Of whom there are many, each more unique than the last. He’s writing a book and needs Greta to keep track of all the interesting conversations he has with his anonymous clients. In between dodging the swarms of bees that live in their kitchen and duct taping her ancient windows to keep the heat in, Greta spends her days transcribing therapy sessions for Om, a gong-loving sex coach in town. The book is told from the perspective of Greta, a 40-something California transplant who currently lives in her friend Sabine’s crumbling, uninsulated, historic Dutch farmhouse in the bougie-but-boho enclave of Hudson, New York. Maybe it’s that so much happens in Big Swiss that I almost don’t know where to begin.
And I don’t mean that in a bad way, but more in a “wow, what more can I say about it other than ‘go read it and see for yourself’” kind of way. Perhaps it’s because the novel, a brilliant and darkly funny piece of literary fiction currently being adapted into a limited series by HBO, is so outlandish. Oddly, as much as I ended up liking Jen Beagin’s Big Swiss, I’ve found writing a review for it somewhat difficult.
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