athens’ ancient allure, Elsa’s internal tumult mirrors the storms she encounters. Levy, with an astuteness rivaling a maestro’s precise notes, weaves in themes from bygone tales, casting shadows of enigma upon the canvas of the modern world. With Elsa, Levy sketches a character who, while lost in her musings, constantly grapples with the overpowering shadow of Goldstein, her mentor and father figure. The narrative is much like a dance, a tango of identities, where the lead constantly shifts between Elsa and her adoptive father.

But let’s step back and muse upon the doppelgänger, shall we? In the pages drenched in Levy’s eloquence, we see a recurring theme – an emblem of self-awareness, of rebirth, and the undying influences of yesteryears. The journey is a mélange of serendipitous encounters and desperate quests, culminating in a Parisian tryst where revelations emerge from the mist, leaving readers with an aftertaste that lingers, much like the aroma of a robust wine.

August Blue is not just a tale; it’s a symphony, a sonnet to the artist’s spirit. It meanders through identity labyrinths, treading the treacherous terrains of expectations and societal impositions on artists. Levy, in this tale, doesn’t just tell a story; she crafts an experience. It’s an invitation to waltz with Elsa in the hallowed halls of her psyche.

Deborah Levy’s August Blue is an audacious concoction of wit, cynicism, and poetic introspection. It’s a narrative that drowns you, then resuscitates you, leaving you gasping for more. It’s storytelling at its sardonic best, where every word is a dagger cloaked in velvet.

WORDS: brice.