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literaryelephant 's review for:
From a Low and Quiet Sea
by Donal Ryan
"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.