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3.68 AVERAGE
3.68 AVERAGE
As others have said this book is beautifully written. The prose is so well crafted. The first part of the book was harrowing and haunting and upsetting. Once I started reading it, I couldn’t put it down, even knowing the inevitability of the outcome. The rest of the book also held together well, but I would say it worked well as a set of short stories. I recognize that there was an expectation that it needed to be linked at the end, but I wasn’t sure if it was necessary really and it felt a little rushed after the care and depth that had been put into the lives of the three men.
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Do you know these books that make you fall in love with an author’s writing in a way that makes you want to read everything they have ever written? This was a book like that; it blew me away. I adore Donal Ryan’s way with words and the obvious care he takes to construct perfect sentences.
This is more a collection of short stories but so much more than that in a way (and I say that as somebody who obviously loves short stories). Ryan tells the stories of three widely different men; the only thing they have in common is a deep unhappiness with their lives. All three of them are fully fleshed-out, flawed characters that were a joy to spend time with. This is even more impressive when considering how few pages Ryan uses for his portraits.
My favourite part of this book was the first: I adored everything about the way Ryan tells Farouk’s story. Here the language is the most whimsical and powerful, whereas later it becomes more understated (which works brilliantly as well, I might add, I just happened to adore beyond measure the beauty of the first part). Farouk is also the most sympathetic of the men and the one whose story seems most tragic. I do love how Ryan allows this story to be as tragic as it needs to while still offering glimpses of hope.
Beyond being a perfect snapshot of these men’s lives, this is also an ode to storytelling in its different incarnations. Be it the fairy tales Farouk and his wife tell their daughter or the stories of pub life in a small town that connects Lampy and his granddad, Donal Ryan shows how stories are the glue that keep us together. Which I obviously love.
First sentence: “Let me tell you something about trees.”
I received an arc of this book courtesy of NetGalley and Transworld Publishing in exchange for an honest review.
You can find this review and other thoughts on books on my blog.
This is more a collection of short stories but so much more than that in a way (and I say that as somebody who obviously loves short stories). Ryan tells the stories of three widely different men; the only thing they have in common is a deep unhappiness with their lives. All three of them are fully fleshed-out, flawed characters that were a joy to spend time with. This is even more impressive when considering how few pages Ryan uses for his portraits.
My favourite part of this book was the first: I adored everything about the way Ryan tells Farouk’s story. Here the language is the most whimsical and powerful, whereas later it becomes more understated (which works brilliantly as well, I might add, I just happened to adore beyond measure the beauty of the first part). Farouk is also the most sympathetic of the men and the one whose story seems most tragic. I do love how Ryan allows this story to be as tragic as it needs to while still offering glimpses of hope.
Beyond being a perfect snapshot of these men’s lives, this is also an ode to storytelling in its different incarnations. Be it the fairy tales Farouk and his wife tell their daughter or the stories of pub life in a small town that connects Lampy and his granddad, Donal Ryan shows how stories are the glue that keep us together. Which I obviously love.
First sentence: “Let me tell you something about trees.”
I received an arc of this book courtesy of NetGalley and Transworld Publishing in exchange for an honest review.
You can find this review and other thoughts on books on my blog.
Donal Ryan has once again crafted an intricate and quietly heartbreaking character study. The story itself is split into four parts. The first three each follow a different man, essentially struggling with pain, loss and the difficulty of accepting an ugly truth. Their stories seem entirely disparate until the fourth part, in which their lives are cleverly woven together.
The way Ryan handles this complex narrative structure is testament to his immense skill as a writer. Though I would say, as with his novel, [b:The Spinning Heart|15995144|The Spinning Heart|Donal Ryan|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1349169242s/15995144.jpg|21753684], I recommend reading this within a short space of time (or even a single sitting, if possible) to avoid losing the intricacy and intimacy of the inter-connectivity that emerges later on.
The way Ryan handles his characters is fantastic. Each one (main and supporting) feels fleshed out, flawed, emotionally charged, and highly believable. Reminding me in some ways of The Spinning Heart again, he omits the use of speech marks in this book, with conversations running on uninterrupted. I'm not personally a huge fan of this stylistic choice as a rule, but combined with the repeated use of overly long sentences, it arguably has real impact here. The almost breathless, extended nature of the narration gives the feeling of being inside his characters' heads; as though they are purging themselves of the secret pain they have carried throughout their lives, literally drawing out the truths they had buried. The floodgates have opened, and their confessions cannot be stopped.
It's a largely bleak book, with all the characters (again, both main and supporting) leading lives that are essentially a succession of miserable events - so perhaps not one for those who crave a neat solution and a happily-ever-after. It is, however, a masterful display of how to elicit an emotional connection within the reader. To me, it's also ultimately about the reality that we all suffer to a greater or lesser extent, and how we could benefit from admitting this fact, both to others and within ourselves. Ryan shows us that choosing to live in spite of it is the first step in moving on, and perhaps even finding happiness again.
The way Ryan handles this complex narrative structure is testament to his immense skill as a writer. Though I would say, as with his novel, [b:The Spinning Heart|15995144|The Spinning Heart|Donal Ryan|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1349169242s/15995144.jpg|21753684], I recommend reading this within a short space of time (or even a single sitting, if possible) to avoid losing the intricacy and intimacy of the inter-connectivity that emerges later on.
The way Ryan handles his characters is fantastic. Each one (main and supporting) feels fleshed out, flawed, emotionally charged, and highly believable. Reminding me in some ways of The Spinning Heart again, he omits the use of speech marks in this book, with conversations running on uninterrupted. I'm not personally a huge fan of this stylistic choice as a rule, but combined with the repeated use of overly long sentences, it arguably has real impact here. The almost breathless, extended nature of the narration gives the feeling of being inside his characters' heads; as though they are purging themselves of the secret pain they have carried throughout their lives, literally drawing out the truths they had buried. The floodgates have opened, and their confessions cannot be stopped.
It's a largely bleak book, with all the characters (again, both main and supporting) leading lives that are essentially a succession of miserable events - so perhaps not one for those who crave a neat solution and a happily-ever-after. It is, however, a masterful display of how to elicit an emotional connection within the reader. To me, it's also ultimately about the reality that we all suffer to a greater or lesser extent, and how we could benefit from admitting this fact, both to others and within ourselves. Ryan shows us that choosing to live in spite of it is the first step in moving on, and perhaps even finding happiness again.
[b:From a Low and Quiet Sea|36906103|From a Low and Quiet Sea|Donal Ryan|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1514192442s/36906103.jpg|58019375] is my second Donal Ryan novel after [b:All We Shall Know|32968558|All We Shall Know|Donal Ryan|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1498803048s/32968558.jpg|50095717], and so far he's two for two if we're grading for emotional devastation and positively stunning prose. Ryan's style is everything I love about contemporary Irish literature incarnate - the lyrical, almost breathless writing which deftly balances black humor with an aching sadness, the quiet introspection of his characters, the skillful exploration of pain and loss and grief and religion and loneliness.
[b:From a Low and Quiet Sea|36906103|From a Low and Quiet Sea|Donal Ryan|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1514192442s/36906103.jpg|58019375] is essentially a series of three short stories - the first follows Farouk, a Syrian refugee who pays a man to help him escape his country with his wife and daughter; the second is about Lampy, an Irish teenager who lives with his mom and grandfather and who's still desperately in love with his ex-girlfriend; and the third follows John, an old man who grew up under the shadow of his brother's death. Their stories converge at the end rather unexpectedly, but in a way that I thought was rather brilliantly conceived.
As with any novel that changes perspectives, it's inevitable that some will be stronger than others. The opening chapter - Farouk's - is far and away the most accomplished of the three. Ryan doesn't rest on the already tragic premise; he crafts a positively harrowing journey for this character, and as we wrap up his story and proceed into the second section, it's almost painful leaving him behind. John's chapter is stunning as well - it's the only one told in first-person, as his story takes the form of a confession - and of the three it's the most episodic, lending it a very readable quality while still getting to the heart of this troubled and compelling character. For me, Lampy's chapter was notably the weakest. Though there was some poignant commentary here about growing up fatherless, I felt that there wasn't enough of a story or a character arc to justify this section's length.
This is one of those books that was stressing me out as I headed toward the conclusion, because I couldn't even begin to imagine what was going to connect these three disparate stories, and I was almost afraid that whatever Ryan had come up with wasn't going to be satisfying enough. I needn't have worried - the resolution is surprising but gratifying. There's also an undeniable thematic interconnectedness that I thought was handled wonderfully throughout the book. I thought Ryan's examination of the role of storytelling in the lives of these three men was a beautiful element, as well as the similar yet distinct meditations on loneliness and grief as each of these characters search for some kind of peace.
4.5, which I'm rounding down now for the weak middle section, but which I may round up later depending on how this book stays with me over time. I really loved this.
Thank you to Penguin Books and Donal Ryan for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review.
[b:From a Low and Quiet Sea|36906103|From a Low and Quiet Sea|Donal Ryan|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1514192442s/36906103.jpg|58019375] is essentially a series of three short stories - the first follows Farouk, a Syrian refugee who pays a man to help him escape his country with his wife and daughter; the second is about Lampy, an Irish teenager who lives with his mom and grandfather and who's still desperately in love with his ex-girlfriend; and the third follows John, an old man who grew up under the shadow of his brother's death. Their stories converge at the end rather unexpectedly, but in a way that I thought was rather brilliantly conceived.
As with any novel that changes perspectives, it's inevitable that some will be stronger than others. The opening chapter - Farouk's - is far and away the most accomplished of the three. Ryan doesn't rest on the already tragic premise; he crafts a positively harrowing journey for this character, and as we wrap up his story and proceed into the second section, it's almost painful leaving him behind. John's chapter is stunning as well - it's the only one told in first-person, as his story takes the form of a confession - and of the three it's the most episodic, lending it a very readable quality while still getting to the heart of this troubled and compelling character. For me, Lampy's chapter was notably the weakest. Though there was some poignant commentary here about growing up fatherless, I felt that there wasn't enough of a story or a character arc to justify this section's length.
This is one of those books that was stressing me out as I headed toward the conclusion, because I couldn't even begin to imagine what was going to connect these three disparate stories, and I was almost afraid that whatever Ryan had come up with wasn't going to be satisfying enough. I needn't have worried - the resolution is surprising but gratifying. There's also an undeniable thematic interconnectedness that I thought was handled wonderfully throughout the book. I thought Ryan's examination of the role of storytelling in the lives of these three men was a beautiful element, as well as the similar yet distinct meditations on loneliness and grief as each of these characters search for some kind of peace.
4.5, which I'm rounding down now for the weak middle section, but which I may round up later depending on how this book stays with me over time. I really loved this.
Thank you to Penguin Books and Donal Ryan for the advanced copy provided in exchange for an honest review.
This was my second read from the Man Booker 2018 long list, and in the end I felt a bit ambivalent about it. Ryan’s prose is undoubtably beautiful. His writing is considered, measured and lyrical at times. This novella is a sad story, each central character grappling with the reality of their lives which have taken traumatic, unexpected turns. Normally this is one hundred percent my kind of read, but for some reason I felt very distant from these characters and this world. Ryan kept me at arms length, and although he drew his characters together at the end, I found this conceit a little too convenient.
“He never could convert his love to words. He longed to hold the boy that way he used to, to fold him into himself, to hold him hard against him, saying, My boy, my boy. The foolishness that swept through him, more every day; it was like a rogue current below a flat, still surface, a deadly undertow that could drag you down to perdition. The day his daughter landed in with her news he’d surprised himself.”
.
I really liked this book, but it’s difficult to review without giving too much away. The structure is three short stories (50 pages each), following a Syrian refugee, a young dreamer and a penitent, with the last short section unexpectedly bringing them all together in a brutal climax. The prose is beautiful and poetic, and it’s a very moving, sometimes darkly funny story. It’s essentially a haunting novel about love (in its many forms), loss and redemption, with religion in the background. I’m still not really sure I’ve understood it all. So I’m hoping that you’ve either read it or will in the future, then please come and find me to discuss!
"What's in the past can't be changed and what's to come can't be known and you can't give your life to worrying. Sure you can't. All you have to do is be kind and you'll have lived a good life."
Don't be fooled by a moment's uplifting tone: this is a devastating story of little redemption, and the only humor you'll find within is fleeting or bitter. These are characters struck down by tragedy that breaks them, turns them cruel, or leaves them twisting helplessly beneath the weight of pain they can hardly bear. There is no sentimentality in Ryan's From a Low and Quiet Sea, but there is a constant need for healing and forgiveness driving this story that makes this book perfect fodder for binge-reading.
But it's best to go into this book with as little knowledge of content as possible, so let's talk about the format of this "novel." From a Low and Quiet Sea is divided into four sections, each told from the perspective of a different man. The first three parts take up exactly 50 pages each, which is a symmetry that I rarely see in novels and that always impresses me; but as impressive and interesting as this format is, I'm tempted to call this book a series of connected short stories rather than a novel.
Farouk's format is very much a plot-heavy chronological timeline, interspersed with a few crucial made-up stories from his life. Lampy's section alternates between introspection about his past and the events of a single, important day in his present. John's section focuses entirely on his past, in the form of a sin-by-sin confession. But my struggle with the format of this book was that the very first section was a strong favorite for me- and, I suspect, will be for most; after that, I knew I was reading primarily to see how it all came together. I did not care about Lampy and John's stories as much, though each have their merits. Lampy's was by far the least propulsive for me.
What I did love undisputedly was Ryan's writing. The prose is beautiful without verging on ornate, every character feels distinct and real, and none of the events feel forced or constructed to fit the plot. The lack of quotations around dialogue keeps the story flowing smoothly, the past fitting seamlessly with the present, and characters' thoughts float naturally into actions. Ryan is in full control of his language, and the writing makes the book.
"If you say something enough times, the repetition makes it true. Any notion you like, no matter how mad it seems, can be a fact's chrysalis. Once you say it loud enough and often enough it becomes debatable. Debates change minds. Debate is the larval stage of truth. Constant, unflagging, loud repetition completes your notion's metamorphosis to fact. The fact takes wing and flutters from place to place and mind to mind and makes a living, permanent thing of itself."
It's a shame this one didn't make the shortlist.
Don't be fooled by a moment's uplifting tone: this is a devastating story of little redemption, and the only humor you'll find within is fleeting or bitter. These are characters struck down by tragedy that breaks them, turns them cruel, or leaves them twisting helplessly beneath the weight of pain they can hardly bear. There is no sentimentality in Ryan's From a Low and Quiet Sea, but there is a constant need for healing and forgiveness driving this story that makes this book perfect fodder for binge-reading.
But it's best to go into this book with as little knowledge of content as possible, so let's talk about the format of this "novel." From a Low and Quiet Sea is divided into four sections, each told from the perspective of a different man. The first three parts take up exactly 50 pages each, which is a symmetry that I rarely see in novels and that always impresses me; but as impressive and interesting as this format is, I'm tempted to call this book a series of connected short stories rather than a novel.
Farouk's format is very much a plot-heavy chronological timeline, interspersed with a few crucial made-up stories from his life. Lampy's section alternates between introspection about his past and the events of a single, important day in his present. John's section focuses entirely on his past, in the form of a sin-by-sin confession. But my struggle with the format of this book was that the very first section was a strong favorite for me- and, I suspect, will be for most; after that, I knew I was reading primarily to see how it all came together. I did not care about Lampy and John's stories as much, though each have their merits. Lampy's was by far the least propulsive for me.
What I did love undisputedly was Ryan's writing. The prose is beautiful without verging on ornate, every character feels distinct and real, and none of the events feel forced or constructed to fit the plot. The lack of quotations around dialogue keeps the story flowing smoothly, the past fitting seamlessly with the present, and characters' thoughts float naturally into actions. Ryan is in full control of his language, and the writing makes the book.
"If you say something enough times, the repetition makes it true. Any notion you like, no matter how mad it seems, can be a fact's chrysalis. Once you say it loud enough and often enough it becomes debatable. Debates change minds. Debate is the larval stage of truth. Constant, unflagging, loud repetition completes your notion's metamorphosis to fact. The fact takes wing and flutters from place to place and mind to mind and makes a living, permanent thing of itself."
It's a shame this one didn't make the shortlist.
Once again was drawn in within only a few pages, and the characters didn't let me go until all of a sudden it was over.