Patrick

I have a habit of glancing at the blurb of a book just long enough to get the general gist of the story, but I then quickly avert my eyes to avoid potential spoilers.

This often leads to wildly different expectations about what I think the story will be versus what it actually turns out to be.

Take The Secret History, for example. I expected a thriller or mystery: rich college students, full of hubris, going on a murderous rampage in a quiet, tranquil U.S. town. That is, indeed, what Donna Tartt’s debut novel is about. And yet, I was completely unprepared for how genuinely funny this book ended up being.

The group of sociopaths at the center of the story are not meant to be liked. Their few redeeming traits are far overshadowed by a myriad of terrible ones. While I did grow fond of two characters, I couldn’t, if pressed, make any convincing arguments in their favor.

But, my god, they are hilarious. A chaotic mix of incompetence, depravity, arrogance, and sheer stupidity, they somehow manage to make you laugh with nearly every line—delivered with perfect deadpan humour, even as their lives (predictably) spiral out of control.

If I have one criticism of The Secret History, it’s the length. Much of the second half could have been trimmed, with some plot-lines cut, to deliver the ending in a more impactful way. But that’s easily forgiven when the majority of the book is such a joy to read.

4 Stars.

After two attempts to read through Sebastian Barry’s Days Without End, I declare defeat—no more! To my modest pile of Did Not Finish it goes.

So what’s wrong with this novel? The prose is undeniably beautiful, and it has won multiple well-respected awards (sorry, GR Readers’ Choice Award, you’re not one of them). Maybe it’s just me who fails to grasp its genius.

Thomas is an uneducated boy from Ireland, and his poor grammar and slang reflects that. Yet at the same time, Barry can’t help himself—he constantly lets his protagonist break out into poetry spanning multiple paragraphs. The dichotomy is just too much.

The carnage and original sin of the not-so-United States of America are vividly depicted, pulling no punches. Yet not even halfway through, I found myself tired of it. The narrative doesn’t reflect on these events with any tact or meaning; it’s just a repetitive collection of scenes, delivered by a history teacher who lacks passion but has plenty of fascination for cruelty.

Somehow, the characters in this tale remain bland and lack depth. This is quite remarkable, considering we’re dealing with a cross-dressing, gender-bending main character in the 1850s who is madly in love (or so he says) with his friend. The latter might as well be a ghost, given the absence of any meaningful characterization. The two lovebirds, accepted by their progressive peers without much fuss, somehow and miraculously find themselves at the center of almost every monumental event that shaped the USA and its identity.

And then, halfway through, I realized—I don’t care to see this through to the last chapter. The Days might have no end but my patience sure does.

This is not my book. No rating.

At just 200 pages, it’s difficult to review this book without risking spoilers. So, I’ll keep it brief, with the added note that I loved Philippe Besson’s later novel Lie With Me.

In the Absence of Men, unfortunately, missed the mark for me. The characters didn’t feel believable—particularly the 16-year-old protagonist, Vincent. The love explored came across as disingenuous, even undeserved, and the friendship with French writer Marcel Proust felt contrived. It’s perhaps no surprise, then, that the twist at the end failed to leave an impact and came dangerously close to feeling like a joke made in bad taste.

Still, 3 stars, because Besson’s prose remains as beautiful as ever.

He saw the black water and the declining sun and the swan dipping down, its white wings flashing, and slowing and slowing till silver ripples carried it home. It was a scene which seemed the heart of this land. The lowing sun and the one star waking, white wings on a black water, and the smell of rain, and the long lane fading where a voice comes in the falling night.

—Ireland, said Scrotes.

—Yes, this is Ireland.

Where to even begin? The moment I finished At Swim, Two Boys, I immediately knew I had just read something wonderful, special, and grand.

Jamie O'Neill's novel is not an easy read. Its language is challenging—not just, I suspect, for fellow ESL readers, but for anyone not born on that small isle they call Ireland. Twice, I had to give up—shelving the book for a later date—because I simply couldn't get through its dense prose without becoming utterly confused. But I'm glad I picked it up again, because as the pages flew by, it became easier and easier to understand what was going on.

Part of that is due to the friendship—and later, love—that slowly develops between two boys, Jim and Doyler. O'Neill has penned an incredibly tender relationship—so sweet and honest, you can't help but admire the ease with which these two characters are etched into your memory and heart. Truly, these two are special—yet they are only one pair amidst a large cast of wonderful characters. One of which is, of course, Ireland itself.

The struggle for Irish Ireland is not for truth against untruth. It is not for the good against the bad, for the beautiful against the unbeautiful. These things will take care of themselves. The struggle is for the heart, for its claim to stand in the light and cast a shadow its own in the sun.

I didn’t know much about Ireland's past, and consequently, the ending hit me hard. Even if you’re familiar with the events, this book offers a remarkable glimpse into the soul of a nation and is ripe with opportunities to discover something new.

There’s so much more I want to write about this novel, but I’ll save that for my eventual re-read. After all, a single read could never do it proper justice.

Without hesitation, I give At Swim, Two Boys 5 stars. It is (forgive my enthusiasm) extraordinary, stunning, and achingly beautiful.

Jim felt himself sloping like a weight was in his shoulder. His neck bristled when the arm came over and the hair of his skin felt the shock of touch as Doyler’s mop brushed against his face.

“Old pal o’ me heart,” said Doyler.

And Jim said, “Cara macree.”

“You remember that?”

“I do.”

“We were good pals that time.”

“We were great.”