A quiet novel about loneliness, emotional deprivation, and the results of a deficient childhood, The Lighthouse follows Futh and Esther as they drift through life with a profound sense of disconnection. Their relationships are defined less by intimacy than by its absence and even their internal monologues are mildly desolate.

The plot is deliberately mundane, rooted in the disappointments of ordinary domestic life and events like a trip to Germany that, though not quite ordinary, are by no means extraordinary. Moore effortlessly interweaves Futh's present-day journey with episodes from his childhood, gradually revealing the foundations of his isolation.

All of this is executed with remarkable precision. Even the slightest actions carry traces of personality and history. The end result is it the novel feels much like an extended character study.

The outstanding element, however, is Moore's prose. Her style is brilliant, as understated and subtle and intricate as the plot itself. It took some time for my admiration to accumulate, but after twenty or thirty pages I suddenly realized just how exceptional the narration was. From that point on, every page left me in awe of the way Moore transforms quotidian life into something quietly beautiful.

Futh took the glass vial out of its case. He wanted to smell the contents, his mother’s Beent, but he was not allowed to remove the stopper.
He remembered the visit to his widower granddad’s flat in London, during which the lighthouse had been given to Futh’s father. The whole time they were there, his granddad had been toying with it, this little silver novelty, occasionally putting it away in the pocket of his pyjama top only to get it straight out again. He seemed to be dwelling on something. Finally he said, ‘You've never met Ernst, my brother, have you?’ He was speaking really to his son.
‘No,’ said Futh’s father, ‘I haven’t.’
‘He might still be alive, 1 suppose.’
‘He could be.’
Futh’s granddad held out his hand, this exquisite silver lighthouse lying across his paim. ‘This was my mother’s,’ he said. ‘You need to return it to Ernst.’ He held it out until Futh’s father took it from him, and then, seeming exhausted, Futh’s granddad closed his eyes.

Outside, in the car, Futh’s father gave the lighthouse to Futh’s mother, who admired the case and the vial inside, approved the scent and put some on her wrists and her throat. The car, not yet out of sight of the house, filled with the smell of violets.

Futh, up on the cliffs in Cornwall with the silver lighthouse in one hand and the stoppered giass vial in the other, wandered back to his parents. His mother was still lying with her eyes closed, her face turned to the sun. His father was looking out to sea and then Futh heard him say, ‘The foghorn blasts every thirty seconds.’
‘Do you know,’ said his mother, ‘how much you bore me?’

There was a pause and then his father quietly packed away the picnic. Snapping shut the cool-box lid, he stood and looked at his wife. Futh watched the gulls fighting over the remains of their lunch, and then he looked down at his hand and saw the glass vial broken in his palm, the fleshy pad beneath his thumb cut open. The volatile contents of the lighthouse soaked into his wound, stinging, and ran between his fingers, soaking his boots, and the scent of it rose from him like millions of tiny balloons escaping towards the sky.
For a long time afterwards, he would lift the palm of his hand to his nose, searching for that scent of violets.