Outline is a book about the importance of yapping. That's what I've got. Rachel Cusk is probably doing something interesting on a psychological or structural level, writing about strangers' life stories in ways that in some way mirror that of the protagonist. She's playing with the function of character identity in fiction. The strangers are the narrator, the narrator is the strangers. I just can't dissect this novel. I really can't. I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to take away from Outline. Maybe it's like life in that there isn't meant to be a point so much as a nuanced existence. And this book does have its moments: Cusk is able to craft or conjure a fiercely astute observation every once in a while; the kind that makes you want to just lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling for an hour. But ultimately, for as much as these characters talk (and talk (and talk (and talk))), they don't feel completely rendered but instead like... outlines. I'm not sure if I can continue on with Cusk if all her books are this dull, but I'll give it a few months and then another go. Thinking about it, maybe at the end of it all, Outline is just a cautionary tale against people who try to talk to you on airplanes.