Opinions were divided in my book club regarding this novel (and here on GR, I see now). I cannot think why. Well, that isn’t quite true; I can see whyOpinions were divided in my book club regarding this novel (and here on GR, I see now). I cannot think why. Well, that isn’t quite true; I can see why people might find it a bit challenging to read at first. I certainly have read nothing like it. I doesn’t follow the sentence patterns, or sentence lengths, that we’re used to, and there is no clear chronology. Nor is Anna Burns overly fond of paragraphs. And so some of the book club members were annoyed even when they grudgingly agreed that the novel was ‘important.’ And I – I was overjoyed with it! Best book I’ve read in a long time.
So, the topic. I felt almost plunged into Gilead (from A Handmaid’s Tale) for we are in a ‘totalitarian enclave’ as our protagonist at one point calls the unnamed territory. We assume it is Belfast, at the time of the Troubles, in the late 1970s because the author herself grew up in Belfast. Her chilling, mesmerizing, almost dystopian descriptions of it – of the gossip, the intrigue, the constant strife, the we-them dichotomy at all levels of life, the bombings, the deaths – felt stiflingly real, absurd often. Which is probably why the English member of my book club, although she ‘hated’ the book, said it ought to be required reading in the UK and Ireland. Yes, indeed – to that last part. I thought I knew quite a bit about the conflict in Northern Ireland; I have been to Belfast, walked around the neighbourhood with the in-your-face murals, the tanks driving by, the wall dividing Catholics from Protestants – evidence of the ‘us’ of the novel vs. the people ‘over the road’. But this novel takes it all to a whole other level, immerses you in it, relentlessly so.
Then there are the people ‘over the border’ (Ireland) and ‘over the water’ (Britain) and the ‘renouncers’ (IRA, I assume). As if naming a thing makes it scarier (Remember Dumbledore’s admonishment? Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself). But this novel is all about fear. Not so much of the British paramilitaries but of your neighbour, of what stories have lately been concocted about you, of entering the hospital downtown even as you fear having been poisoned but ‘they’ will notice if you show up there, fear of truth, of communication, or miscommunication (you know it’s bad when your own mother would rather trust the gossipmongers than you), of a white van with a milkman behind the wheel.
The novel is ostensibly about the fear of this stalker, Milkman, but it is really about so much more. It is about the sort of environment where such threats sprout much too easily. To walk down the street and arrive home without the taint of gossip, real or false, on your tail is to run the gauntlet of a subtler but equally destructive kind of weapon than the bombs, which, by the way, you are also likely to run into. It is fear as experienced and seen through the eyes of an unnamed, 18-year-old girl, middle sister. She is observant, smart, worried, strong, part of a huge pack of siblings, as most of the children are here, a high percentage of whom are dead or ostracized, or they will be. She, our protagonist, is one of the reasons why I loved this novel. Her voice is singular in the extreme (well, Anna Burns’s voice, throughout). It is tricky to extract a meaningful (short) quote because you want the context, the entirety of it, but here she is in a night club with her ‘longest friend’ (i.e. oldest), who has just told her that as she, the protagonist, has a tendency to walk around the neighbourhood while reading, she is now considered one of the people who are ‘beyond the pale’:
I didn’t like that I had contracted an incurable beyond-the-pale. ‘Just because I’m outnumbered in my reading-while walking,’ I said, ‘doesn’t mean I’m wrong. What if one person happened to be sane, longest friend, against a whole background, a race mind, that wasn’t sane, that person would probably be viewed by the mass consciousness as mad – but would that person be mad?
Despite the tragedy of the place, of the stories belonging to it, the novel is deeply, darkly funny. I laughed out loud a few times and enjoyed more passages than I can count. For such a bleak milieu, it has plenty of colourful characters – maybe-boyfriend, chef, tablets girl, tablets girl’s shiny sister, the pious women, milkman, the real milkman a.k.a. the man who didn’t love anybody, Somebody McSomebody, a pair of famous, irresponsible ballroom dancers and not least wee sisters, aged 7, 8 and 9, who prefer their bedtime stories to be by Kafka or Conrad.
One of my fellow book club members pointed out that the NY Times didn’t like the novel. No, I said. I saw that. But did you see The Chicago Tribune? Or the LA Times? They loved it. And the latter tried to dissuade potential readers from buying into the bit about it being difficult to read. I have a feeling it depends on what we’re used to reading. Fifteen years ago, I might have been frustrated with it because I was still clinging to notions of the novel as essentially a thing that makes sense, that can be immediately decoded, that follows the formula I was used to. This novel demanded that I upped my game as a reader – and I liked it for that (but have also been training my novel-reading capabilities these past few years, not solely based on my own preferences but also other people’s recommendations; I haven’t loved all these efforts). Once you step out of that comfort zone, the experience can be immensely rewarding. I would suggest, though, that you not delve into this book in spurts of 15 minutes or less but take longer moments to let yourself become immersed in it. It requires (deserves) your full concentration. Once on board, I was helplessly (but willingly) pulled through the story, by middle-sister’s narration and by the author’s vision.
It is difficult not to centre any discussion about this novel on the all-important topic. And to be sure, it should take precedence – it is why the book was written. But it shouldn’t preclude a discussion of, or perhaps rather, a look at the writing itself. The writing is a huge part of why I liked the book so much and why others didn’t. To me, it is perfect for this topic, these stories. You are under a pressure cooker here – you cannot escape from this outrageous stream-of-consciousness with so many pileups of adjectives and made-up words and deaths – which makes you realise that yes, this is what middle-sister and everyone on ‘this side of the road’ and possibly also on ‘that side of the road’ must have felt like. It is also simply marvellous writing: dense, intelligent, funny, over the top, compelling. So, maybe there is a nod to Woolf or Faulkner or other modernists, but this is entirely Anna Burns’s show....more
Life is a mystery and (that) only sentences are beautiful (…)
The disadvantage of listening to an audiobook, however mellow and fittingly transatlantiLife is a mystery and (that) only sentences are beautiful (…)
The disadvantage of listening to an audiobook, however mellow and fittingly transatlantic the accent of the narrator, is that one cannot hold on to the sentences. They seem more fleeting when listened to, even when, as in this case, I went back many times to pay more attention to the beauty of a sentence, the significance of a word. And there was much I wanted to hold on to and savour in this gorgeous novel.
It is the story of Henry James, of his writing, his family, his friendships, his worries and regrets; his life in solitary, sedentary exile, in self-repression, sexual and otherwise. We meet Henry, as he is called throughout the novel, when his play Guy Domville fails miserably in London. After this disaster, he slowly, finally, turns toward fiction. (On the opening night of his own play, afraid to witness the audience’s response, he attends an Oscar Wilde play, Lady Windemere’s Fan, and utterly dislikes it. Already here we get a glimpse of the sombre figure Tóibín paints: Henry James, although an aesthete like Wilde, seemed to embody the very opposite position of the dandified, larger-than-life Oscar Wilde).
It is a novel of ‘startling excellence’, as the reviewer in The Observer stated. As far as I can tell from having so far only read four of James’s novels, Tóibín borrows aspects of James’s style such as tone, vocabulary and register, but he is more modern, and he has to a large extent abandoned the overly long sentences that were one of James’s trademarks (and which have made me, I blush to admit, abandon The Ambassadors more than once). The result is one of ponderous beauty as well as a fascinating literary excavation into the emergence of many of James’s stories and characters – as imagined and interpreted by Tóibín. I especially appreciated the direct line he portrays from Georg Eliot’s Gwendolen Harleth in Daniel Deronda + Anthony Trollope’s Lady Laura Kennedy in Phineas Finn + James’s own cousin Minnie to Isabel Archer in The Portrait of a Lady. (Apropos Georg Eliot, I had to smile when Minnie claimed that you know much more how strange and beautiful it is to be alive after having read The Mill on the Floss than after a thousand sermons. Ah, indeed. I only just read that novel myself a few weeks ago).
A few sad truths are indicative of the Henry James we meet in Tóibín’s rendition of the Master in this novel:
(About how he managed to avoid the American Civil War:) His war was private
and further
He lived as if his life belonged to someone else; like a character not fully imagined.
It is an old-fashioned kind of story, in the very best sense; quietly paced, itself almost sedentary; a novel version of a biography about a refined hermit who devoted his life to his art (even if, at one point, Tóibín lets Henry’s brother point out to him that his sentences have become too long!) By employing the Master’s Christian name throughout, Tóibín cunningly makes the reader feel that much closer to the writer, as if we are truly offered an intimate insight into his life and his thoughts.
I immediately want to read more by Henry James, which was no surprise, and three of his books (two of which I’ve seen film versions of) are already on my to-read list. More unexpectedly, but most emphatically, I want to read more by Colm Tóibín. What an imaginative, beautiful feat this novel was! ...more
A delightful drawing-room comedy filled with Wilde's usual witty, sometimes silly repartees. He had a lot of faults, but by God he was clever, linguisA delightful drawing-room comedy filled with Wilde's usual witty, sometimes silly repartees. He had a lot of faults, but by God he was clever, linguistically brilliant and insightful into human characters in London at the turn of the last century. A very enjoyable and quick read....more
This was a quick 'read' (four and a half hours on audiobooks), and though it wasn't among the best works I've read by Wilde, it was a pleasant surprisThis was a quick 'read' (four and a half hours on audiobooks), and though it wasn't among the best works I've read by Wilde, it was a pleasant surprise to suddenly come upon some of his best (and my favourite) quotes; I knew them well but not that they came from this particular play. In chronological order:
"I can resist everything except temptation"
"We're all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars"
"There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it"
"What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing"
I was reminded of what I appreciated so much about Wilde when I first read him years ago: that combination of humour and intelligence which comes across in skillful repartees, otherwise known as 'wit'. And Oscar Wilde's wit is in a league of its own. ...more
"Ever to be damned, never to be saved" - is but one of the many religious/theological mantras that this book is full of. Obviously, growing up as a Ca"Ever to be damned, never to be saved" - is but one of the many religious/theological mantras that this book is full of. Obviously, growing up as a Catholic in Ireland at the time (before the Civil War), Joyces's life was much influenced by religion, and it does play a huge role in this book. It would be interesting to actually count how many times the words 'God','Hell' and 'sins' are mentioned; well above 50, would be my guess.
For some reason, this particular novel is considered one of the best in modern English (language) literature, which is one of the reasons why I finally forced myself to read it. I'd only ever read 'The Dead' by Joyce, which I quite liked, but this is different, and although I knew the book is what the French call 'autofiction' (autobiography disguised as fiction), this smacks of a kind of self-discovery/identity project rather than a work of fiction where the reader is actually considered.
Maybe this is due to the stream of consciousness style that Joyce employs (a modernist trait which I've never really taken to); there are endless intellectual and religious ramblings, during which I lost track of the story - the story about the boy, Stephen Dedalus, whom we follow from boyhood to manhood and who grows up among the Jesuits and at a later point considers becoming a priest. The thoughts he has regarding some of his life choices, the years he spent at school and his family life are all interesting, eloquently phrased glimpses into Dedalus'/Joyces's life, but they don't take up much room compared to all the lofty, abstract ideas presented in the book, which makes the plotline feel disjointed.
In addition, there are few characters other than Stephen that are developed, which underlines the whole 'me' project; they're only interesting insofar as they mirror or act as catalysts for his feelings or thoughts. It's not that I don't like books to be about their authors; of course I do - as long as there is an interesting story at the core, or some characters I can sympathize with, or some other meaning driving me forward, compelling me to know more. Ultimately, to me, the title is an apt description of what this book is: a 'portrait' rather than a story. This is probably the intention but just not my cup of tea.
It was with a certain awe and respect that I finally got around to reading this cornerstone of Gothic fiction. It didn’t disappoint, but it was not exIt was with a certain awe and respect that I finally got around to reading this cornerstone of Gothic fiction. It didn’t disappoint, but it was not exactly what I expected either. There were many good descriptions of Count Dracula, as well as all the required vampire/Gothic paraphernalia to render it the most original, and of course one of the first, of its genre: foreboding castle, howling wolves, chilling mists, coffins, crucifixes and garlic. And of course the name itself – Dracula – has been for decades, and still is, the most iconic of vampires/monsters and carries with it a feeling of dread and horror. (No good-looking Edward Cullen here!)
There were, however, also elements in the novel which annoyed me. Bram Stoker has chosen the epistolary form, which seems an obvious choice for a Gothic horror novel (compare e.g. several Poe short stories), and it did work a lot of the time. But at other times it seemed a bit farfetched when characters remembered, and had time to document, minute details and pieces of other characters’ dialogue. Even in the midst of giving Dracula chase in London, everyone returned home to write in their diaries!
The beginning in Transylvania was much as I had expected and hoped and set the scene for a good horror story. When, after only a short while into the novel, we shifted viewpoint to other characters, who all lived in London, it took me a while to make all the connections. (Ultimately, there seemed perhaps to be one or two characters too many; it was never really clear to me what the role of e.g. Quincy Morris was).
It was interesting to ‘meet’ Van Helsing (who was a far cry from Hugh Jackman as well, alas), and despite his being a crucial character and a catalyst in the whole process of defeating the evil Count Dracula, I often felt annoyed at his faulty English, especially since he prattled at length: His sometimes ridiculously erroneous language (silly errors in the midst of complex vocabulary and sentence structures) would go on for several pages and seemed a bit implausible for such a well educated Dutchman. In general, the dialogue was often sentimental, and I got a bit fed up with the male characters constantly admiring the purity and sweetness of the female characters even to the extent of weeping in chorus!
All in all, I enjoyed the storyline and the setting and quite liked the ending, but I felt that the story was long-winded. This was especially the case in many of the dialogues, which seemed to prolong the action rather than driving it forward. Still, I do feel the need to pay homage to this masterpiece of vampire/Gothic literature without which many lesser vampire novels and other pieces of modern literature wouldn’t have existed. (3,5 stars) ...more
(3.5) The Canterville Ghost is a very Wilde-ish ghost story, i.e. s illy, funny, witty, satirical and with a few gothic elements thrown in to give us (3.5) The Canterville Ghost is a very Wilde-ish ghost story, i.e. s illy, funny, witty, satirical and with a few gothic elements thrown in to give us the proper atmosphere.
The Otis family, from America (whose oldest children have patriotically been named Washington and Virginia, and whose youngest – twins – are simply referred to as the Stars and Stripes), have bought an English castle, ghost and all. And they are simply much too sensible to go in for something as silly as an old ghost. The ghost has a history of scaring people out of their wits, but in the Americans he has met his match. Various attempts at scaring them ensue, followed by the twins’ various attempts at making ‘life’ difficult for the ghost.
Towards the end, Virginia, the young girl, has different plans for the ghost, and the story veers off into romance territory but keeps some of its gothic ghost elements, leaving a tiny ironic question mark at the end (I think). Along the way, Wilde briefly dips his toes into more profound waters like redemption and forgiveness, but over all it is simply an entertaining read by clever, witty Oscar Wilde.
(An irrelevant observation: The story reminded me of a delightful poem by Charles Causley called Colonel Fazackerly Butterworth-Toast, and I’m sure Causley must have found inspiration in Wilde’s ghost story. The poem is likewise about a ghost that tries to scare away the new owner of its castle but to no avail). ...more
It took a long time for the book to grab hold of me, but when it finally did, I felt almost painfully drawn in. It is the story of 100-year old RoseanIt took a long time for the book to grab hold of me, but when it finally did, I felt almost painfully drawn in. It is the story of 100-year old Roseanne but also the story of Dr Grene, who tries to disentangle Roseanne's story amid a web of varying stories. It is an absorbing story but also a grim and heart-rending one, set against the backdrop of another gruesome story/history, namely that of Ireland.
I felt reminded of 'Angela's Ashes', which is a different kind of story but which also tells the history of Ireland through the story of individual fates. In this novel also it seems as if Ireland's history is strewn with the corpses of its children, and there were times when I felt it was unbearable to read.
While Roseanne's story is at the heart of the novel and is highly compelling, what captured me perhaps more was Dr Grene's take on her story and his subsequent musings on history, memories, truth and life which felt real, profound and sorrowful yet never sentimental.
The ending wasn't quite satisfying for me, and also a bit predictable, but upon closing the book, I clearly felt that the novel had made an imprint on me. The strength of the novel is how it expresses the humanity of ill-fated, blighted lives and individuals' attempts to come to terms with, or indeed unravel, their stories in the face of other people's stories and the history of a country....more
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