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A review by madeleinegeorge
Strange Flowers by Donal Ryan
4.0
A delightful, wandering Irish folk song. Spanning decades, canvasing the lives and strifes of farmers, poets, and exiles alike, Ryan deftly moves through the grief of one family as it is inherited by each generation. Its twists and turns are moving and unexpected, bringing with them a beautiful prosaic simplicity. His rich, arresting characters remind us that we can't give each other nearly as much as we will take away. They remind us what homecoming means if home is a place that keeps losing its center, that keeps falling out from beneath your feet, a person that walks away, whose name changes, identity shifts, and can never truly be within reach.
A stunning little book, generously wrought. Love as torment and redemption.
Essentials:
"He feels happy in this moment, actual happiness, that the moment he's existing in has the best possible aspect of any moment: the best smell and taste and texture and colour and shape; no human could be more beautiful than the human before him; no story could be more enjoyable in the telling than the one he's telling the beautiful human; no sound could be more exotic or delicious or fascinating than the sound of her."
"She wants to shout at him, Wake up, wake up, the world is hard and it rushes on regardless of your heart."
"It's funny how you sometimes, most times, have to be surprised into awareness of the strength of your own feelings. Ambushed by the truth of things."
"He's alive. He's still alive, after all. He is, unexpectedly, alive and in love. He'll have to see that small thing out, the small, dense, massive thing that has him helpless, desperate, locked in a dizzy orbit of desire."
"He can't imagine trying to read in front of an audience now or ever again. He wants to read only for her; he wants the world to be composed of him and her."
"He bathes in sadness, it seems, lets it wash over him and into him and out of him. This story he's written, and the poem she picked up from the floor, his attempt to corral it, to tame it from wildness so it won't kill him. Or maybe just to know where it is so it can't blindside him, attack him, claws drawn, from behind."
"Life was like that: it meandered on and away along its course and there wasn't much anyone could do in the path of Fate but stand aside and hope and pray for the best."
A stunning little book, generously wrought. Love as torment and redemption.
Essentials:
"He feels happy in this moment, actual happiness, that the moment he's existing in has the best possible aspect of any moment: the best smell and taste and texture and colour and shape; no human could be more beautiful than the human before him; no story could be more enjoyable in the telling than the one he's telling the beautiful human; no sound could be more exotic or delicious or fascinating than the sound of her."
"She wants to shout at him, Wake up, wake up, the world is hard and it rushes on regardless of your heart."
"It's funny how you sometimes, most times, have to be surprised into awareness of the strength of your own feelings. Ambushed by the truth of things."
"He's alive. He's still alive, after all. He is, unexpectedly, alive and in love. He'll have to see that small thing out, the small, dense, massive thing that has him helpless, desperate, locked in a dizzy orbit of desire."
"He can't imagine trying to read in front of an audience now or ever again. He wants to read only for her; he wants the world to be composed of him and her."
"He bathes in sadness, it seems, lets it wash over him and into him and out of him. This story he's written, and the poem she picked up from the floor, his attempt to corral it, to tame it from wildness so it won't kill him. Or maybe just to know where it is so it can't blindside him, attack him, claws drawn, from behind."
"Life was like that: it meandered on and away along its course and there wasn't much anyone could do in the path of Fate but stand aside and hope and pray for the best."