There are writers we admire from the very first novel we read. And then there are those rare moments when, after following their work for years, we realise they have reached a new stage in their artistic journey.
That was my experience with Intermezzo.
I have read all of Sally Rooney's novels. Normal People introduced me to a voice that felt fresh, intelligent and emotionally honest. I enjoyed Conversations with Friends and Beautiful World, Where Are You, but neither quite recreated that exhilarating sense of discovery.
Intermezzo did.
Not because Rooney abandons what has always distinguished her writing, but because she deepens it. This is the novel in which everything seems to find its place: her extraordinary ear for dialogue, her psychological insight, her understated humour and, above all, her profound understanding of human relationships. For me, it is her finest novel to date.
More than a novel about grief
On the surface, Intermezzo follows two brothers, Peter and Ivan, as they try to rebuild their lives after the death of their father.
Peter is a successful Dublin lawyer whose apparently confident existence conceals emotional turmoil. Ivan, twelve years younger, is an accomplished chess player, quieter and socially awkward, who finds himself unexpectedly falling in love with Margaret, a woman considerably older than him. Around them orbit Sylvia and Naomi, two women whose presence quietly shapes the brothers' journeys.
Yet describing the plot tells us very little about the novel itself.
Intermezzo is not driven by dramatic twists or spectacular revelations. Rooney is interested in something far more subtle: the invisible emotional shifts that gradually transform her characters. The novel explores grief, certainly, but also love, memory, forgiveness and the quiet courage required to continue living after loss.
Inside and outside the mind
What has always fascinated me about Rooney's writing is not simply what she tells, but how she tells it.
Her characters come alive through a remarkable balance between dialogue and interior monologue. We move effortlessly between what Peter, Ivan and Margaret say and what they are unable to say, following the quiet movement of their thoughts as they struggle to understand themselves and one another. Their consciousness unfolds naturally, without explanation or judgement, allowing us to inhabit their emotional lives with extraordinary intimacy.
Naomi is the only exception.
Rooney never allows us inside her mind. We know her only through her words, her actions and the perceptions of those around her. It is a subtle but brilliant narrative choice, preserving an element of mystery around a character who might otherwise have been too easily explained.
Dialogue remains central to Rooney's art. Reading Intermezzo, I was reminded more than once of Jane Austen. Not because the two writers resemble one another stylistically, but because both understand that conversation is one of fiction's most powerful tools. Their characters reveal themselves not through lengthy descriptions but through hesitation, misunderstanding, irony and the occasional moment of unexpected honesty.
It is almost as though conversation itself becomes the action.
Scene after scene, Rooney draws her characters with the delicacy of a pastel painter. One careful stroke follows another until, almost without noticing, we find ourselves deeply invested in their lives.
The meaning of the intermezzo
While reading the novel, I often found myself wondering about its title.
An intermezzo is usually understood as an interlude, something that happens between two more significant moments.
By the final page, I realised Rooney means something rather different.
Peter and Ivan are living in a suspended time. Outwardly, life continues. They work, fall in love, make mistakes and attempt to move forward. Yet emotionally they remain caught between the people they were before their father's death and the people they have not yet become.
Each brother develops his own way of escaping grief. Peter seeks refuge in restless activity and emotional control. Ivan retreats into the ordered world of chess, where every move follows a logic that real life stubbornly refuses to obey.
Only when their separate paths collide in one painful confrontation are they finally forced to acknowledge what they have both been avoiding. The clash between them becomes the moment from which genuine healing can begin.
The women who accompany them—Margaret, Sylvia and Naomi—are essential to this journey. They do not rescue the brothers or solve their problems. Instead, each offers a different form of understanding, compassion and acceptance, creating the space in which Peter and Ivan can finally rediscover themselves and, perhaps more importantly, each other.
The intermezzo, then, is not an interruption of life.
It is life itself.
The uncertain space through which we slowly learn to become someone new.
The quiet miracle of literature
When I finished Intermezzo, I realised that what had moved me most was not simply the story Rooney tells.
It was the way she tells it.
There is an almost magical quality to her writing. Not because it calls attention to itself, but because it appears so effortless. Ordinary conversations become deeply revealing. Fleeting gestures carry unexpected emotional weight. Small moments accumulate until they quietly become unforgettable.
I found myself completely absorbed by the final hundred pages. The narrative gathers an extraordinary momentum, yet what kept me turning the pages was not suspense. It was the emotional truth of the characters and my growing hope that they might finally find their way through the pain they had been carrying for so long.
Reading a novel like Intermezzo does not leave me feeling that I understand myself better.
It leaves me with something different.
A renewed sense of wonder at what literature can achieve when it is entrusted to a writer at the height of her powers.
That, to me, is one of literature's quiet miracles.
Final thoughts
Some time ago I came across a sentence describing Intermezzo: "Come for the romance, stay for the meaning of life."
After closing the novel, I could not think of a more fitting description.
Its ending is neither spectacular nor sentimental.
Life remains complicated.
People remain imperfect.
Healing does not erase loss.
Instead, Rooney reminds us that what ultimately matters is finding the courage to embrace life as it is, cherishing the people we love and not wasting the opportunities for joy and fulfilment that life still offers us.
The novel closes with these simple words:
"See what happens. Go on in any case living."
I cannot imagine a more fitting ending—not only for this beautiful novel, but also for the quiet, enduring hope it leaves with its readers.
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