Long Island by Colm Tóibín

A striking thing about reading Toibin's novel “Brooklyn” was how much its emotional power slowly crept up on me. The story follows Eilis Lacey, a young Irish woman who is coaxed into moving to America in the 1950s to find work. While this book was engaging and beautifully written I didn't understand the point of it until Eilis gradually became caught in an unbearably tense dilemma. Suddenly the overwhelming heft of its meaning hit me and I was both utterly engrossed and very moved by it. Since “Long Island” is a direct sequel to “Brooklyn” many readers will wonder whether its necessary to read this earlier book first. This new novel certainly stands on its own and it cleverly keys readers into the drama of the first book in case they're not familiar with these characters. However, there's also a great pleasure in already intimately knowing these characters so I think it's advisable to read “Brooklyn” first and it's certainly worthwhile.

Unlike “Brooklyn”, “Long Island” immediately has a gripping plot as we meet Eilis again twenty years later. She's living a seemingly content life with her Italian-American husband Tony and their two nearly adult children when an unexpected visitor arrives at her home. This stranger tells her that his wife is pregnant with Tony's child and when the baby is born he will leave it on Eilis and Tony's doorstep. The news not only makes Eilis question her marriage and the choices she's made, but brings into sharp focus the limitations of her position. Tony's family close ranks and Eilis is expected to support her husband (and this new child) even though he's betrayed her. Since her mother back in Ireland will soon be celebrating her eightieth birthday, Eilis has a convenient excuse to return to her native country and take some time to think about how she wants to handle this painful situation.

When she embarks on this journey the narrative point of view begins alternating between Eilis, her lifelong friend Nancy who is now running a chip shop whose fumes and rowdy customers disrupt the locals and Eilis' old flame Jim who now runs his family's pub. Nancy and Jim have been through a lot in the intervening years. They've made tentative plans for the future but the reintroduction of Eilis creates new possibilities and problems. In this story Toibin cleverly reproduces the central drama of “Brooklyn” that made it so thrilling while bringing a new spin to the story following the lives of these characters who are a little older and more world-weary. Their options for making big life changes seem to be shrinking, but there are still unexpected possibilities. While this trio are the heart of the story there are a host of brightly rendered individuals from Nora Webster, the protagonist of another novel by Toibin, to Eilis' irascible old mother to Tony's brother Frank who is obliquely referred to as “one of those men”. The communities of a New York Italian/American quarter and a small town in Ireland are brought vividly alive with interfering family members, gossiping neighbours and charismatic banter.

However, Toibin also has a masterful ability to suggest much more through what's left unsaid between the characters. There's the painful silence between a married couple lying in bed together who are awake in the dark. But there are also acute gaps in dialogue between characters. For instance, in one scene a character asks another “Can you say you love me?” and the other character replies “Yes, I can.” But this isn't the same as actually saying aloud “I love you.” Some characters exhibit hilariously blatant contradictions claiming not to be gossips but eagerly spreading rumours. The narrative also seamlessly moves between these characters' thoughts of an imagined future and the actual reality of what they want or need or what's possible. Toibin expertly describes how people keep each other in check and control each other while intending to be supportive. He shows how people want to know each other's business but not openly communicate with them. The story demonstrates the ways communities and families support one another, but also inhibit individuals from realizing their potential if their identity and dreams don't align with the values of the majority.

“Long Island” is a wonderful addition to the ongoing tale of these characters and I hope Toibin continues to write about them from new angles and introducing new drama to this beautifully realised fictional world.

Soldier Sailor by Claire Kilroy

This novel is narrated by an Irish mother describing the extremely difficult experience of raising her son. She addresses these reflections to the son and refers to this boy as Sailor. Though the narrative is directed at him it's left ambivalent whether she's writing this down as a letter or merely composing this monologue in her mind. We follow roughly a year or so in her life during which Sailor turns two and then three years old. She's deeply exhausted, frustrated and depressed. This state of mind is infused into the narrative itself which veers from sharply realistic and disastrous scenes of daily life to hazy waking dream like states to periods of deep contemplation.

The story puts out into the open a lot of the harsh reality concerning parenting which is often swept under the carpet. Early on she wonders: “Would you have had a baby if they told you that stuff?” Yet this isn't simply a story about the horrors of parenting which would scare anyone away from wanting to have a child. It is just one woman's perspective – it's not trying to be universal although I'm sure many parents will greatly relate to particular moments in this book and there's a lot to learn here. It's very raw and emotional and down to earth, but also finely written (almost poetic in places) and occasionally funny (often in a tragi-comic way). A small detail I found very funny early on is when she says “I unstrapped my prize marrow” as if the baby were a vegetable she's bringing to the country fair.

There's a real crispness to Kilroy's prose which can so neatly sum up her experience: “I was so tired and you were so hungry. But you wouldn't eat and I couldn't sleep. Mother and child.” Even though the story of the difficulty of raising a child has been told many times before and we all know a lot of what she describes (whether we have direct experience of it or not) it's never been told quite like this before. So it felt very original to me. At it's heart this book feels like a desperate cry to be heard and understood and a plea for people to stop being dicks. This is something she states a number of time in the way people react to her or dismiss her in public when she's clearly going through a tough time. In reference to a cashier she remarks “To him I was yet another clumsy housewife who couldn't keep up with him. I know this because I used to think that way too. I used to be a dick. There's a spectrum. I was on it. But you won't be a dick because I have enlightened you. Be an astronaut, be a nurse, be a postman, be whatever. Just don't be a dick.” One of the biggest dicks in her life is her husband. She's the main caretaker as he has a demanding job and is often at the office. But even when he is home the duties of parenting are still placed upon her. So she doesn't have the time to work herself or express herself creatively. Again, it's well known that high expectations are placed upon a mother at home while the father works but this novel really shows the ins and outs of that experience.

The husband does often come across as a villainous dick. He says and does some horribly dismissive and neglectful things. But because it's entirely from her perspective we only get her side so undoubtably it's very difficult for him as well. I feel like the novel acknowledges this in some of her extreme actions and the way she can dismiss his good intentions and questions when he's trying to understand her. Yet I primarily felt on her side because she's often wrangling with the child while he's there but he's just on his phone or watching tv.

It's very interesting that she also occasionally meets someone she refers to as her friend. This is a man she's known since childhood. He now has three children and they sometimes run into each other at the playground. As the primary carer since his wife works a demanding job he can really sympathise with her because he's going through the same thing. This has such a positive effect because part of the trouble is how isolated and lonely she is. He's a counterpoint to her husband and she remarks at one point: “my faith in masculinity was at stake and my friend redeemed it”. But I feel like there's a compelling ambiguity about whether the friend is even real or someone she's just imagined as a companion. This aspect really reminded me of the film 'Tully' where Charlize Theron portrays a highly stressed mother. I think the novel does leave it up to interpretation. The friend could be real and his life has coincidentally run parallel to hers. For part of the book I wondered if there was a romantic tension there but I don't think it's as simple as that because she also states at one point “I didn't want my friend to be my husband. I wanted my husband to be my friend.” And that seems to get at the crux of why she's relating her experience like this.

She understandably feels like she's losing her mind and that she's losing her connection to the people most precious to her: her husband and her son. So this account is a heartfelt attempt to solidify that connection and create an understanding between them. Even though it's almost definitely an internal monologue it raises interesting questions about whether it's right for a parent to be this open about the struggles they face. Is it damaging and placing too much guilt upon a child to let that child know the pain its mere existence has caused? Or is it better to have total honesty so there can be real understanding within a family? I think these are questions this novel is consciously raising and there aren't any easy answers. Certainly there have been points I've wondered what my parents really went through raising me but would I really want to know that full truth? It's hard to say.

There are a couple of brief poignant moments in the story where she recalls her own parents. There's the memory of being taken to a beach as a child and wanting to return to that beach but realising it's not the beach she misses but the parent and a connection to that parent. At another point she acknowledges the lineage of motherhood she's entered where she writes “I had sighed like my mother had sighed before me and hers before her...” So she seems to be relating this story so her son will feel this connection too. But, again, it's also ambiguous about whether Sailor actually hears or reads what his mother is telling him. It's more likely that she's silently directing her thoughts towards him and he'll never know how she really felt going through this often hellish experience. This adds another tragic element to the story. So I found reading this book a moving and eye opening experience especially since I don't have any children myself.

The Wren, The Wren by Anne Enright

There's a down to earth and relatable quality to Enright's writing which makes it so wonderfully engaging. It's a slight of hand which might initially conceal that the prose is very sophisticated and biting. “The Wren, The Wren” opens with a passage about the discomforting weirdness of inhabiting a body and consciousness which had me instantly chuckling in recognition. The story continues as a young woman named Nell relates the experience of unexpectedly falling in love. However, this is anything but a saccharine tale of romance as her relationship with a rural muscular lad turns into something that is both exciting and disturbing.

Her experiences show how love affairs and long term relationships involve varying degrees of power play – something which has been true for past generations of Nell's family as well. The narrative alternates between Nell's perspective and that of her no-nonsense mother Carmel who lives independently and has mostly avoided any committed romance. Both live with the spectre of Carmel's deceased father Phil McDaragh, a poet of moderate fame who abandoned his family and ill wife to move to America seeking more personal and professional success. His poems bookend Carmel and Nell's accounts. They're full of airy talk about love and nature. The more that's related about this family's history the more hollow and posturing they appear.

Phil gave Carmel the dubious honour of dedicating one of his poems to her. It's a kind of gift but it also cements his girl and his relationship to her as something removed from reality. Enright seems to be disentangling the illusion created by fame with both this novel and her previous book “Actress” showing how the creation of public image and representation can be very different from personal experience. But really this issue of the spotlight being cast on a certain individual highlights and exaggerates issues we all have concerning authenticity. Through these women's accounts we see how lived experience is precariously removed from perceptions and representations of it – especially when these come from a dominant man. In turn, this skews self perception. Over the course of their story Carmel and Nell gradually find greater clarity about themselves and their family. The drama disentangles the mythology which has been built around a masculine poet and patriarchal figure.

One of Nell's statements which continues to haunt me is when she recalls how whenever she wanted a present Carmel always gave her exactly what she asked for. What she hoped for was a surprise. This story shows how our relationships with each other don't thrive if we only play out our expected roles as a daughter or son or mother or father. Instead we have to see the person as they really are: a unique individual who is constantly changing and trying to figure their lives out. This novel presents a meaningful family story where connections and relationships are tested in these charismatic individuals' ongoing quest for self-fulfilment.

Girls in their Married Bliss by Edna O'Brien

Has there ever been a more ironic title for a novel? In the third book of O'Brien's 'Country Girls' trilogy we pick up with Cait and Baba to discover they have separately married. Despite the prospect of her independence in London at the end of “The Lonely Girl”, Cait has actually married the problematic older man Eugene, given birth to his child and is in the midst of an affair when the novel begins. Baba has also married a prosperous but dull-witted man who is a poor match for this highly social and sexually forward woman. Neither of these women are content with their lives, let alone feeling anything close to bliss. Along with learning about the developments in these girls' lives which occurred between the novels the most striking thing about this latest instalment is that O'Brien has changed the narrative so it alternates between Cait and Baba's perspective. (Previously, we've been firmly locked in Cait's point of view.) It's quite emotional following the dramatic events of this novel as I've grown to closely know and care about both these girls as they've struggled to achieve their desires while developing into independent women.

At first it's a great novelty getting Baba's brashly unfiltered perspective. However, it soon feels a bit too chaotic as events unfold and it ultimately detracted from my enjoyment of following a story which had previously engrossed me. I'm not sure why O'Brien chose to change the narrative in this way as Baba's voice and point of view always came through clearly enough in the dialogue of previous books. Of course, it's also more gloomy following the girls into their adult lives as all the promise and prospects they enjoyed when they were younger and rebellious have dwindled as they've made certain life choices. It previously seemed like there were educational and professional prospects for them but those have seemingly been put aside. Far from finding personal contentment in motherhood, each woman differently struggles with parenting while being embroiled in relationship difficulties. There's the sad fact that these girls have become bound by the same struggles which inhibited their mothers' livelihood. So it's depressing seeing the cycle continue.

Nonetheless, the novel makes a striking statement about how we all get caught in the “rut of human existence” because of conflicts to do with romance, friendships and living in a community. However, because of the conservative attitudes and the dominant religion in Ireland at that time, these women aren't equipped to deal with and productively discuss the challenges that they face. There's no support network for their issues which are universal but the patriarchy expects them to silently abandon their desires and submit to what's expected of them. They are locked in a perpetual state of “girlhood”. While their difficulties are partly circumstantial they also have personalities which compel them to make some unfortunate choices and they end up perpetuating damaging behaviour. This trilogy also includes an afterward by the author which is really more like a novella and from what I understand O'Brien wrote it several years after completing this third book. Sadly, this only reinforces the sense that rather than being beacons of progress these girls end up damaging those around them and find no fulfilment. It's realistic that things work out this way, but it does make these last instalments relentlessly depressing to read. Previously it felt like the novels achieved a good balance between humour and seriousness. All this meant that I enjoyed this third novel the least of all the books, but O'Brien is such a skilful writer and this trilogy is truly a modern classic in the forthright way it presents the perspective of the young Irish female experience.

The Lonely Girl by Edna O'Brien

It's such a pleasure following this continuing drama about two Irish country girls who are now young women dealing with very adult problems. The story picks up two years after the end of “The Country Girls” when Cait and her spirited friend Baba are living in rented accommodation in Dublin. Both are working and enjoying their status as independent women in the city free from the constraints of family and the religious school of their youth. But, while Baba is consumed with flirting and partying, Cait has recovered from her misjudged romance in the first book and now embarks on a perilous new relationship with Eugene, an older man and documentary filmmaker. They grapple with intimacy and move into his house together though it's still crowded with memories of his first wife (reminiscent of “Rebecca”). Meanwhile, a series of anonymous letters makes Cait's father aware of the perceived inappropriateness of her relations with Eugene. Suddenly she finds herself in danger of being trapped in the constrained family life she thought she'd been freed from. It's a story filled with tense conflict and complex emotions as it charts Cait's continuing development. There are also numerous deliciously funny scenes and heartbreaking moments as Cait struggles to maintain her autonomy and articulate her desires.

While the narrative is primarily concerned with Cait and Baba's current issues it's touching how Cait continues to occasionally reflects upon her childhood and lost mother. There's a tragic moment when she recalls how she never saw her mother happy or even laugh. It adds to the sense of what dreary circumstances her poor mum endured and compounds the sense of grief Cait carries about her loss. She's confronted by blatant hypocrisy from conservative members of society including a priest who excuses her father's excessive drinking because of the climate. While we spend the majority of the story with Cait we also get some interesting insights into Baba's life and how startlingly blasé she is about a pregnancy scare. It's clever though how the narrative hints at more tender emotions beneath her hard exterior especially when it comes to how desperately she wants Cait to accompany her to London. There's also the intriguing mystery of who sent the anonymous letters to Cait and her father. I'm curious if this will ever be resolved or if it will remain a malicious act from the shadows.

There's a very dramatic confrontation at Eugene's house when Cait's father and his friends attempt to retrieve her. More than the tense scene this creates, it feels like a clash between two different factions of Irish society with results which are violent and absurd. The father's cohorts express distinct nationalistic sentiments and paranoia about “foreigners”. It's also telling how both sides seem more concerned with their own self righteousness than Cait's actual welfare. Cait's continuing feelings of guilt and her sympathetic uncertainty about what she really wants in life seem only natural. Her emotional seriousness is counterbalanced so well with Baba's freewheeling attitude. Every time Baba appears her cutting dialogue, eye rolling impatience with Cait and odd pretensions are always hilarious. There are eerie parallels between the ends of the first and second novels where Cait longingly waits for a man's arrival, but this new instalment ends on a much more hopeful note. It leaves me eager to find out where their lives lead next.

The Country Girls by Edna O'Brien

It's exciting reading such an influential book for the first time, but it's also a curious experience since radical elements of the story can already feel familiar. I've read a good amount of recent Irish fiction. So a novel about an Irish girl coming of age, experiencing the oppressive forces of the patriarchy/conservative religion, moving from the country to an independent life in the city and engaging in a romantic relationship with an older man doesn't feel that revolutionary now. But, at the time of its initial publication in 1960, the story presented in “The Country Girls” stirred a lot of controversy as it was condemned by some politicians and religious leaders who even went to the extreme of burning copies of the book.

I can only admire how Edna O'Brien broke boundaries at the time to represent young female experience in her protagonist of Caithleen “Cait” Brady. It's arrestingly portrayed how she must live with a father prone to violent alcohol-fuelled outbursts and amongst a community of men who expect kisses (or more) in exchange for favours. Though her academic prowess earns her a promising scholarship to a convent school she discovers she must contend with mean-spirited nuns and stomach-turning meals (stringy meat and sodden cabbage). Caithleen also develops a romantic infatuation with a figure nicknamed Mr. Gentleman who is married and grooms her for a future affair from the age of fourteen. Together with her longtime friend (frenemy) Bridget “Baba” she moves to Dublin to live for the first time as independent young women. These experiences are vividly conveyed throughly sharply-rendered details and emotional descriptions. So, even if such a storyline may no longer feel entirely new, it remains an utterly captivating tale that's brilliantly written.

Part of the magic of this book is in the minutiae of Caithleen's recollections whether it's glimpsing a woman in a striking sequin dress, carrying a cherished tea service or kindly receiving an iced bun when she's experiencing despair/grief. These are the kinds of small things which resonate with deep personal meaning and serve as important memories so that in turn they also feel special to the reader. Something such as a layer of dust on a cup of milk can feel so real it's like I've experienced it myself. The characterisation is equally as vivid in how even characters who are vile come across as complex and like someone we're likely to encounter on the street. I found it informative the way O'Brien describes the hierarchy amongst the nuns at the school based on their relative education and family status so even these predominantly overbearing figures came across as well rounded. Though Baba is snobbish and acts cruelly towards Caithleen their friendship feels real and layered. Both girls have distinct personalities with positive and negative traits. Baba's relationship with her parents hints at her motivations and why she might act so mean. Most poignantly, like all long standing friendships, their companionship runs hot and cold over the course of many years.

It's also completely understandable why Caithleen would be so enamoured with Mr. Gentleman who seems to be going through something of a mid-life crisis, but their secret affair is very ominous since it's unlikely this pairing will end in happiness. I found myself simultaneously swept up in Caithleen's young romance and extremely nervous about where their passion might lead. The way in which a tenderness builds between them and the awkwardness of other dates Caithleen goes on is so involving that I raced through reading this story. It's a testament to her power as a writer that O'Brien can make characters and subject matter that now feel well-tread feel entirely new and gripping. The only other novel I've read by her is the relatively recent “The Little Red Chairs” and the fact that O'Brien continues to break new ground by writing about politically-contentious subject matter is so impressive. I'm now eager to read the next two books in 'The Country Girls Trilogy' as well as her other work.

Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan

What makes a classic Christmas story? When I think about some of the most well-known Christmas tales such as “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens or the short story 'The Greatest Gift' by Philip Van Doren Stern (which inspired the film 'It's a Wonderful Life') or the Christmas sections of “Little Women” by Louisa May Alcott, the predominant festive themes concern homecoming and a spirit of generosity. 

Claire Keegan's new novella “Small Things Like These” fits right into this tradition while also providing a stealthy dose of powerful social commentary. It's 1985 in a small Irish town and in the lead up to Christmas, Bill Furlong, a coal and timber merchant is very busy making deliveries to members of the community. Life is hard with the demands of work and family, but he and his wife have a strong partnership raising their five daughters. On Bill's rounds to the local convent - which is one of his best customers - he discovers something extremely distressing about the “training school for girls” which the nuns run there. It leaves him questioning whether he should intervene and how much he's personally willing to risk in order to do what he feels is right.

For such a brief book, this story says so much. It's filled with perfectly-pitched descriptions of physical details and dialogue which bring this humble community to life. There are evocative scenes of preparing a Christmas cake and a festive celebration. At first it feels like a highly supportive environment, but gradually we become aware of the sinister meaning behind what is not said. There's a conversation Bill has with his colleague Mrs Kehoe where she states “Tis no affair of mine, you understand, but you know you'd want to watch over what you'd say about what's there? Keep the enemy close, the bad dog with you and the good dog will not bite. You know yourself.” Though it feels like Bill has a clear moral choice to make there are social and financial pressures which make his decisions much harder.

It's clever how Bill's personal history as an orphan is weaved into the story of the present. He feels extremely fortunate to have had a benefactor who supported him. But there are aspects to his identity which have been hidden from him or not spoken about until an encounter he has while out for a visit. This makes him reflect: “Why were the things that were closest so often the hardest to see?” Keegan brilliantly portrays the way in which we create a narrative about our lives that is strongly influenced by the ideas and values of people around us so that sometimes the truth can remain obscured. But there are moments when it is revealed and this creates startling moments of realisation and ruptures in our reality. This novella dramatises an example of this on both a personal and wider community level.

Keegan's novella does that rare thing of facing the cruel facts of the world and creating a heartwarming story which is in no way sentimental but perfectly justified in its conclusion. It's what makes this novella a genuine Christmas story alongside the fact that it is set around the festive season. “A Christmas Carol” even plays a funny part in the story where Bill remembers the disappointment of being given a copy of the book (which smelled of must.) At the end of the book a note on the text provides some sobering context and information about Magdalene Laundries. Though the facts are shocking, it's even more startling to imagine how many communities must have been quietly complicit with what was happening in these institutions. It's powerful how this story reminds us to be vigilant and care for everyone around us – especially the most vulnerable.

Dinner Party by Sarah Gilmartin

Family get-togethers are inherently dramatic as they are often accompanied by so much expectation, pent-up emotions and long-held grievances. They often start out with the best intentions but can spiral out of control into feuds. There's an intense familiarity yet often family members can feel like strangers to each other. This is something Sarah Gilmartin understands well as her debut novel begins and ends with a dinner to mark the anniversary of a death in the family. In between these dinners we learn about the history of the Gleesons, a contemporary Irish family of farmers with two sons and twin daughters. The story focuses on daughter Kate as she struggles to reconcile with family tragedies, emotionally connect with the family members who remain and progress forward in her own life. It's an engaging story with many moments of high tension and heartache because it's clear that these people care deeply about each other but also drive each other crazy. 

The routines of family life: games of charade and cards can explode into warfare especially as the matriarch has an emotionally volatile sensibility where suddenly hellfire is released into the living room. She's domineering, highly critical and very concerned about how the family appears to the rest of the community. There's an inherent comedy in the fact that Kate frequently zones out or tries to keep reading a book as the mother is speaking to her and thinks about other things only to realise she's expected to respond and must quickly piece together what was being talked about. Yet, she's also a bridge-builder in the family trying to stop arguments before something is said which will be regretted. At the same time she harbours her own secrets and perilously avoids discussing emotions which are constraining her potential. Ominously, she counts how many bites of food she eats and we see her lack of control manifests into a longstanding eating disorder. She also has an affair with a married man which doesn't give her the emotional satisfaction or security she needs. This leads to another memorably disastrous dinner with her lover where she gets horrifically drunk. This scene is so cleverly written because we understand just how messy things become from the reactions of people around her.

I felt like I grew to know each family member intimately by the end of the book and understand their point of view. Gilmartin skilfully conjures the physicality of her characters while showing their bond to each other with lines such as “He had a similar skin to herself, the kind that flashed up feelings to the world.” At the same time there are many sharp observations which speak more widely to the psychological and social effects of significant events. Though death is a much-discussed and ritualized occurrence in Ireland it's also like a marker which taints the surviving family members: “Death depressed people, and it changed their opinion of you.” The mother vigorously engages in gossip about local people who've died or experience serious illness, but when it occurs within her own family it puts her in an unbearable position within the community. Gilmartin shows how this sense of status and self-image don't matter at all in one sense but in another matter a great deal. The tension of this is movingly played out to show how the bonds of family can both strengthen and destroy us.

Beautiful World Where Are You by Sally Rooney

When multiple friends I know in real life start talking to me about a certain author I realise that this is someone who has broken through to the mainstream. My friends are very intelligent and literate, but they don't generally follow the latest publications with as much geeky rigour as I do along with other readers wrapped up in the online bookish community. Yet, over the past few years multiple people IRL have asked me for recommendations of a book that is exactly like “Normal People”. Few authors have experienced such a meteoric rise to fame as Sally Rooney. Since the publication of her first two novels and the TV adaptation of her second novel, her books have been alternately hailed as representing the voice of a generation and pigeonholed as overhyped naval-gazing millennial fiction. Personally, I feel a bit bemused by any such strident claims as her books strike me as simply well-written, engaging, funny and smart fiction which is well-aligned with our present times. But Rooney's popularity feels more like a chance occurrence which could have happened to any of her contemporaries such as Belinda McKeon, Jade Sharma or Naoise Dolan. Nevertheless, the simmering anticipation for Rooney's new novel “Beautiful World Where Are You” has made it one of the publishing events of the year. I can assure you it's an extremely enjoyable novel and Rooney enthusiasts won't be disappointed. 

When commenting on this new novel most Sally Rooney fans and critics will probably remark on how one of its central characters, Alice, superficially resembles the author. She's published two extremely successful novels and feels ambivalent about the newfound fame she's achieved as an author. And Alice isn't shy about her opinions concerning readers' prying interest in the author's personal life, the vanity of fellow writers and the precarious position books have as a commodity in our current culture. She's also prone to complaining about her privileged position: “They never tire of giving me awards, do they? It's a shame I've tired so quickly of receiving them, or my life would be endless fun.” But she also vividly describes the deleterious effect such fame has upon her: “I feel like I've been locked in a smoke-filled room with thousands of people shouting at me incomprehensibly day and night for the last several years.” We're made aware of how Alice previously suffered a breakdown from stress. Alice's celebrity doesn't change the initial awkwardness of going on a date with someone she meets on a dating app. In fact, it makes it worse when her date, Felix, discovers that she's well known and this squeamish situation is realistically described. Though it's easy to draw parallels between this character and the author and assume Rooney is using this opportunity to vent her own frustrations, it's important to emphasize how the novel contains a carefully calibrated balance of points of view.

Another primary character is Eileen, Alice's best friend since university. Much of this novel's text is composed of messages between these women who now live in separate places since Alice moved to a more rural town in Ireland and Eileen remained in Dublin. They ruminate on a wide range of subjects including religion, history, capitalism, gender, art and concepts of beauty. It's fitting that Rooney's first novel was titled “Conversations with Friends” because this is what all three of her novels concern. It's interesting giving this novel the Bechdel test because Alice and Eileen's messages also include lengthly ruminations about love and their respective love interests. However, it seems only natural that they discuss men at length as I do the same with friends whom I exchange lengthy emails. While Alice begins a tentative relationship with Felix, Eileen experiences a hot and cold relationship with Simon, someone she's known since childhood. Like with “Normal People”, this new novel contains a traditional romantic storyline where the reader is left wondering: will they or won't they get together? And I was drawn into the suspense of this plot as I grew to care and form opinions about the characters as if they were friends of my own.

While readers will quickly identify Rooney's closeness to Alice, I think it's equally easy to see the fidelity she feels towards Eileen. Eileen works as a poorly-paid editor of a small literary review and struggles to pay the expensive rent of her Dublin flat-share. At the launch party and reading for an issue, we see what a meagre life she has selling only two copies of the publication and spending most of her time directing people to the toilets. It's easy to imagine that if Rooney hadn't achieved the fame that she has this could easily have been her life. I also felt a strong affinity towards Eileen who struggles to embrace opportunities which come her way. The narrative takes care to fill out Eileen's backstory more than any other character in the book. We also come to intimately understand the positions of bisexual Felix who works in a gruelling warehouse job and Simon who is a devout Catholic that has a burgeoning career in politics. Each of these characters' positions are dramatically played out in their interactions with each other to show the strengths and weaknesses of each. Rooney thoughtfully tests their points of view when faced with real world challenges and the way in which other people react to them.

At points it feels as if the characters are like Sims figures from that video game where we read how they go throughout their days perfunctorily fulfilling certain duties and actions. I feel like this style of narrative reflects a kind modern self consciousness which has arisen due to social media and the sense that we're living out a simulated existence. A character might get lost for hours on their phone or regularly check dating apps without any intention of arranging actual dates. It's a way in which Rooney so skilfully portrays the feeling of a certain generation within a certain demographic. All her characters are struggling with the way in which to be an adult and feel (as most generations do) that their generation might be the last. Eileen writes to Alice: “I know we agree that civilisation is presently in its decadent declining phase, and that lurid ugliness is the predominant visual feature of modern life.” One of the biggest questions in the book is how will these characters find the motivation to continue and have fulfilling lives when the prospect of a future filled with environmental and societal collapse looms before them. As well as giving a nuanced depiction of friendship and romance, this novel also meaningfully addresses this issue and provides a surprisingly hopeful message. Rooney certainly isn't the only author people should be reading, but her writing is excellent and this new novel is extremely intelligent, moving and I'm sure many readers will strongly connect with it.

Boys Don't Cry by Fíona Scarlett

The title of Fíona Scarlett's debut novel has a deeper meaning beyond the traditional notion of masculinity where men don't show their feelings. It also has to do with expectations placed upon boys to grow into a certain mould and fulfil a particular role in their families and communities. These pressures are difficult to overcome and often lead to violent or rebellious behaviour especially for two brothers growing up as the sons of a drug dealer/muscle man for a local Dublin gang. Joe is an artistically-gifted seventeen year old who has a promising scholarship to a private school. Although he's determined not to be like his father he finds himself falling into the same traps out of financial necessity and a desire to help his friend who is indebted to the gang. His frustrations and sense of dissolution are compounded by his younger brother Finn's serious illness which drives everyone in the family to grief. The novel alternates between Joe and Finn's perspective as we follow their heartrending journey. It's a bold and sensitive portrayal of how these bright young lads must wrangle with the circumstances they are born into and the power of familial love to grant much-needed compassion when we're at our most desperate. 

I've not read much fiction that's brave enough to take on the difficult subject of a child suffering from cancer. The only other novel I can think of is “All the Water in the World” by Karen Raney. The matter is especially harrowing to read about in Scarlett's book because the voice of Finn's character is written so well that I fell in love with him. His colloquial dialogue is imbued with so much humour and humanity that I got a strong sense of his individual personality and the working-class part of Dublin he's grown up in. Equally, the tender relationship he has with his brother Joe is described so convincingly that in Joe's sections I developed a real understanding for moments when he lashes out or sabotages his own opportunities. The author is so skilful in guiding the reader through the stages of Finn's illness and the attendant agonizing feelings this evokes for the family along the way. However, I was a bit confused by the action in Joe's section which leads to a dramatic confrontation. The plot line where he carries out a task for the local gang leader felt a bit unclear to me. But this didn't detract from the powerful emotions evoked by Finn's battle with cancer and the tremendous bond of this family unit. The novel movingly shows how a family can simultaneously tear itself apart and mend itself.

A Ghost in the Throat by Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Sometimes writing has a kind of talismanic force drawing us into the past so that we feel enlivened and profoundly connected to the sensibility found in the text. “A Ghost in the Throat” is a book dedicated to such an experience. It's part memoir, part exercise in fiction and part process of translation. Doireann Ni Ghriofa meditates upon the life and writing of Eibhlin Dubh, an 18th century poet and member of the Irish gentry. After her husband's murder, Dubh composed the ‘Caoineadh Airt Ui Laoghaire' which is a long poem or dirge that is a visceral cry for this agonising loss which still feels painfully real centuries later. Ghriofa connects to this voice and it fills her imagination as she goes about her days caring for her children. She sets out to translate the poem from the Gaelic into English but is also drawn into researching and recreating what can be traced of Eibhlin Dubh's life since little is known about what happened to her following her husband Art's murder except through the recorded history of her children and their progeny. The caoineadh wasn't originally written down but orally passed along over time until it was eventually set to paper so the text is also imbued with the lives of all who've spoken it. Ghriofa meaningfully describes how this makes it a uniquely “female text” and how the state of motherhood physically connects her to a wider sense of women's history. It's extremely moving how Ghriofa describes the way Dubh becomes such a strong presence in her life and how that connection is transformative.

Ghriofa is a poet so there is a lyricism to her writing which reveals the deeper meaning and beauty of everyday tasks even while acknowledging that reality can often be habitual and mundane. Her intense desire to research the poem and Dubh's life prompts her to continue doing so even when the demands of motherhood mean her time must be parsed out in carefully planned minutes. She writes that “This is the life I have made for myself, always striving for something beyond my grasp, while hauling implausibly complex armfuls.” Yet there's a nobility to her efforts which show how this is the way in which life is meaningfully spent. The fact that so little was recorded about Dubh's life says something about the way history placed less importance on the lives of women. Ghriofa's task of tracing the barest of clues and imaginatively filling in the blanks is both an act of commemoration and a reclaiming of this female lineage. She acknowledges that “We may imagine that we can imagine the past, but this is an impossibility.” So the narrative she creates is necessarily a fiction and imbued with her own sensibility, but it takes on its own power and truth. This book is startlingly original in the way it describes how great literature can become a living presence in our lives and I loved the expansive power of Ghriofa's prose.

Nothing But Blue Sky by Kathleen MacMahon

One of the reasons I love reading is so I can get a sense of people's lives and situations that are very different from my own. So it presents an interesting personal challenge to encounter a novel about a man who I feel like I already understand as he's similar to many men I've known throughout my life. The narrator of MacMahon's “Nothing But Blue Sky” is David, a middle class, middle age Irish journalist. He's a bit grumpy, unfailingly practical and drags his feet when he has to go to social occasions. In some respects he's probably like the man I'm rapidly becoming. But he also has a morbid sense of humour which is imbued with an underlying contempt for the people he's blithely making fun of and I find this kind of masculine comedy particularly odious. His jovial, kind-hearted wife Mary Rose provides the perfect counterbalance to him. But she died in a tragic event and when the novel begins we meet David as he is grieving for the woman he might not have ever fully understood or fully appreciated. He recounts his memories of her, the awkward process of continuing to holiday with friends without her and discovers new familial connections which he never knew existed. 

MacMahon presents the pain of his grief and his lingering regret in a sympathetic way. Of course, I have empathy for his situation but the difficulty for me is that he's not the kind of character I'm naturally interested in reading about. I know this says more about the kind of person I am than it does about MacMahon as a writer and I think the novel is partly about the question of whether privileged men like David are often unfairly overlooked. Is there more to a man like David than I'm willing to give him credit for? I'm still not sure after having finished the novel. Certainly, the pain of his situation is no less sincere or deeply felt than anyone else's. David is exactly the sort of character Anne Tyler often writes about with great profundity. But, while there are moments of insight and pleasure in MacMahon's novel, I found spending so much time in David's head somewhat tedious as if I were forced to sit next to him and make conversation. However, MacMahon does present interesting dilemmas which I continue to wonder about. What would have happened to David and Mary Rose's relationship if it hadn't abruptly ended in tragedy? Like all the unrealised possibilities in life this question haunts David's ongoing existence in an intriguing and troubling way.

Before My Actual Heart Breaks by Tish Delaney

On the outside it feels baffling that two people who marry and spend their lives together can be virtual strangers to each other, yet this is the reality of many arranged relationships. Tish Delaney movingly depicts the life of one such Northern Irish woman in her debut novel “Before My Actual Heart Breaks”. Mary Rattigan once dreamed of moving far away and being with her sweetheart, but those aspirations were dashed by the reality of her circumstances. When we meet her at the beginning of this novel it's 2007. She's estranged from her husband and her five children have gone away. Now there's nothing to bind her to the rural farm she's been confined to since she was sixteen but she finds herself questioning the heady plans she made in her youth and finds it difficult to articulate what she now desires. Over the course of the novel we discover the story of how she got to this point as well as a vivid depiction of The Troubles as experienced by a Catholic girl growing up in the 1970s who felt the alarming proximity of this long-term and bloody conflict. It's a story that powerfully represents the tension between the life you wanted and the life you've lived. 

As much as it feels like the Irish immigration novel is its own category, there's also been a rise in novels about Northern Irish women who never leave the place of their birth. Books such as “Milkman” and “Big Girl, Small Town” explore the interior lives of young women whose voices are often ignored by the larger community. Though Delaney's novel fits neatly alongside these others it's also very much its own piece as it poignantly presents the perspective of a married woman who comes to learn the habits and nature of her husband over many years but tragically fails to understand his heart. It's also a captivating coming of age tale as we follow the painful abuse she suffers at her mother's hand and how her sexual awakening becomes a form of rebellion because the worst thing she could ever become is a T.R.A.M.P. Though she finds it liberating to transgress the moral expectations placed upon her she soon finds the enormous longterm consequences of this brief pleasure which is over in “less time than baking a sponge cake”. It's heart wrenching when she realises that her parents would honestly prefer her to be blown up by a bomb rather than be “in the family way” as an unwed teen.

While the novel meaningfully portrays the suffocating effects of the religious and familial strictures in her life, it also shows the intelligence and humour of her wry perspective. Mary makes deliciously cutting observations about the tragic waste of sectarian conflicts and the way emotions aren't discussed in family life. At one point she describes how the Irish substitute for love is tea. She also forms some tender connections with certain individuals who inspire her and provide a steady source of comfort. The spectre of her grandmother is at times glimpsed in the distance as well as a good-natured soul named Birdie who becomes a kind of substitute mother for her. However, most of her relationships often include gaps of understanding so she comes to understanding the painful irony in how “No one knew us better than each other and we didn't know each other at all.” I enjoyed the way the story creates a building sense of tension concerning what Mary will do now that she's on her own and truly knows what she wants. Delaney's powerful novel shows the precarious bonds that exist between people who've had to abandon their dreams and the unexpected love that can be found when honest connections are made.

The Art of Falling by Danielle McLaughlin

When I read Danielle McLaughlin's debut book of short stories “Dinosaurs on Other Planets” I knew this was an author to watch. Her ability to capture the nuances of our psychological reality and complex relationships in fiction is extraordinary. McLaughlin's talent has been confirmed by being awarded a Windham Campbell Prize and the Sunday Times Audible Short Story Award in 2019 as well as numerous other literary awards. So her first novel comes with a lot of anticipation. 

At its heart, “The Art of Falling” is about a seemingly ordinary woman named Nessa whose busy days are filled with her work at an art gallery and caring for her family: husband Philip whose ambitious property development business has fallen on hard times in the wake of the devastating Irish property bubble and teenage daughter Jennifer who is growing secretive and difficult. Yet, amidst juggling gallery lectures and shopping for food to make the family dinner, Nessa grows increasingly aware of how fragile her secure reality has become. Her marriage is still recovering from the recent discovery that Philip was having an affair. More inconvenient truths from the past soon emerge. An eccentric woman publicly asserts that she is the true creator of a famous sculpture that's the centrepiece of an exhibit Nessa is curating. Also, the son of Nessa's long-deceased friend Amy visits the area seeking to learn more about his mother's life. These factors tip Nessa's world into chaos as she scrambles to keep things together and she must question whether buried truths should remain so. These dilemmas create an emotional pressure which is intensely felt and the complex meaning of this story gradually unfolds as the facts are revealed.

One of the things about getting older is that our versions of the past become solidified within our own self-justification and egocentric certainty. Anything that challenges this is often met with suspicion and hostility. Therefore it's moving the way Nessa must accept her own role in perpetuating mythologies which have emerged regarding an artist's career and her friend whose life was tragically cut short. McLaughlin's story raises many intriguing questions. To what degree are facts manipulated to serve a common narrative? What does our subjective experience do to bend the truth? Does excavating certain truths about the past enhance our reality or disrupt it? How much forgiveness is necessary if we want to honestly know what happened in the past? This novel inspires a deep reckoning with one's personal history in a way similar to Julian Barnes' “The Sense of an Ending”. It made me reflect on my own past and how much I have psychologically tidied away to serve my own purposes. What Nessa's tale beautifully shows is that this is a very human trait and we need to be careful about how we manage collective and personal memory.

I admire how McLaughlin is able to raise all these probing questions gradually so they primarily emerge and continue to meaningfully linger after the story finishes. While reading this novel I got so involved with the sympathetic details of Nessa's life and the mysteries of the plot as it unfolded. Like Anne Tyler, McLaughlin has a way of making the everyday wonderfully engaging. This made reading it a very pleasurable experience. There are details which have stuck in my imagination such as the central sculpture which was made with a material that causes it to slowly disintegrate over time. The artist might have been done this purposefully or not, but the nature of this artwork raises a point about what should remain permanent. By encoding personal history into a certain narrative we're limiting the truth about how complex the experience of living really is, yet it's a necessary part of forming identity. “The Art of Falling” shows how the messiness of these dilemmas and questions make being human both beautiful and eternally troubling.

Big Girl, Small Town by Michelle Gallen

Set in the fictional Northern Irish border town of Aghybogey, “Big Girl, Small Town” follows a week in the life of Majella, a young woman cruelly nicknamed Jelly by the locals. She works in a local chip shop and lives with her alcoholic single mother (her father disappeared during The Troubles.) The story begins with the dramatic news that her Granny was brutally murdered in her home. An awareness of this simmers beneath the story as we follow Majella's routine existence slinging fried food and caring for her Ma. Prior to this news she lived in relative anonymity, but local interest in the crime makes her an unwelcome focus of attention. There's a humour and wonderful lightness of touch to this story as we view her world through an extensive list of things “she wasn't keen on”. Subjects which encompass her judgement range from the “small talk, bullshit and gossip” to “the political situation”. Throughout the course of the days we see the tedium, absurdity and small-mindedness of this environment. In this way, Majella is granted dignity and power amidst a community that has so ruthlessly defined and dismissed her. 

Given the subject matter and setting, many readers will be reminded of the novel “Milkman” which similarly depicts the way a young Irish woman who wants to be left alone comes under the pernicious scrutiny of the locals. Gallen opens up a direct dialogue with Anna Burns' novel by quoting from it in the epigraph of this book. But the actual experience of the story feels more like “Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine” in the way its protagonist feels psychologically distanced from those around her and only knows how to interact with people by imitating their social behaviour and routines. So when a lecherous male customer asks Majella “D'ye want a bit of my sausage?” she knows to use the cutting rejoinder that her coworker scripted for her “I'll batter yer sausage if you're not careful, now.” But, where the narrative of “Milkman” sometimes felt too viscous and the humour of “Eleanor Oliphant” sometimes felt too contrived, “Big Girl, Small Town” succeeds in conveying the frustrations and plodding routines of its protagonist's existence in a way which is consistently funny, endearing and compulsively readable.

Majella's life is in no way romanticised as she serves an endless barrage of drunken loutish customers, hurriedly shags a coworker in the storeroom or consumes her late night battered and fried meals in solitude. Yet there's a poetic beauty to this narrative in the way Majella has learned to regulate the life and situation she was born into. The author movingly portrays the way her routines are simultaneously comforting and maddening. I enjoyed how Gallen draws ironic contrasts between Majella's life and the lives portrayed in the TV show Dallas which she frequently rewatches. The novel also deftly skewers how many of the lives in this Irish community revolve around the chip shop and alcoholism is rife – Majella explains to an immigrant how the Irish have many words for being drunk. While the father's disappearance and the grandmother's death serve as intriguing mysteries as we follow the protagonist's daily life, the most meaningful question is how Majella can escape from an increasingly stultifying habituated existence. It's powerful how this novel dynamically portrays the life of a working class young woman who many people overlook and offers a tentative message of hope.