Modernist literary summer is so back, thanks to Sally Rooney’s latest publication, Intermezzo. If you lie out your towel on the Clifton beaches, chances are you will see at least one copy. It’s difficult not to miss: its recognisable blue and white chessboard layout has been plastered all over social media prior to the book’s publication on the 24th of September 2024. It has become the new Cool Girl Accessory. This begs the question: Has late-stage capitalism come for Marxist literature, too? Rooney’s talent and success are not up for debate.

Her incredibly skilled, stripped-down prose quickly won cultural acclaim with her first publication, Conversations with Friends, her fame only skyrocketing with her second novel, Normal People, and its heart-wrenchingly beautiful adaptation. Even my creative writing professor, who is, by most accounts, the biggest hater of the contemporary literary scene, has proclaimed Sally Rooney as the best writer of our age. She is the face of a generation, exploring millennial anxiety, grief, pain, relationship dynamics and complications with deft beauty. It is difficult not to refer to her novels as works of art. 

Intermezzo follows two brothers, Peter and Ivan Koubek, in the wake of their father’s death. Their complex and undulating relationship ripples through the novel while they each go through life figuring out how they fit in. Ivan (22) is a chess genius who falls in love with Margaret (36). Peter (34), a lawyer and professor, navigates his relationships with Naomi (23) and his ex-girlfriend Sylvia (34). Thus, Rooney’s characteristic complicated space is set up, and the pawns are put into play. 

Like all her prose, Intermezzo is simple yet entirely profound and will have you feeling both empty and full at the same time. It is a melancholic imprint on the chest that makes you fall in love with life again. Its success is well-deserved. 

If you hadn’t read or heard about Rooney before Intermezzo, you definitely do now, thanks to Faber’s excellent galley marketing technique. Celebrities and influencers boasted their pre-release copies on their Mediterranean travels or from the couches of their ski resorts. And if you didn’t see the cover on social media, maybe you saw it in the news, book stores, or on the set of And Just Like That: Sarah Jessica Parker made headlines as she clutched her pre-release copy walking alongside Kristin Davis. The cameras are never off. 

The night of September 24 was a manic media frenzy. Fans queued for ages outside bookstores dressed in the colours of the cover. Our own Book Lounge hosted an Intermezzo event: A Rooney-themed quiz night complete with merch (to further the point that you did, in fact, read Intermezzo). Authors such as Sarah J Maas and Colleen Hoover have accrued a following similar in numbers to Rooney’s. However, their work plays straight into mass commerciality and consumerism. Their writing is surface-level, meant to entertain for a week or so before moving on to the sequel, which — if not already released — is sure to come out a year or so after the last. 

Rooney’s writing is different. It is modernist and profound. She is proof that we can still iconise good writing. She explores vital and complex contemporary themes, and it is good to see so many people engage with her work. However, with recent events, this level of consumerism sits a little weirdly. Sally Rooney is an outspoken Marxist, and her novels explore how class and income impact our relationships. While this can just be further proof that it is impossible to uphold Marxist values as long as we endure under capitalism, it is always interesting to witness communist writing being marketed and sold to us, even in the form of merch; it is almost as if the market is telling us to prove that one is a Marxist by buying things that prove you are a Marxist. 

Political ideology aside, literature has become the new Cool Girl Accessory. Owning and, more importantly, being seen reading has turned into a personality trait. Jacob Elordi stuffing literature into his designer jean back pocket has resulted in men attempting to appease the female gaze by reading feminist literature – interestingly, only in public, with the cover conspicuously angled to make their titles legible: Simone de Beauvoir, Zadie Smith, bell hooks. 

It is absurd to witness books be whittled down to the concept they present; the signifier is reduced simply to its signified. While I should not complain that Rooney is receiving the attention her writing deserves, it does prove that how we approach literature in the contemporary era has changed. But, if you take one thing away from this article, it’s that your next read must be Intermezzo.