BOOK REVIEW: The Raw and Messy Complexity of The Main Characters in Normal People by Sally Rooney
Tuesday, 28 January 2025 — I just finished reading Normal People by Sally Rooney—a book that has been sitting on my reading list. It feels fitting that I finally crossed it off in the first month of 2025, smack in the middle of my tight schedule as an ‘adult’. The fact that I finished it in two days, even during work hours, says everything about how hooked I was.
Let me start by saying that this isn’t my first brush with Normal People. It’s been all over my social media for ages: edits on TikTok, tweets about how “devastating” it is, and photos of those iconic cover editions. So, I had a normal idea of what I was walking into—a coming-of-age love story between Marianne Sheridan, the odd loner nerd who couldn’t care less about what people think of her (at least in high school), and Connell Waldron, her polar opposite.
Connell is the popular guy with a big friend group, naturally smart but weighed down by a social anxiety that somehow makes him completely insufferable. Then comes the flipped cliché: Marianne, once the odd loner in high school, finds her place and blossoms in college, while Connell sinks into social awkwardness. It’s a dynamic shift that feels predictable yet surprisingly contemplative.
What pulled me in was how raw their dynamic felt. Marianne is complex yet direct, while Connell is a mess of indecision and poor communication. Watching their relationship go through the exhausting cycle of sex, misunderstanding, separation, and reconnection was both gripping and infuriating. There were moments I had to physically pause and scream internally because of how frustrating it was to watch them fail, over and over, to communicate honestly about what they wanted or needed. It’s maddening, but in a way that feels grounded and real.
What I relate to most about Marianne is her complexity. She doesn’t care about other people’s opinions—until she does. Her college years reveal this quieter, more vulnerable side of her that she doesn’t seem ready to admit even to herself—in the end she did. I loved her genuine interest in things like politics and world peace, not because she wanted to craft a certain image or aesthetic, but because she was simply curious. On the flip side, her secretive nature—especially about her abusive family—felt real. Even Connell, the person she’s most connected to, takes forever to fully understand the depth of her pain, and it only happens after he witnesses it firsthand.
I love Marianne in a way that feels almost personal. I get her—her contradictions, her sharp edges, her need to retreat from people while still yearning to be understood. No one gets her in the way I feel I do. To the world, she’s “difficult” or “odd,” but I see a girl trying to make sense of herself in a world that’s constantly reducing her to stereotypes. She’s a rich girl, but she doesn’t flaunt it; she’s brilliant, but she doesn’t perform her intelligence. She’s someone who hides her pain so deeply that it becomes a second skin, and I think that’s why I found her so magnetic. She’s a mess, yes, but a beautifully honest one.
As a complex female character, Marianne feels like a reflection of the women who don’t fit neatly into boxes. She isn’t the perfect heroine or the manic pixie dream girl; she’s someone who exists in the messy gray area of life. For so many women, especially those who’ve been labeled as “too much” or “too difficult,” Marianne feels like an acknowledgment of the parts of ourselves we try to hide. She’s proof that you can be deeply flawed and still worthy of love, even if you don’t believe it yourself.
But loving Marianne also made me resent how the story handled her. Rooney doesn’t dig deep enough into the reasons behind her self-destructive tendencies. Her family’s abuse, her toxic relationships, her complicated sense of self-worth—they’re all there, but they feel like props to drive the plot rather than genuine explorations of her character. It frustrated me because Marianne deserved more. She deserved to be seen in the fullness of her complexity, not just as a tragic figure for Connell to orbit around.
Having an English literature degree allows me to find Normal People to be more than just a coming of an age love story—it felt like a mirror held up to certain parts of myself, messy and complicated as they are. And while I’ve written about how much Marianne feels like a reflection of me, some of the dialogue and narration struck even deeper. Sally Rooney has a way of writing that feels almost intrusive, like she’s quietly observing and exposing thoughts I didn’t even know I had.
Take this exchange early in the novel, when Marianne casually says to Connell:
“You should study English,” says Marianne.
“Yeah. I’m not sure about the job prospects, though.”
“Oh, who cares? The economy’s fucked anyway.” (Page 20)
This conversation stayed with me, not because it’s groundbreaking but because it feels so familiar. There’s something about Marianne’s nonchalance, the way she strips away pretension and speaks the truth without sugarcoating it. It’s exactly the kind of thing I might say to someone, partly to provoke them, partly because I genuinely believe it. I love how this moment sets the stage for Connell eventually pursuing English, as if Marianne’s influence quietly shapes his life. It reminded me of how certain people’s words can linger and alter the trajectory of your own decisions, even when you don’t realise it right away.
Then there’s Peggy, a character I can’t stand, but I have to admit she had her moments. One of her lines in particular caught me off guard with its sharpness:
“Peggy thinks men are disgusting animals with no impulse control, and that women should avoid relying on them for emotional support.” (Page 139)
While I don’t fully agree with Peggy’s worldview, this line resonated with me in the way sharp, unfiltered truths often do. It felt like an uncomfortable reminder of how vulnerable it is to trust someone, especially when you’ve been hurt before. And maybe that’s what this line captures—the deep frustration of feeling let down, again and again, by people who don’t meet the expectations you’ve built for them.
But the line that hit me hardest was this one:
“Are you in love with her?” she says.
“Yeah. I do love her, yeah.” (Page 150)
This exchange wrecked me, probably because it’s so painfully straightforward. Connell’s admission felt both cruel and inevitable, especially knowing Marianne’s history of insecurity and longing. I couldn’t help but feel for her at this moment—not because she’s flawless (she’s far from it), but because loving someone so deeply, only to feel like you’re still somehow not enough and not chosen, is a kind of pain that’s hard to articulate.
And then there’s also this part:
He loves seeing her face on screen… she has a great smile, great teeth. (Page 154) — this line is referring to Helen.
This one stung in a way I didn’t expect. The part where the narration highlights Helen and Connell’s relationship, specifically mentioning her teeth (which Connell loves), made me feel so bad—so insecure—on behalf of Marianne. I have crooked teeth myself, just like Marianne is described as having, and to have something like that pointed out and unintentionally compared just feels cruel. Or maybe I’m just projecting lmao, but that’s how it felt to me.
I can’t help but imagine how Marianne would feel if she ever knew that Connell had even the slightest thought of comparing her to Helen over something as trivial as her teeth. She would be so deeply hurt, absolutely sickened by it. It’s the kind of pain that would wreck her in that quiet, Marianne way—burying it all deep inside while slowly crumbling without anyone even noticing. It’s that pain she carries around, the kind no one truly sees or understands, but it’s always there, quietly haunting her. Or is it just me.. Is it???
The way Marianne never considers herself pretty and lovable is something that sticks with me. Even though, objectively, she is pretty—she’s very pretty, at least in my understanding, and for all the characterisation that Rooney has given her. Rooney portrays Marianne as someone who doesn’t see herself the way others do, as if her sense of worth has been so eroded by her family’s abuse, the bullying she’s endured, and her loneliness that she can’t even entertain the thought of being beautiful. And let’s not forget, Daisy Edgar-Jones played her in the series adaptation—Daisy Edgar-Jones! If that doesn’t seal the argument that Marianne is undeniably stunning, I don’t know what does.
In conclusion, Marianne is pretty. It’s just that she can’t see it herself. And that hits me in such a personal way, because how many of us carry around that same distorted mirror, unable to recognise our own beauty or value? Marianne’s beauty, both inside and out, is so painfully clear to everyone except her. (In present days)
And Connell—damn, this man reminds me way too much of someone I know who acts just like him. The way he always seems paralysed, holding himself back from doing the right thing, choosing the right path, or saying what he really feels—it’s maddening. He’s so trapped by the things lingering in his own mind, his anxieties, and his obsession with how others perceive him, even though, let’s be real, no one actually cares about his “reputation” as much as he thinks they do. It’s exhausting.
It makes me so pissed—so bad—that he can’t just break out of his own self-made prison. I get it, Connell has his struggles, his anxiety, his internal battles, but man, he frustrates me to no end. I just don’t like him. I’m sorry if that’s too personal, but they will never make me like you, Connell. Still, I always try to understand him—Connell has severe social anxiety, and even depression, and I truly want to sympathise with him. I really do. But you know… it’s just so hard to normalise this kind of behavior.
Like, I can empathise with his internal struggles and acknowledge how overwhelming those feelings must be, but does that mean we’re supposed to be okay with the way he constantly puts Marianne through this emotional rollercoaster portrayed in Normal People? His lack of commitment and indecisive behavior in his relationship with my poor Marianne drive me crazy, and I still hate him for it.
Normalising that kind of behavior feels like a big no for me. Yes, he’s complex and flawed, and I get that he’s not doing it out of malice—he’s just lost and unsure of himself. But at the same time, his inability to communicate, his constant back-and-forth, and the way he unintentionally wounds Marianne with his indecision—it’s exhausting to watch and even more painful to think about from her perspective. The fact that she kept on forgiving him—psychologically, I can feel it and understand why—makes it even harder to let him off the hook. No matter how much we’re meant to understand his pain, it’s difficult to excuse his behaviour.
These moments, scattered throughout Normal People, are what make it linger. They’re not grand declarations or sweeping epiphanies—they’re subtle, quiet punches to the gut that leave you reeling because they feel so real. And maybe that’s why this book has stayed with me—it’s not about the perfection of its characters, but the rawness of their humanity.
And yet, despite my frustrations, I couldn’t stop reading. Rooney’s dialogue is sharp and natural, her pacing addictive, and her ability to capture the mundane beauty of ordinary life is unmatched. Normal People left me angry, hooked, and conflicted all at once. Marianne and Connell’s relationship may be flawed, but it stayed with me. It’s messy, it’s imperfect, and maybe that’s why it feels so real. Even if it made me want to scream, I can’t deny that it’s a story that burrowed into my mind and refused to leave.
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| Normal People as illustrated in a cover |
Normal People (3.1/5)
(26-27 January 2025, 266 pages)
All illustrations above are exclusively property of the author.
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