“There is, below the surface of every conversation in which intimacies are shared, an erotic current. Sometimes this current is so hot it all but boils and other times it’s barely lukewarm, hardly noticeable, but always the current is present, if only you plunge your hands in just an inch or two farther down in the water. This is regardless of the gender of the people involved, of their sexual orientations. This is the natural outcome of disclosure, for to disclose is to reveal, to bring out into the open what was previously hidden. And that unwrapping, that denuding, is always, inevitably sensual.” These musings of Miranda Popkey's narrator in Topics of Conversation held me spellbound throughout because of her writing. The exchanges were alive and authentic; I felt as if I were part of the conversation, pouring another glass of wine, lighting a cigarette, leaning forward to listen.
First as a young woman babysitting and talking to a friend's mother who is relating the story of her response to a rape by her first husband. Next, the narrator's own sexual violence with a professor, then on to a time when she hooks up with a stranger, a scary business man wearing mid-level suit and tie, in his room where he keeps her prone under his huge, hairy hand for twenty-minutes, no sex. There is a realistic witness account of Norman Mailer's behavior toward his wife, Adele. We move on through other experiences of the narrator, her friends, her mother, all of which present a passive attitude, rape fantasy, and finally, single motherhood. But it wasn't the topics that held me rapt so much as the storytelling, the narrator's art as she says. I couldn't stop listening and each of the topics of conversation offered enough to keep me enthralled. I also liked the boozy descriptions, the sunsetting sky "the color of Macallan's scotch straight, no water. The rosiness matching a glass of summer rose." And always the bourbon in the coffee thermos, or the hidden bottle, the gin-and-tonics mounting as her mom pours yet another drink and talks about sex with her Freudiand therapist who "cured" her of her frigidity. The book begs for a book club conversation. ( )

Rounded up from 2.5 stars. This reads like a transcription, which I find compelling only because it is an unusual way to write a novel. I have always wanted to find a piece of fiction that truly mimics all of the stutters and missteps and nonverbal cues we make when navigating conversations. However, this missed for me. I think she makes important points about the mercurial qualities of selfhood and relationships, and she writes them well, but the narrator doesn’t have much of an identity or even a personality. I felt Popkey revealed depth all of the characters—and no character exists beyond a chapter or two, really—EXCEPT in her narrator, and that was frustrating. ( )

I did not finish this book. Not because of bad writing, not because there aren't stories to tell, but because the stories weren't holding my interest, were depressing, and I just didn't want to read them anymore. It isn't a long book, I probably would've forced myself to finish (I was over halfway through) in younger days, but I am too old to read something that I don't want to. ( )

I don’t like panning books as I think authors pour what they have and sometimes it just doesn’t connect with a certain reader. I read as many as I could and then realized I wasn’t the audience for this slim book. The first one on rape fantasy should have been the indicator, but I pressed on. Sadly, not for me. ( )

Pretentious drivel. DNF at page 68. I thought about hate reading the whole thing, but then I came to my senses. Maybe I'm just a boomer trapped in a millennial's body, but if this type of novel is the best my generation has to offer, then we are in SERIOUS trouble.