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3.62 AVERAGE
3.62 AVERAGE
Melancholic and quietly tragic. Everyone is haunted by the ripples of a past event in 1921 . The aftermath and subsequent lives of several characters are tentatively followed over the course of a few decades. The prose are quite beautiful. Trevor is known for his talent of writing short stories and it really shows in this novel in the immediacy he conveys. Chapters are short and the writing is measured. A real poignant novel.
emotional
relaxing
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
No
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Complicated
I felt rather disappointed by this book.
The Story of Lucy Gault was definitely not my book. For one, I felt the story was not executed very well, and the narrative voice was not something that really stuck out to me. I tried to connect with the characters, but I mostly felt Lucy Gault was rather annoying. I will say that I did like the structure of the book, with the book divided into three sections: early childhood, the middle years, and her older years, but as I followed Lucy Gault during her development, the more I did not like her as a character. The only thing I liked about her was that she enjoyed reading, but other than that, I felt that she was lacking in the personality that typically sticks with me in literary fiction.
None of the other characters stuck out to me, either. I found the romance between Lucy and Ralph to be not quite the romance I was hoping for and felt that Lucy was being unfair to Ralph. However, after reflecting on this some more, I can understand why. What I saw in this is that she felt she did not deserve happiness, as she had not received forgiveness from her parents. This does allude well to the theme of trauma Trevor explores in this book, which is another thing I felt Trever did well in The Story of Lucy Gault.
As I said in the beginning, this really was not my book. I thought I would have enjoyed the book and rooted for Lucy, but unfortunately, I was rooting for the book to end. I could have easily DNF'd; however, usually when I experience a letdown in the middle of a book I'm reading, the book gets better. This one didn't. This is a rare feeling for me concerning any book, which is why I rated the book two out of five. Of course, the books we love/like are subjective and the books we do not like are also subjective. If you are reading this, I hope you are reading this after you have read the book. If you are reading this before you have read the book, I would recommend you read the book. Maybe this book is for you? I don't know! Only YOU can make that deduction.
The Story of Lucy Gault was definitely not my book. For one, I felt the story was not executed very well, and the narrative voice was not something that really stuck out to me. I tried to connect with the characters, but I mostly felt Lucy Gault was rather annoying. I will say that I did like the structure of the book, with the book divided into three sections: early childhood, the middle years, and her older years, but as I followed Lucy Gault during her development, the more I did not like her as a character. The only thing I liked about her was that she enjoyed reading, but other than that, I felt that she was lacking in the personality that typically sticks with me in literary fiction.
None of the other characters stuck out to me, either. I found the romance between Lucy and Ralph to be not quite the romance I was hoping for and felt that Lucy was being unfair to Ralph. However, after reflecting on this some more, I can understand why. What I saw in this is that she felt she did not deserve happiness, as she had not received forgiveness from her parents. This does allude well to the theme of trauma Trevor explores in this book, which is another thing I felt Trever did well in The Story of Lucy Gault.
As I said in the beginning, this really was not my book. I thought I would have enjoyed the book and rooted for Lucy, but unfortunately, I was rooting for the book to end. I could have easily DNF'd; however, usually when I experience a letdown in the middle of a book I'm reading, the book gets better. This one didn't. This is a rare feeling for me concerning any book, which is why I rated the book two out of five. Of course, the books we love/like are subjective and the books we do not like are also subjective. If you are reading this, I hope you are reading this after you have read the book. If you are reading this before you have read the book, I would recommend you read the book. Maybe this book is for you? I don't know! Only YOU can make that deduction.
The four books of William Trevor's I've read were written respectively in 1991, 1994, 1996 and, this one, 2002 which means he was in his sixties or seventies and probably past his prime. And not surprisingly perhaps why he seems a writer completely out of step with the times in which he lived. He reminds me of myself at school - when writing a story I would write it not with my own sensibility but with an attempt at appropriating the sensibility of my favourite writers from the past. Not once have I felt Trevor has contributed anything new to the novel or short story. He rehashes what's already been done and done much better. He writes a lot about the natural world but always with a kind of hackneyed textbook lyricism. It's interesting that he never seems to have evolved his sensibility because for me his characters have a similar problem. They rarely develop. They remain strait-jacketed by the plot device which brought them into being. At the end of this novel Trevor, indulging again his oppressive sentimental nostalgia, has a dig at people speaking on their phones in the street. The irony is, had mobile phones been around when this novel is set none of its hot air tragedy would have been able to happen.
For a writer clearly so ill at ease in the modern world it makes sense that he should turn his hand to historical fiction which is what he does here. Except even the best historical fiction is dependent on pioneering sensibility as is the case with Hilary Mantel or, to a lesser extent, Sebastian Barry. That said, this novel begins well. A protestant landowner in Ireland catches three catholic youths in the act of setting fire to his house and shoots one of them, wounding him in the shoulder. Tension is established. Will the catholic youths return? Captain Gault decides they will and decides it's time to leave Ireland. His eight year old daughter though does not want to leave her childhood home and runs away. Now begins the onslaught of highly implausible plot devices. Captain Gault and his wife seem almost eager to believe their daughter is dead. A stance that is psychologically way off kilter. Within a couple of weeks they've bolted to mainland Europe but without selling their house which is being looked after by a servant couple. The Gault family have been shown living a modest simple life yet we now discover Mrs Gault has enough money to support her and her husband in a life of leisure for the rest of their lives. The daughter isn't dead of course. She broke her ankle and apparently lied in a ditch for two weeks. Trevor conveniently skips all detail of these two implausible weeks. Once abroad, Captain Gault makes the decision to cut off all ties with everyone he knows. This novel, littered with plot devices which don't ring even remotely true, now enters the realms of absurdity. It's always a bad sign when an author feels the need to justify his plot which is what Trevor now does. Captain Gault, we're told, feels any news from Ireland will upset his wife too much. So he and his wife never learn that their daughter isn't dead. They are now living in Mussolini's Italy. It's clear Trevor doesn't have a clue about Mussolini's Italy. His Italy is the bog standard clichéd depiction of churches, bells, paintings and piazzas. Everything is pretty and civilised.
All the characters in this novel are one dimensional, their chief characteristic always a psychologically questionable plot device. It's been said Trevor knows his characters so well he can afford to leave out many of the characteristics that make them tick. This for me is baloney. One of his characters could be gay and he wouldn't know it. He hasn't a clue what his exiled couple did for thirty years without employment except visit churches and drink coffee in piazzas as though they're on a ten day holiday. It never occurs to him that often his characters would deeply irritate each other in the circumstances he creates. Often his characters are almost childishly benign. And when you've read a few of his books you begin to recognise the same old characters churned out again and again. Here again we have the mad boy who has a divine revelation, the female who emotionally never gets beyond adolescence; the female determined to play the tragic innocent victim. I couldn't help thinking of the psychologically complex nature of Tess' tragic fate in Hardy's novel; by comparison Trevor's tragic heroine is a strand of tinsel. If I abandoned books I would have given this up less than half way through. There's so little at stake in the second half of this book that I'm baffled people are still encouraged to read it. For me William Trevor is the perfect example of how frequently male writers have been vastly overrated at the expense of much more talented female writers. Especially galling with him because he kind of writes like a caricature of a woman. Shirley Hazzard can write the pants off him and yet barely anyone reads her. Come to that Rosamond Lehman, for me a decent third division writer, can write the pants off him too and seems more modern despite writing decades earlier. Somehow, critical opinion has been incredibly generous to William Trevor. I'm not sure though that it will last.
Apologies for my lack of Christmas spirit in this review.
For a writer clearly so ill at ease in the modern world it makes sense that he should turn his hand to historical fiction which is what he does here. Except even the best historical fiction is dependent on pioneering sensibility as is the case with Hilary Mantel or, to a lesser extent, Sebastian Barry. That said, this novel begins well. A protestant landowner in Ireland catches three catholic youths in the act of setting fire to his house and shoots one of them, wounding him in the shoulder. Tension is established. Will the catholic youths return? Captain Gault decides they will and decides it's time to leave Ireland. His eight year old daughter though does not want to leave her childhood home and runs away. Now begins the onslaught of highly implausible plot devices. Captain Gault and his wife seem almost eager to believe their daughter is dead. A stance that is psychologically way off kilter. Within a couple of weeks they've bolted to mainland Europe but without selling their house which is being looked after by a servant couple. The Gault family have been shown living a modest simple life yet we now discover Mrs Gault has enough money to support her and her husband in a life of leisure for the rest of their lives. The daughter isn't dead of course. She broke her ankle and apparently lied in a ditch for two weeks. Trevor conveniently skips all detail of these two implausible weeks. Once abroad, Captain Gault makes the decision to cut off all ties with everyone he knows. This novel, littered with plot devices which don't ring even remotely true, now enters the realms of absurdity. It's always a bad sign when an author feels the need to justify his plot which is what Trevor now does. Captain Gault, we're told, feels any news from Ireland will upset his wife too much. So he and his wife never learn that their daughter isn't dead. They are now living in Mussolini's Italy. It's clear Trevor doesn't have a clue about Mussolini's Italy. His Italy is the bog standard clichéd depiction of churches, bells, paintings and piazzas. Everything is pretty and civilised.
All the characters in this novel are one dimensional, their chief characteristic always a psychologically questionable plot device. It's been said Trevor knows his characters so well he can afford to leave out many of the characteristics that make them tick. This for me is baloney. One of his characters could be gay and he wouldn't know it. He hasn't a clue what his exiled couple did for thirty years without employment except visit churches and drink coffee in piazzas as though they're on a ten day holiday. It never occurs to him that often his characters would deeply irritate each other in the circumstances he creates. Often his characters are almost childishly benign. And when you've read a few of his books you begin to recognise the same old characters churned out again and again. Here again we have the mad boy who has a divine revelation, the female who emotionally never gets beyond adolescence; the female determined to play the tragic innocent victim. I couldn't help thinking of the psychologically complex nature of Tess' tragic fate in Hardy's novel; by comparison Trevor's tragic heroine is a strand of tinsel. If I abandoned books I would have given this up less than half way through. There's so little at stake in the second half of this book that I'm baffled people are still encouraged to read it. For me William Trevor is the perfect example of how frequently male writers have been vastly overrated at the expense of much more talented female writers. Especially galling with him because he kind of writes like a caricature of a woman. Shirley Hazzard can write the pants off him and yet barely anyone reads her. Come to that Rosamond Lehman, for me a decent third division writer, can write the pants off him too and seems more modern despite writing decades earlier. Somehow, critical opinion has been incredibly generous to William Trevor. I'm not sure though that it will last.
Apologies for my lack of Christmas spirit in this review.
Căpitanul Everard Gault îl rănise pe băiat în umărul drept în noaptea de 21 iunie 1921. Ţintind în întuneric deasupra capetelor infractorilor, el trăsese un singur foc de la etaj, apoi privise cum cele trei umbre o iau la sănătoasa, cu rănitul ajutat de tovarăşii săi.
Veniseră să dea foc casei. Era o vizită aşteptată, întrucât mai fuseseră acolo şi altă dată. Atunci apăruseră mai târziu, pe la unu noaptea. Câinii ciobăneşti îi puseseră pe fugă, dar peste o săptămână Căpitanul Gault găsise câinii otrăviţi în curte. Atunci ştiu că infractorii se vor întoarce.
— Suntem prea puţini la garnizoană, domnule, spusese sergentul Talty când venise de la Enniseala. Oh, groaznic de puţini, Căpitane.
Lahardane nu era singura casă ameninţată. In fiecare săptămâna se întâmpla ceva, indiferent pe unde patrula poliţia.
— Să dea Dumnezeu să se termine odată, mai spuse sergentul şi plecă.
Atâta vreme cât exista starea de nelinişte ce prevestea războiul, în ţară domnea legea marţială. In privinţa câinilor otrăviţi nu se luă nici o măsură.
Când se lumină de ziuă în dimineaţa ce a urmat împuşcăturilor, pe pietrişul din faţa casei se putea vedea sânge.
Atunci Căpitanul Gault se gândi că totul va fi bine: fusese dată o lecţie. Îi scrise părintelui Morrissey din Enniseala, rugându-l să transmită simpatia şi regretul său familiei respective în cazul în care auzise cumva pe cine rănise. Nu avusese de gând sâ provoace un accident, dorise doar să anunţe faptul că locul era păzit. Părintele îi răspunse. Cel rănit a fost întotdeauna răzvrătitul din acea familie, spunea el, expunându-şi părerea despre evenimente; era însă ceva ciudat în scrisoarea aceea, felul în care fuseseră alese frazele şi cuvintele, ca şi cum părintelui îi era greu să comenteze incidentul, de parcă nu ar fi înţeles că nu se intenţionase rănirea sau moartea cuiva. Îi mai scrise că a transmis mesajul Căpitanului, dar că nu primise nici un răspuns din partea familiei la care se referea acesta.
Veniseră să dea foc casei. Era o vizită aşteptată, întrucât mai fuseseră acolo şi altă dată. Atunci apăruseră mai târziu, pe la unu noaptea. Câinii ciobăneşti îi puseseră pe fugă, dar peste o săptămână Căpitanul Gault găsise câinii otrăviţi în curte. Atunci ştiu că infractorii se vor întoarce.
— Suntem prea puţini la garnizoană, domnule, spusese sergentul Talty când venise de la Enniseala. Oh, groaznic de puţini, Căpitane.
Lahardane nu era singura casă ameninţată. In fiecare săptămâna se întâmpla ceva, indiferent pe unde patrula poliţia.
— Să dea Dumnezeu să se termine odată, mai spuse sergentul şi plecă.
Atâta vreme cât exista starea de nelinişte ce prevestea războiul, în ţară domnea legea marţială. In privinţa câinilor otrăviţi nu se luă nici o măsură.
Când se lumină de ziuă în dimineaţa ce a urmat împuşcăturilor, pe pietrişul din faţa casei se putea vedea sânge.
Atunci Căpitanul Gault se gândi că totul va fi bine: fusese dată o lecţie. Îi scrise părintelui Morrissey din Enniseala, rugându-l să transmită simpatia şi regretul său familiei respective în cazul în care auzise cumva pe cine rănise. Nu avusese de gând sâ provoace un accident, dorise doar să anunţe faptul că locul era păzit. Părintele îi răspunse. Cel rănit a fost întotdeauna răzvrătitul din acea familie, spunea el, expunându-şi părerea despre evenimente; era însă ceva ciudat în scrisoarea aceea, felul în care fuseseră alese frazele şi cuvintele, ca şi cum părintelui îi era greu să comenteze incidentul, de parcă nu ar fi înţeles că nu se intenţionase rănirea sau moartea cuiva. Îi mai scrise că a transmis mesajul Căpitanului, dar că nu primise nici un răspuns din partea familiei la care se referea acesta.
challenging
dark
emotional
reflective
sad
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Plot
I'd give this one a 10 for prose, a 4 for content.
This book is beautifully written and follows the tragic life of a protestant-Irish family from the 1920s until modern times. It's a short book, more than a novella, but well shorter than the usual family saga. The writing is spectacular, the character development is excellent and the beginning of the book gripping. My issue with the book is the plot.
A very well-to-do husband and wife find themselves being attacked by a group of Irish hoodlums. The issue is that these hoodlums are capable of burning down their house with them in it. The couple decide to emigrate before things get ugly, however, their daughter Lucy, a 10 year old girl who loves her home, panics and runs off. Her parents take her for dead, and a few days later abandon their home and go to grieve in Europe. Up to this point (most of which is on the back cover) the book is tragic, elegantly written and totally believable.
*************************SPOILER ALERT**************************
Lucy is found by the caretakers and brought back to the family farm. The solicitor attempts to contact the parents to no avail. Years pass and Lucy lives a quiet isolated life, while her parents continue to grieve in Europe incommunicado FOR THIRTY YEARS!!!! It smacked of improbability. Did they never need to contact the caretakers or the attorney? They never wrote back to find out if the body of their daughter had been found, buried, something? Were there never any estate taxes to be paid? Friends to contact, a doctor, money in a bank? While mom and dad are grieving for those 30 years, Lucy lives in total isolation doing absolutely nothing. One summer she meets a guy but she doesn't allow the relationship to go anywhere because she feels like before she can advance in her life she needs her parents' forgiveness for her running away. In the meantime, there's no mention of maybe volunteering during WWII, getting a degree, planting a victory garden, traveling, having A friend - nothing. A life wasted on nothing.
I kept waiting for a redeeming factor to be written in to The Story of Lucy Gault and I came away sorry that it didn't. Nothing improved. Nobody seemed to have learned much of anything over a course of several lives.
Having said all this, I would read this author again. The prose was excellent!
This book is beautifully written and follows the tragic life of a protestant-Irish family from the 1920s until modern times. It's a short book, more than a novella, but well shorter than the usual family saga. The writing is spectacular, the character development is excellent and the beginning of the book gripping. My issue with the book is the plot.
A very well-to-do husband and wife find themselves being attacked by a group of Irish hoodlums. The issue is that these hoodlums are capable of burning down their house with them in it. The couple decide to emigrate before things get ugly, however, their daughter Lucy, a 10 year old girl who loves her home, panics and runs off. Her parents take her for dead, and a few days later abandon their home and go to grieve in Europe. Up to this point (most of which is on the back cover) the book is tragic, elegantly written and totally believable.
*************************SPOILER ALERT**************************
Lucy is found by the caretakers and brought back to the family farm. The solicitor attempts to contact the parents to no avail. Years pass and Lucy lives a quiet isolated life, while her parents continue to grieve in Europe incommunicado FOR THIRTY YEARS!!!! It smacked of improbability. Did they never need to contact the caretakers or the attorney? They never wrote back to find out if the body of their daughter had been found, buried, something? Were there never any estate taxes to be paid? Friends to contact, a doctor, money in a bank? While mom and dad are grieving for those 30 years, Lucy lives in total isolation doing absolutely nothing. One summer she meets a guy but she doesn't allow the relationship to go anywhere because she feels like before she can advance in her life she needs her parents' forgiveness for her running away. In the meantime, there's no mention of maybe volunteering during WWII, getting a degree, planting a victory garden, traveling, having A friend - nothing. A life wasted on nothing.
I kept waiting for a redeeming factor to be written in to The Story of Lucy Gault and I came away sorry that it didn't. Nothing improved. Nobody seemed to have learned much of anything over a course of several lives.
Having said all this, I would read this author again. The prose was excellent!
Zo zo zo zo mooi. Trevor heeft ervoor gezorgd dat ik mijn gevoelens niet kan onderscheiden van die van het verhaal, ik leef vandaag wat hij heeft opgeschreven.
Loved it. It's haunting and melancholic; so many what if's that it's almost unbearable. The writing was evocative and flowed well.