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wolfdan9's reviews
255 reviews
Amongst Women by John McGahern
4.5
”He would not take part at all.”
Amongst Women is my second McGahern novel, his most critically acclaimed, perhaps one of my favorite novels, and one that demonstrates a mastery of characterization. Moran is skin-pricklingly real; so much so that I had assumed that he was based on McGahern himself or his own father (before lightly researching the novel and confirming it), as one can only develop a character like him by observing and really living with someone like him. But I felt an embarrassed insecurity as I read that there was some of Moran within myself. Rarely will I read a character, who really is 99% different than me, but whose 1% of shared personality is so acrimonious that I vow to never to be like him. Which is interesting as I interpreted the end of the novel as somewhat of a vindication for Moran. But before I comment on that I should describe who Moran is. His family, which consists of his 3 daughters, 2 sons, and their recently married stepmother, mainly lives with him in fear of his wicked mood changes (although his oldest son is estranged). He is easy to indirectly control; the women and his son Michael know which topics to avoid, when to stay out of his way, etc. and when he does become venomous they all mutually understand that it'll pass. It's comical how Moran, who takes himself so seriously and believes he is a good father instilling principles in his children through tough love, is so easily seen through by his family (and particularly the saintly Rose, his second wife, who holds the family together in spite of him at all turns). Every page is rich with Moran's bitter nature and petulant nastiness. He is passive aggressive, emotionally detached, insulting, stuck in his ways and stubborn to the point of impossibility. The best exemplar of his need for control, which is acquiesced but secretly belittled by his family, is the saying of the rosary every night before dinner. Moran makes a big deal out of this routine, which exemplifies the pointlessness of his strongly held principles, that ostensibly represent some great moral foundation, but in actuality only illustrate his sanctimoniousness.
The story is really framed around an encounter between Moran and his war-time buddy, who is visiting Moran for an annual festival. The frame story, which details their conversation, reveals how they've deviated in their values after the Irish War of Independence (whose geopolitical complexities I won't feign to understand). Moran reveals himself to be unmovable in his feelings about the war and his refusal of his military pension, and McQuaid correctly observes that "some people simply cannot accept being second place" as he leaves the night early, never to be seen (or mentioned) by Moran again. Moran is a man whose identity exists in his refusals, his non-participation in events, his disdain for familiarity or comfort, his distrust in everyone and assertions that he knows best. There is plenty of family drama that occurs in the novel, although there is no real plot of which to speak, that I won't dive into. But Moran's death at the end of the novel did occur to me as somewhat of a redeeming moment for him. At the end of the story, "...as they left him under the yew, it was as if each of them in their different ways had become Daddy." I found this touching. We all gain something from our parents and the hold they have on us, while perhaps greatly negative while they're alive, becomes an important lesson once they're gone. The girls are freed from Moran, but his influence holds stronger. Moreover, the title of the novel "Amongst Women" suggests (beyond that Moran simply lived amongst four women) that these women in his life have gained and become greater as a result of their association and "sticking with" him than Luke or Michael, his two sons. They inherit some spirit of his values, that I felt McGahren implicitly suggested are more valuable than the materialistic financial success of Luke or romantic success of Michael. These two children, who escape Moran's control, become successful by modern social standards of what it is to be a man (wealthy, polyamorous, etc.) but fail completely to be like Moran. The girls, who continue Moran's useless rosary tradition and enjoy their quiet rural lives after his death, are more principled and perhaps spiritually fulfilled in the long run, although this is never confirmed by the author.
Amongst Women is my second McGahern novel, his most critically acclaimed, perhaps one of my favorite novels, and one that demonstrates a mastery of characterization. Moran is skin-pricklingly real; so much so that I had assumed that he was based on McGahern himself or his own father (before lightly researching the novel and confirming it), as one can only develop a character like him by observing and really living with someone like him. But I felt an embarrassed insecurity as I read that there was some of Moran within myself. Rarely will I read a character, who really is 99% different than me, but whose 1% of shared personality is so acrimonious that I vow to never to be like him. Which is interesting as I interpreted the end of the novel as somewhat of a vindication for Moran. But before I comment on that I should describe who Moran is. His family, which consists of his 3 daughters, 2 sons, and their recently married stepmother, mainly lives with him in fear of his wicked mood changes (although his oldest son is estranged). He is easy to indirectly control; the women and his son Michael know which topics to avoid, when to stay out of his way, etc. and when he does become venomous they all mutually understand that it'll pass. It's comical how Moran, who takes himself so seriously and believes he is a good father instilling principles in his children through tough love, is so easily seen through by his family (and particularly the saintly Rose, his second wife, who holds the family together in spite of him at all turns). Every page is rich with Moran's bitter nature and petulant nastiness. He is passive aggressive, emotionally detached, insulting, stuck in his ways and stubborn to the point of impossibility. The best exemplar of his need for control, which is acquiesced but secretly belittled by his family, is the saying of the rosary every night before dinner. Moran makes a big deal out of this routine, which exemplifies the pointlessness of his strongly held principles, that ostensibly represent some great moral foundation, but in actuality only illustrate his sanctimoniousness.
The story is really framed around an encounter between Moran and his war-time buddy, who is visiting Moran for an annual festival. The frame story, which details their conversation, reveals how they've deviated in their values after the Irish War of Independence (whose geopolitical complexities I won't feign to understand). Moran reveals himself to be unmovable in his feelings about the war and his refusal of his military pension, and McQuaid correctly observes that "some people simply cannot accept being second place" as he leaves the night early, never to be seen (or mentioned) by Moran again. Moran is a man whose identity exists in his refusals, his non-participation in events, his disdain for familiarity or comfort, his distrust in everyone and assertions that he knows best. There is plenty of family drama that occurs in the novel, although there is no real plot of which to speak, that I won't dive into. But Moran's death at the end of the novel did occur to me as somewhat of a redeeming moment for him. At the end of the story, "...as they left him under the yew, it was as if each of them in their different ways had become Daddy." I found this touching. We all gain something from our parents and the hold they have on us, while perhaps greatly negative while they're alive, becomes an important lesson once they're gone. The girls are freed from Moran, but his influence holds stronger. Moreover, the title of the novel "Amongst Women" suggests (beyond that Moran simply lived amongst four women) that these women in his life have gained and become greater as a result of their association and "sticking with" him than Luke or Michael, his two sons. They inherit some spirit of his values, that I felt McGahren implicitly suggested are more valuable than the materialistic financial success of Luke or romantic success of Michael. These two children, who escape Moran's control, become successful by modern social standards of what it is to be a man (wealthy, polyamorous, etc.) but fail completely to be like Moran. The girls, who continue Moran's useless rosary tradition and enjoy their quiet rural lives after his death, are more principled and perhaps spiritually fulfilled in the long run, although this is never confirmed by the author.
The Story of Lucy Gault by William Trevor
3.5
“‘It is our tragedy in Ireland that for one reason or another we are repeatedly obliged to flee from what we hold dear…. Exile is part of us.”
The Story of Lucy Gault is a beautifully sad novel about the tragic and lonely life of an Irish girl. William Trevor is well equipped to write such a novel; his prose his stoic, clear, and unsentimental. As I dive into some Irish writers whom I had never heard of prior to researching this year, I am learning that the spirit of Joyce lives on strongly in Ireland's more contemporary literary talent. Trevor's writing talents are so evident in every sentence; the naturalness of his storytelling is magnetic. There are no pretenses between writer and reader; one is simply carried on the river of Trevor's narrative. There are very few tricks or impressive flourishes in Trevor's prose. He writes to tell a story lucidly and seems to know exactly how to bring his story to life. He can introduce a character by their name, write a sentence or two about their posture and outfit, and somehow that character emerges in the world of the reader's mind. To say Trevor taps into a spirit of simplicity is not meant to undermine the literariness of this work. The story is dramatic and has some twists and turns, but never anything that would lead one to doubt the realism of Lucy's life. There is also a historical undercurrent in the novel. Like in Turgenev (whom I felt reverberated most strongly in Trevor's writing, moreso than Joyce or anyone else), the everyday lives of Trevor's characters are always rumbling atop the context of the times. World War I and II are especially notable, but Trevor begins the story with some historical context as well.
To briefly summarize the story, Lucy, an 8-year-old girl, is being forced by her parents to move homes from Ireland to somewhere else in Europe. As most petulant children would respond, she runs away from home. However, she gets trapped in a forest and is lost, believed to be dead, and abandoned. She is later found but her parents have long since left and nobody can get in touch with them (until decades later her father returns, and the events proceed until the late life of Lucy). In lesser hands, the novel's story could be written by anyone from a YA writer to a talent as supreme as Trevor himself. But as Trevor writes it, there is always a delicate tension between Lucy's desires and the disappointing outcomes in her life. As her wait for her parents, in her lonesome and purposeless life out in the country, transforms into a passionate obsession with a man (Ralph) who leaves her for war and eventually marries someone else, her pain only deepens, and with age her life becomes considerably more lonely and sad.
I felt that the story is ultimately a cynical one. There is no silver lining -- not that there is only pain and loneliness either -- just that life is not so contrived that something like a silver lining must necessarily exist. But Lucy's life is catapulted from a young age into one of misfortune due to a childish mistake, and it never really improves. She simply exists, waiting and waiting and waiting. At the core of the novel’s conflict seems to be the theme of "running away" (underscored by how war and national tragedy has pervaded Ireland's history, displacing its people or involving them in international conflict) -- Lucy from integrating within society and pursuing her own passions and desires (ironically, she is portrayed as her happiest when she travels abroad to her mother's grave), the Gault couples unwillingness to face Ireland again, Ralph's running away from his feelings for Lucy to be a married man to someone who is heart rejects, etc. But even characters like Henry and Bridget (Lucy's caretakers after her parents leave) are not especially happy or better off. They're also simply just existing. If I took away anything from Lucy Gault, I think it is that life is going to happen and keep happening. We can't hyperbolize its virtues and live in some sort of delusion, but we also risk delusion if we obsess over regret and what cannot be (as in the case of Horahan, the man who antagonized the Gault family in the very beginning of the story, setting off the rest of the novel's events). There is much more to pick at here, too. I'm looking forward to seeing what else Trevor has in store, maybe in some short stories next.
I felt that the story is ultimately a cynical one. There is no silver lining -- not that there is only pain and loneliness either -- just that life is not so contrived that something like a silver lining must necessarily exist. But Lucy's life is catapulted from a young age into one of misfortune due to a childish mistake, and it never really improves. She simply exists, waiting and waiting and waiting. At the core of the novel’s conflict seems to be the theme of "running away" (underscored by how war and national tragedy has pervaded Ireland's history, displacing its people or involving them in international conflict) -- Lucy from integrating within society and pursuing her own passions and desires (ironically, she is portrayed as her happiest when she travels abroad to her mother's grave), the Gault couples unwillingness to face Ireland again, Ralph's running away from his feelings for Lucy to be a married man to someone who is heart rejects, etc. But even characters like Henry and Bridget (Lucy's caretakers after her parents leave) are not especially happy or better off. They're also simply just existing. If I took away anything from Lucy Gault, I think it is that life is going to happen and keep happening. We can't hyperbolize its virtues and live in some sort of delusion, but we also risk delusion if we obsess over regret and what cannot be (as in the case of Horahan, the man who antagonized the Gault family in the very beginning of the story, setting off the rest of the novel's events). There is much more to pick at here, too. I'm looking forward to seeing what else Trevor has in store, maybe in some short stories next.
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark
3.0
“‘Where there is no vision,’ Miss Brodie assured them, ‘the people perish.’”
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is a novella about a narcissistic teacher and her impact on a small group of children. The thrust of the novel is seemingly a commentary on corrupted youth. Miss Brodie, while a charismatic oddball -- endearing to the reader even --turns her students against "the world" while deifying herself through her romantic stories and manipulation/grooming. Prime is a brisk story and therefore Spark moves quickly through the novel's events; the writing is indeed economical, but the narrative itself is stripped. There is a focus on the broader picture of Jean Brodie's influence over a number of years -- it's more of an overview than a story in the traditional sense. This compressed narrative style is not normally my preference, but it's done quite well here. You get the sense that each event is a building block for a bigger picture. Spark's prose is also stunning. Her dialogue and character writing (concerning Brodie particularly) is impeccable and she has a distinctively "British" writing style that contains its typical hallmarks: a certain sense of formality, irony/wit, and psychological nuance. She is able to do a lot with very little. There are some religious underpinnings whose significance I could only brush up against (e.g., Calvinism), but I nonetheless was able to take away something from the novel. Brodie represented a charismatic leader, in which it is always "us vs. them," and her set were her followers. Sandy is successfully groomed by Brodie to have sex with another teacher whom Brodie loves. She uses her position to have these inappropriate relationships and ruin her pupils' lives, but she is portrayed throughout the novel as benign and wacky. It's hard to know how much of Brodie is genuine. I assume all of it, although it of course doesn't excuse her predatory behavior.
As Sandy ages, she breaks free from Brodie's influence and "betrays" her, ruining her life. Brodie, while a role model who is placed on a pedestal by the girls in their early years, is a shell of a person who really has nothing except for her pupils and her affairs with her colleague teachers. The girls all break away and mainly reminisce on how amusing she was in their adult years, although more than one meet comically tragic deaths (the narrative jumps around quite a bit chronologically). I found the novel to be an effective portrayal of a charismatic leader in the natural world. It explores how individuality develops and how a single person can impact our lives and direction. It makes me wonder about the trust we place in ordinary, everyday people who wield so much influence over our children's lives. I do feel like I'm just missing some piece with this novel, though. It is, nonetheless, a marvel of economical writing that generates several laughs and brings a character to life from the page using so little that it is rather impressive.
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie is a novella about a narcissistic teacher and her impact on a small group of children. The thrust of the novel is seemingly a commentary on corrupted youth. Miss Brodie, while a charismatic oddball -- endearing to the reader even --turns her students against "the world" while deifying herself through her romantic stories and manipulation/grooming. Prime is a brisk story and therefore Spark moves quickly through the novel's events; the writing is indeed economical, but the narrative itself is stripped. There is a focus on the broader picture of Jean Brodie's influence over a number of years -- it's more of an overview than a story in the traditional sense. This compressed narrative style is not normally my preference, but it's done quite well here. You get the sense that each event is a building block for a bigger picture. Spark's prose is also stunning. Her dialogue and character writing (concerning Brodie particularly) is impeccable and she has a distinctively "British" writing style that contains its typical hallmarks: a certain sense of formality, irony/wit, and psychological nuance. She is able to do a lot with very little. There are some religious underpinnings whose significance I could only brush up against (e.g., Calvinism), but I nonetheless was able to take away something from the novel. Brodie represented a charismatic leader, in which it is always "us vs. them," and her set were her followers. Sandy is successfully groomed by Brodie to have sex with another teacher whom Brodie loves. She uses her position to have these inappropriate relationships and ruin her pupils' lives, but she is portrayed throughout the novel as benign and wacky. It's hard to know how much of Brodie is genuine. I assume all of it, although it of course doesn't excuse her predatory behavior.
As Sandy ages, she breaks free from Brodie's influence and "betrays" her, ruining her life. Brodie, while a role model who is placed on a pedestal by the girls in their early years, is a shell of a person who really has nothing except for her pupils and her affairs with her colleague teachers. The girls all break away and mainly reminisce on how amusing she was in their adult years, although more than one meet comically tragic deaths (the narrative jumps around quite a bit chronologically). I found the novel to be an effective portrayal of a charismatic leader in the natural world. It explores how individuality develops and how a single person can impact our lives and direction. It makes me wonder about the trust we place in ordinary, everyday people who wield so much influence over our children's lives. I do feel like I'm just missing some piece with this novel, though. It is, nonetheless, a marvel of economical writing that generates several laughs and brings a character to life from the page using so little that it is rather impressive.
The Story of Tomoda and Matsunaga by Jun'ichirō Tanizaki
3.0
”To the West! Where a world existed that was the very opposite of this land of subtle hints and things left unsaid....”
The Story of Tomoda and Matsunaga is an early novella by Junichiro Tanizaki, one of my all-time favorite writers. In typical fashion, the story explores Tanizaki's fascination/obsession with the West, particularly focusing on the tension he feels between desiring the hedonistic western lifestyle and traditional Japanese values. The novella is presented as a mystery, although it is quite self aware that it is one (and is narrated by Tanizaki himself -- an insertion of author into fiction, which is always a technique I enjoy.) To briefly summarize, a woman writes Tanizaki a letter about her missing husband. He leaves and returns every 4 years to their quiet Japanese village. Enclosed in the letter is a picture and a ring, which contain a name that Tanizaki realizes he is familiar with. The wife, who suspects her husband is living a double life as this Tomoda, spurs Tanizaki to investigate.
I found the writing a bit inconsistent; for the first 60% or so of the novella it felt like the translator was attempting to ape one of Murakami's translators. For me, that isn't a bad thing as I enjoy Murakami's novels, but it felt odd to read. The rhythm of the dialogue mimicked some of Murakami's typically stilted interlocutors and the humor even came off the page a lot like Murakami's. Also the element of a mystery with an invested yet emotionally detached protagonist was strikingly similar to Murakami (keep in mind, I've read all of Murakami's novels and most of Tanizaki's work, so I'm only making this comparison because it struck me as bizarre and not because I'm conflating two Japanese writers because they're both Japanese).
Ironically, the character of Tomoda is equally representative of Tanizaki as Tanizaki himself is in the story. In a very fun and entertaining but quite simple sort of way, Tanizaki writes this story about Tomoda who travels back and forth from his quiet Japanese village to "western" hubs in Japan and elsewhere for wild sex, parties, drink, etc. His body physically changes so he is completely unrecognizable between one place to another (oh right, the story delves a bit into magical realism in this way too). He is an entirely different person, both physically and personality-wise, in his Eastern and Western lives. Tanizaki illustrates the east and west in starkly different, and frankly hyperbolic, terms that really suggests more about himself than the realities of the differences of Japan and the West. It's clear, especially with the context of his other works, that the "West" is an outlet, or an excuse, for Tanizaki's sexual urges, which he feels are repressed by Japanese culture.
I found it interesting that Tanizaki -- who as mentioned -- throughout his career revealed himself as somewhat of a sexual obsessive, portrays the Japanese Matsunaga as weak, meager, frail, polite, etc. (all stereotypes) and the western Tomoda as confident, fat, outgoing, boorish, lustful, etc. (also all stereotypes). It's hard for me to decide whether the polarity of Matsunaga's two sides was Tanizaki's way of making his point clear or if he illustrated this difference so starkly because his own inner conflict was based on such an exaggerated way of viewing the two cultures. The simplicity and directness of Tanizaki's analogy is offset by the meta-narrative that he is expressing himself through Tomoda, not through himself in the story. It creates a layer of humor and self-awareness that pairs well with the ridiculousness and impossibility of the narrative. In this way, Tanizaki's writing talents shine.
The narrative (sort of hilariously) devolves into Tomoda admitting to being Matsunaga in the last chapter. It's clear that Tanizaki is projecting his own feelings in Tomoda's confession, and the story ends with Tanizaki concluding in a tongue-in-cheek-way that Tomoda still looks "three or four years younger." It is a brilliant way to end the story, and in a very simple comment highlights Tanizaki's expectation that he (Tanizaki himself) will continue to be torn between east and west, and that all of Tomoda's feelings had (also) applied to himself all along.
Very nice introduction to Tanizaki, but he will later eclipse this work exploring the same themes with stories like Naomi.
I found the writing a bit inconsistent; for the first 60% or so of the novella it felt like the translator was attempting to ape one of Murakami's translators. For me, that isn't a bad thing as I enjoy Murakami's novels, but it felt odd to read. The rhythm of the dialogue mimicked some of Murakami's typically stilted interlocutors and the humor even came off the page a lot like Murakami's. Also the element of a mystery with an invested yet emotionally detached protagonist was strikingly similar to Murakami (keep in mind, I've read all of Murakami's novels and most of Tanizaki's work, so I'm only making this comparison because it struck me as bizarre and not because I'm conflating two Japanese writers because they're both Japanese).
Ironically, the character of Tomoda is equally representative of Tanizaki as Tanizaki himself is in the story. In a very fun and entertaining but quite simple sort of way, Tanizaki writes this story about Tomoda who travels back and forth from his quiet Japanese village to "western" hubs in Japan and elsewhere for wild sex, parties, drink, etc. His body physically changes so he is completely unrecognizable between one place to another (oh right, the story delves a bit into magical realism in this way too). He is an entirely different person, both physically and personality-wise, in his Eastern and Western lives. Tanizaki illustrates the east and west in starkly different, and frankly hyperbolic, terms that really suggests more about himself than the realities of the differences of Japan and the West. It's clear, especially with the context of his other works, that the "West" is an outlet, or an excuse, for Tanizaki's sexual urges, which he feels are repressed by Japanese culture.
I found it interesting that Tanizaki -- who as mentioned -- throughout his career revealed himself as somewhat of a sexual obsessive, portrays the Japanese Matsunaga as weak, meager, frail, polite, etc. (all stereotypes) and the western Tomoda as confident, fat, outgoing, boorish, lustful, etc. (also all stereotypes). It's hard for me to decide whether the polarity of Matsunaga's two sides was Tanizaki's way of making his point clear or if he illustrated this difference so starkly because his own inner conflict was based on such an exaggerated way of viewing the two cultures. The simplicity and directness of Tanizaki's analogy is offset by the meta-narrative that he is expressing himself through Tomoda, not through himself in the story. It creates a layer of humor and self-awareness that pairs well with the ridiculousness and impossibility of the narrative. In this way, Tanizaki's writing talents shine.
The narrative (sort of hilariously) devolves into Tomoda admitting to being Matsunaga in the last chapter. It's clear that Tanizaki is projecting his own feelings in Tomoda's confession, and the story ends with Tanizaki concluding in a tongue-in-cheek-way that Tomoda still looks "three or four years younger." It is a brilliant way to end the story, and in a very simple comment highlights Tanizaki's expectation that he (Tanizaki himself) will continue to be torn between east and west, and that all of Tomoda's feelings had (also) applied to himself all along.
Very nice introduction to Tanizaki, but he will later eclipse this work exploring the same themes with stories like Naomi.
By the Lake by John McGahern
4.0
"Happiness could not be sought or worried into being, or even fully grasped; it should be allowed its own slow pace so that it passes unnoticed, if it even comes at all."
McGahern's By The Lake is a slow-paced, very Irish, and very "chill" novel. It's not that nothing happens, although there really is no plot in a standard sense, but the narrative has a leisurely and rural pace. Essentially, the story is a single narrative that is comprised of various episodes in the interconnected lives of community members around a lake in Ireland (post-1950s, I want to same sometime relatively modern -- maybe 70s or 80s if not later?). Characters drink together, write letters to family, make business deals, reflect on the grass and hay, etc. There is some death and drama, but the purpose of McGahern's novel is to paint a picture of what rural Irish lived like, without much of a pointed theme. And with that he is incredibly successful. I found the writing, particularly the dialogue, to be superb: among the best I've read. McGahern has a real talent for writing characters, particularly in their interactions with one another, and can create a clear visual of his scenes and the nuances of interaction. He often will include just the right phrase to capture a characters internal feeling of annoyance, pride, embarrassment, etc. in a social situation. As a narrator, McGahern aptly unfolds scenes that require the reader to notice and enjoy the subtle shifts in mood or comfort among his interlocutors. Not only that, but his descriptions of Irish nature are rich with authentic imagery. He is an unfussy and unpretentious writer who ably crafts scenes through simple word choice and effective characterization and/or description. You can see the beauty of Ireland and its people through McGahren's clear grasp of the subject matter. This is a beautifully written Irish novel.
The quote I selected above does seem to capture what interested McGahern about these characters, that as they lived about their ordinary, quotidian routines -- mostly peaceably, although with some expected stresses and drama -- they were living within a normal happiness of life. McGahern showed this the only way that it is probably possible, by eschewing a "story line" and merely showing people as they lived. They did not appear particularly happy, or necessarily find happiness, but they were happy as McGahern defines it above. If happiness exists, its within the normal, everyday moments that we're living through: not necessarily appreciating or feeling, but simply living through. It's a gentle reminder that life is a wonderful privilege.
McGahern's By The Lake is a slow-paced, very Irish, and very "chill" novel. It's not that nothing happens, although there really is no plot in a standard sense, but the narrative has a leisurely and rural pace. Essentially, the story is a single narrative that is comprised of various episodes in the interconnected lives of community members around a lake in Ireland (post-1950s, I want to same sometime relatively modern -- maybe 70s or 80s if not later?). Characters drink together, write letters to family, make business deals, reflect on the grass and hay, etc. There is some death and drama, but the purpose of McGahern's novel is to paint a picture of what rural Irish lived like, without much of a pointed theme. And with that he is incredibly successful. I found the writing, particularly the dialogue, to be superb: among the best I've read. McGahern has a real talent for writing characters, particularly in their interactions with one another, and can create a clear visual of his scenes and the nuances of interaction. He often will include just the right phrase to capture a characters internal feeling of annoyance, pride, embarrassment, etc. in a social situation. As a narrator, McGahern aptly unfolds scenes that require the reader to notice and enjoy the subtle shifts in mood or comfort among his interlocutors. Not only that, but his descriptions of Irish nature are rich with authentic imagery. He is an unfussy and unpretentious writer who ably crafts scenes through simple word choice and effective characterization and/or description. You can see the beauty of Ireland and its people through McGahren's clear grasp of the subject matter. This is a beautifully written Irish novel.
The quote I selected above does seem to capture what interested McGahern about these characters, that as they lived about their ordinary, quotidian routines -- mostly peaceably, although with some expected stresses and drama -- they were living within a normal happiness of life. McGahern showed this the only way that it is probably possible, by eschewing a "story line" and merely showing people as they lived. They did not appear particularly happy, or necessarily find happiness, but they were happy as McGahern defines it above. If happiness exists, its within the normal, everyday moments that we're living through: not necessarily appreciating or feeling, but simply living through. It's a gentle reminder that life is a wonderful privilege.
On the Eve by Ivan Turgenev
3.5
"Not for nothing did my father used to say 'You and I, my boy, are... not favorites of Fortune or Nature... We're workers, double-dyed workers. Put on your leather apron, worker, and stand by your bench in your dark workshop! Let the sun shine on other people! Even in our humdrum lives there is pride and happiness.'"
On the Eve is my 4th Turgenev novel, so I have grown somewhat accustomed to his style and themes. He leans heavily into realism, a style that I enjoy, yet this story has been criticized for being narrated dispassionately and without much weigh-in from Turgenev despite its heavy themes of love and war. Nonetheless, there is some reflection at the end of the novel, and Turgenev makes a poignant analogy between Death and a fisherman who catches a person in his net, allowing it to swim around until he decides --whenever he decides -- to pull it out. I think, without exception, each of Turgenev's stories that I've read has been about young love, and On the Eve continues that trend. What might be interesting to look at when studying these stories is everything happening in the world while the love affair occurs. Certainly, that is the point of On the Eve, whose title even refers to the impending Crimean War. And yet, I found Bersenev's character most compelling. The story begins with him, and rather quickly (or so it felt in this sub-200 page novel), he transitions out of the lead role in favor of Yelena. I found the rapid pace of the story, which is largely centered around Yelena's feelings for the immigrant Insarov and their blossoming (and doomed) relationship, to be suitable for Turgenev's commentary on young love. As mentioned, he describes the events of their relationship in an entirely matter-of-fact way, and yet he felt somehow critical, in a chuckling, amused and interested sort of way of how emotionally young adults think about love. Yelena is convinced she loves Bersenev, but very quickly changes heart after wanting to fall in love with Insarov and finally doing so after one occasion where she sees a different side of him. After she finds out from him that the love is reciprocated, she immediately chooses to upend her comfortable life in Russia to emigrate to war-torn Bulgaria with him. She stays with him even after he nearly dies of illness and becomes permanently impaired. She even stays with him after his death and lives in Bulgaria, perhaps as a nurse, or dies herself on the way there (it is never made clear). Turgenev suggests that she is obstinate to follow him to her doom, but is she naive? Or is the power of true love such that it is greater than all challenges, worthy of all sacrifices? Is her dogged commitment to be admired or scoffed at? I personally felt the latter, but it did raise this interesting question. Lastly, back to Bersenev, I found that he was a smartly designed character to contrast Yelena. He is a dispassionate (or so he presents himself) academic who badly wants to be loved by Yelena, but does not even attempt to gain her love. He gives up almost immediately and attempts to hook her up with Insarov, essentially challenging her to not fall for him. It's fascinating because this behavior is on the other side of the "true love" coin. It can easily be argued that Bersenev feels true love toward Yelena because he wants to be genuinely loved by her, no matter who else enters the picture as his competition. She fails his test, and he dispassionately carries on with his life. The quote I used above is excellently included in the story by Turgenev to reinforce this characteristic of how he sees himself: not as someone "special" who deserves whimsical love, but as a hard-working, reliable person. A good friend. Someone who will ultimately find happiness in his work.
I would be remiss not to mention Shubin, who is one of the funniest and most well-written characters I have read in recent memory. He is incredibly realistic as the "lovably annoying" best friend trope and has many laugh out loud moments. Something random I will also take away from this story is the scene where the group of friends has an outing at the lake on a beautiful day. It was a nice moment in the story; it didn't have to be there, but seeing the friends' dynamics in an otherwise lean and precise narrative was a nice surprise.
I would be remiss not to mention Shubin, who is one of the funniest and most well-written characters I have read in recent memory. He is incredibly realistic as the "lovably annoying" best friend trope and has many laugh out loud moments. Something random I will also take away from this story is the scene where the group of friends has an outing at the lake on a beautiful day. It was a nice moment in the story; it didn't have to be there, but seeing the friends' dynamics in an otherwise lean and precise narrative was a nice surprise.
Dear Life by Alice Munro
4.0
”We say of some things that they can’t be forgiven, or that we will never forgive ourselves. But we do—we do it all the time.”
I found this quote, which is the final sentence of Munro's story collection, especially poignant in light of her recent child sex abuse cover-up allegations, but it also echoes the overall sentiment of the collection, which is that life is filled with both missed opportunities and beautiful moments, which are sometimes one in the same, sometimes intertwined, and sometimes totally distinct and unrelated but nonetheless resonant in our minds as one. But we merely exist and experience these moments -- they are somehow out of our control despite how much personal autonomy we have -- and we are so blinded in the moment of crucial decisions and so dependent upon those whom we love and who affect and are affected by these decisions, that we can only simply exist, never "control."
This is my 3rd Munro collection -- her final one -- and it, which has been carefully sculpted with the tools one acquires only through a well-lived life, is by far her best of the 3. Each story is distinct in its plot and message but all somehow overlap coherently. Munro reflects on the lives of individuals that could by any or all of us as well as semi-fictionally (an incredibly effective technique) in the final four stories, which she has curated in a section entitled "finale." There is not a weak story in the bunch and each one renders the reader somewhat pensive as a result. I'll touch upon a few of my favorites, but I'll note that while each story has a different plot and pokes at diverse areas of human behavior and psychology, they all share an interest in one or more of the following areas: reflection, relationships (typically male and female), the naivety of youth, and the blending of present, past, and a further past.
"Gravel" is one story that that nicely highlights Munro's talents. Munro likes to juxtapose childhood choices with adult (typically parental) responsibility. She is fascinated by the egregiousness with which adults act and often their stupidity, and how this could possibly be explained to a child. While she never directly asks these questions, she very quietly hints, "could I have misremembered why this tragedy happened?" or "was I, in my youthful innocence and ignore, actually at fault for this terrible event?" Then, she likes to explore, in entirely unemotional language, how these tragedies affected (or many times, had no effect but... why wouldn't it?) her throughout or later in life. In Gravel, these questions are on full display as Neal, the narrator's stepdad, fails to supervise the narrator's sister, who drowns as the narrator watches. He is repeatedly wrong throughout the narrative (for example, claiming dogs can swim and not to worry when the dog runs away from home), and is unpunished despite the sister's death. This tragic moment lives inside of the narrator until the end of the story, when she meets with Neal decades later. His advice to her? "The thing is to be happy. No matter what. Try that." The narrator is left no better off from this advice (of course). She knows it to be true, what choice is there really? But she cannot escape the image of her sister dying.
There are more layers to this story and there is a lot to chew on among the dynamics of the family, including the mother and somewhat estranged father, but so much is packed into Munro's stories despite their relative simplicity and breeziness to read. I am not going to talk about each story because it's just too time but I also liked "Haven," which emphasizes how we learn gender roles as a child by observing extended family, "Amundsen," which takes place in a sanatorium and demonstrates in an intense episode how an older man can manipulate and destroy a young woman's heart, and "In Sight of the Lake," which contains a brilliantly ambiguous ending and explores self-doubt that arises from age. "Dolly" and "Train" are also fantastic.
The final four stories, collected into a "Finale," are probably the highlight of the collection though. They contain semi-fictionalized episodes of young Munro's childhood. Moments in which she had a breakthrough into maturity -- the first death of a loved one, the first realization that her father was a flawed man, and the first glimmer of the attention and love that a man can adorn a girl. She finishes the story with "Dear Life," which strongly reinforces her theme of memory -- how personal it is, and how it is a foundation, more so than reality, for our feelings, decisions, and convictions. It is how we decide right and wrong and how we decide how we are and who we all are.
I found this quote, which is the final sentence of Munro's story collection, especially poignant in light of her recent child sex abuse cover-up allegations, but it also echoes the overall sentiment of the collection, which is that life is filled with both missed opportunities and beautiful moments, which are sometimes one in the same, sometimes intertwined, and sometimes totally distinct and unrelated but nonetheless resonant in our minds as one. But we merely exist and experience these moments -- they are somehow out of our control despite how much personal autonomy we have -- and we are so blinded in the moment of crucial decisions and so dependent upon those whom we love and who affect and are affected by these decisions, that we can only simply exist, never "control."
This is my 3rd Munro collection -- her final one -- and it, which has been carefully sculpted with the tools one acquires only through a well-lived life, is by far her best of the 3. Each story is distinct in its plot and message but all somehow overlap coherently. Munro reflects on the lives of individuals that could by any or all of us as well as semi-fictionally (an incredibly effective technique) in the final four stories, which she has curated in a section entitled "finale." There is not a weak story in the bunch and each one renders the reader somewhat pensive as a result. I'll touch upon a few of my favorites, but I'll note that while each story has a different plot and pokes at diverse areas of human behavior and psychology, they all share an interest in one or more of the following areas: reflection, relationships (typically male and female), the naivety of youth, and the blending of present, past, and a further past.
"Gravel" is one story that that nicely highlights Munro's talents. Munro likes to juxtapose childhood choices with adult (typically parental) responsibility. She is fascinated by the egregiousness with which adults act and often their stupidity, and how this could possibly be explained to a child. While she never directly asks these questions, she very quietly hints, "could I have misremembered why this tragedy happened?" or "was I, in my youthful innocence and ignore, actually at fault for this terrible event?" Then, she likes to explore, in entirely unemotional language, how these tragedies affected (or many times, had no effect but... why wouldn't it?) her throughout or later in life. In Gravel, these questions are on full display as Neal, the narrator's stepdad, fails to supervise the narrator's sister, who drowns as the narrator watches. He is repeatedly wrong throughout the narrative (for example, claiming dogs can swim and not to worry when the dog runs away from home), and is unpunished despite the sister's death. This tragic moment lives inside of the narrator until the end of the story, when she meets with Neal decades later. His advice to her? "The thing is to be happy. No matter what. Try that." The narrator is left no better off from this advice (of course). She knows it to be true, what choice is there really? But she cannot escape the image of her sister dying.
There are more layers to this story and there is a lot to chew on among the dynamics of the family, including the mother and somewhat estranged father, but so much is packed into Munro's stories despite their relative simplicity and breeziness to read. I am not going to talk about each story because it's just too time but I also liked "Haven," which emphasizes how we learn gender roles as a child by observing extended family, "Amundsen," which takes place in a sanatorium and demonstrates in an intense episode how an older man can manipulate and destroy a young woman's heart, and "In Sight of the Lake," which contains a brilliantly ambiguous ending and explores self-doubt that arises from age. "Dolly" and "Train" are also fantastic.
The final four stories, collected into a "Finale," are probably the highlight of the collection though. They contain semi-fictionalized episodes of young Munro's childhood. Moments in which she had a breakthrough into maturity -- the first death of a loved one, the first realization that her father was a flawed man, and the first glimmer of the attention and love that a man can adorn a girl. She finishes the story with "Dear Life," which strongly reinforces her theme of memory -- how personal it is, and how it is a foundation, more so than reality, for our feelings, decisions, and convictions. It is how we decide right and wrong and how we decide how we are and who we all are.