Category: ragdoll reads

#6 – Blue Shoes and Happiness

My Zombie Survival Guide daily calendar tells me that a motorcycle is the best way to flee an infested area, which could be problematic for me as I have never driven a motorcycle in my life. Oh well. That has absolutely nothing to do with Alexander McCall Smith’s Blue Shoes and Happiness, which is the seventh book in the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series with Mma Ramotswe and her cast of likable characters. The calendar makes me laugh, that’s all.

It’s a breezy, delightful series, and I’m actually reading In the Company of Cheerful Ladies (#8) at the moment and expect to be finished it today, they’re such quick books to get through. I had three of the series on my shelves, one I had already read, and so I decided just to power through the other two. I love how Mma Ramotswe isn’t a traditional detective, while she may be traditionally built, and how the cases do not involve bloody murder of the Mo Hayder kind (although I do adore Ms. Hayder) but are instead more like moral lessons. Sure, there are mysteries to be solved but they are generally addressed through common sense and communication, traditional Botswana (I think?) values, and the essence of good for the sake of being good, no ulterior motives:

Most problems could be diminished by the drinking of tea and the thinking through of things that could be done while tea was being drunk. And even if that did not solve problems, at least it could put them off for a little while, which we sometimes needed to do, we really did.

My thoughts exactly. A good cup of tea, a warm muffin, and a comfy chair and most problems can at least be mulled over, if not completely solved. In Mma Ramotswe’s case, she drinks her beloved bush tea, in my case, it’s decaf earl grey with the milk poured in first (and I couldn’t give a toss what Christopher Hitchens would say about that — it was the way my British grandmother taught me to drink tea and it tastes the best when the hot water scalds the milk, it just does). The point being that it is in the drinking of the tea that humanity comes together, not the making of the tea, although I would agree with Hitchens that finding a decent cup of tea in America isn’t easy.

Annnywaaay, I’m off topic, entirely with this post, rambling on about zombies and Christopher Hitchens. There’s not a lot to say about these novels, just that I adore them, adore the characters and can’t wait for the TV show to come back on, because it’s delightful too. What’s also nice is that McCall Smith was born in Zimbabwe, which puts him on the map in terms of my Around the World in 52 Books, and the African settings of these books always make me want to travel to that continent, just to experience life in a different way. So I’ve knocked off a couple of challenges with two short novels, and haven’t quite decided what my shelves will bring forth next in terms of what I’m in the mood to read.

#5 – Abide with Me

Elizabeth Strout is the kind of writer whose novels have such a solid moral core that you don’t even realize their depth until you’re at the end, teary-eyed, and wondering how she managed to be so subtle in her prose, yet so overwhelmingly apparent in her themes both at the same time. But wait, let me back up a little. There’s a subset of American fiction, primarily written by literary writers, people like Strout and Marilynne Robinson, that I would equate to the “old woman on her deathbed” narrative that sometimes defines our Canadian canon, and that’s the “pastor going through crisis” trope (would we call it a trope? Do I even remember what that word means?) that you find in novels like Home or Gilead. So, when I first started Abide with Me, I thought, ‘oh, here we go, Strout’s just putting in her two cents worth in terms of that American tradition.’

But what a rich tradition it is, and what a rich novel Abide with Me turned out to be. The story of a widower who is the minister of a small town in New England where the rustic setting not only traps its inhabitants during the long, cold winter, it turns them, often, against one another through fits of gossip, jealousy and petty indiscriminations. Tyler Caskey arrives young, bright-eyed and newly married. His wife, Lauren, is almost too big for the town with her bushels of red hair and big city ways. She spends too much money and isn’t all that interested in being a minister’s wife. Not to mention the fact that the town isn’t all that crazy about her, either. But then, she dies a horrible, tragic death (and I’m not spoiling anything here), and Tyler’s lost his way, and the novel turns — it becomes about grieving, about loss, about life after tragedy, and the subtle ways Strout moves through Tyler’s experience don’t even become readily apparent until the end of the novel, when you fully understand how hard it must have been for him to lose the woman he loved, but also the life he expected to lead.

Not only is Tyler suffering from the loss of his wife, but it seems everyone else in town has undergone some sort of trouble. From adultery to actual crimes, Strout’s novel pits the concept of grief up against some very real problems that exist within the human condition, perhaps to explore how grief affects people in many different ways, that it comes in many different forms. By the end, the book moves into a separate stage, and it is through the idea of healing, whether it’s by telling the truth finally, by allowing yourself to be forgiven, or by respecting the fact that sometimes you simply can’t continue, the entire town can’t help but move through Tyler’s grief with him, and it has a very poignant impact on everyone.

I adored this novel. I was so taken by the character of Katherine, Tyler’s five-year-old daughter, who so vicerally experiences her mother’s death that my heart broke on every page, and the sheer inability for the people around her to see how and why she’s suffering (with the exception of her father who, while baffled by his daughter’s behaviour, clearly loves her more than life itself) or to give her the hand she needs felt so real to me, primarily because I too lost my mother, but not at such a young age. All in all, the novel, set in the 1950s, explores gender roles, explores the banality of small-town life, the suffication of spending so much time indoors when the snow is piled high and all the women can do is make beds and polish floors to keep themselves sane, and it also explores the idea of faith, how it can stretch and bend, but also break, just at the very moment when you need it the most — and this is a theme for which I am quite familiar with in my own life these days.

I’m amazed that I had these novels just sitting collecting dust for so long. But I am a true believer in fate when it comes to reading. You pick up a book at the right time for you to be reading that book — if you don’t finish, it’s not always the book’s fault, it’s just perhaps not the right moment to be reading. I needed both Amy and Isabelle and Abide with Me this month. They have enriched my life in ways that I find hard to express — and given me something to aspire to, Strout’s writing is simple exquisite.

READING CHALLENGES: Off the Shelf.

#2 – The Guardians & #3 – Making Light of Tragedy

A friend at Doubleday sent me a galley for Andrew Pyper’s The Guardians way back in the way back, and then asked that I not post until closer to the book’s pub date, which was the beginning of the month, I think. Regardless, I put the book on my shelf and forgot about it until one day last week when I was searching around for something BETTER to read than the Joyce Maynard I had just finished. I described the book on Twitter as such: “The Guardians = Stand By Me + River’s Edge / Mystic River without the Boston setting.”

And I stand by these comps. The book, about a group of hockey-playing young men, friends since grade school, who end up embroiled in a tragic situation involving their hockey coach, a young woman and a haunted house, was seriously not what I expected. As you know, I have little faith in “haunted” stories. Blame my reticence on Sarah Waters, I think The Little Stranger ruined it for me forever, and maybe it’s because I don’t think any book can do “haunting” better than that Alejandro Amenábar film, The Others, I’ve given up finding satisfaction in being scared in print. Also, I really hate being scared so why would I put myself through days of it versus 1.5 hours of a film.

Yet, I found myself inexplicably drawn into to Pyper’s narrative. He has a cool way with character, they’re masculine, very Lehane-esque, but that’s not off putting to me as a female reader. The main character, Trevor, suffers from Parkinson’s, which, while the disease isn’t remotely the same as mine, I can kind of relate to — simply the idea of your body not cooperating with itself. When his childhood friend commits suicide after years of protecting both the secret the group of four boys harbours and the house across the street (the haunted house), Trevor and Randy (the second of the foursome) head home for the funeral. The truth unravels from there, and I didn’t even mind the “memory diary” device that Pyper uses (Trevor’s therapist insists he keep it as a way of dealing with the disease; should my shrink ever do such a thing I would terminate treatment immediately; who wants to be constantly reminded of what the farking disease has taken away from you, seriously?). The narrative switches back and forth between Trevor’s diary and the action in the present tense.

There are all kinds of interesting things that happen when someone goes home, especially someone who made the conscious choice, after the tragedy, that Trevor did to never go back. The small-town Ontario setting adds to the nuance of the novel — things like this couldn’t happen in a big city, someone would tear the house down, raze the trouble before it even started or simply not notice, walk on by. But in this town, a hockey town, the house stands for over forty (I think) years creating havoc for not only the four boys who are deliciously intertwined in its grasp, but a few other tragic souls as well. It’s a terrific book, a perfect read for a snow day if there ever was one, and I’m glad that I read it in the deep, deep hours of the night, just for those extra chills.

The other title I read last week was Jessica Grant’s Making Light of Tragedy for my book club. The cover sucks so I am refusing to put it up here on the blog, and Kerry’s done a wonderful job of wrapping up our meeting. Everything she says about the book, well, that’s what I think about the book too. I fell on the Grant’s writing was a little bit too twee for my liking, and kept thinking of that old-school writing class line that if you’re in love with your prose that’s the stuff that should be cut right away, and there were many, many, many loved lines in these stories that could have been sliced to the benefit of the writing. However, there were also some amazing metaphors — and this coming from a girl who actively removes every single metaphor from her own writing she finds them so distracting — where I found my breath catching just a bit at her turn of phrase it was so beautiful. So, uneven, but enjoyable. The company, however, and our meeting, was a serious breath of fresh air. I even managed to feel like I was using a part of my brain that a) doesn’t sing everything I’m doing, b) actually considers thoughts before they come out of my mouth, and c) had nothing to do with talking to or about the RRBB.

WHAT’S UP NEXT: I’m reading The Keep right now, as recommended by a few friends, but am actually spending far too much time playing iPad Scrabble during the late-night feedings. It’s scrambling my brain a little so I am going to stick to just the book tonight, we’ll see how that goes at 2 AM.

#1 – The Good Daughters

Sometimes it’s hard for me, professionally, even though I know this is a blog for which I am not getting paid, to separate my true feelings about a book from a more balanced approach in terms of reviewing. Joyce Maynard’s The Good Daughters puts me once again within this dilemma. Other aspects conflicting my ability to write a non-biased review: I have met and interviewed the author, and was incredibly inspired by her; and I loved her previous novel, Labour Day.

But that doesn’t take away from the fact that there is something definitively lacking within this book. If I had to put a finger on it — and this may seem harsh — it’s story. Told from the alternating perspectives of two “birthday sisters” born on the same day in a small rural community in New Hampshire, the book feels more like a character study than a novel, and it lacks a certain polish. The writing is often redundant and repetitive, parts that could be interesting are told in shorthand in the rush, I suppose, to get through the entirety of each woman’s life. The book skims the surface and uses cliche to describe key elements (no woman should ever be described as a rare fruit, like, ever) and the constant back and forth feels gimmicky.

It’s obvious that there’s more to the story than the fact that the two girls, Ruth Plank, a farmer’s daughter, so inherently different from the rest of her family, not just physiologically but also emotionally, and Dana Dickerson, stuck with parents who never should have been so, awkward and incredibly different than her flighty family, were both born on the same day in the same hospital nine months after a terrible hurricane (yes, a hurricane, boy it does stir up some awful human emotions and some truly interesting mischief, yawn). And, not to brag, but I had figured out the “twist” by about page two and then had to read on until the big reveal — Maynard parsing out little clues here and there throughout. What’s most astonishing is that both Ruth and Dana, intelligent, well-adjusted women both, didn’t give more thought to how different they are, to the real story, before just about everyone around them who knew the truth ended up dead.

There’s a sweetness to the novels that you can’t deny, and I think it would make a very good book for, forgive me, suburban mom book clubs. But it really wasn’t a book for me — a quick read, which I always appreciate, with a really great setting (I love the Plank farm; its history and its roots [been in the family for 10 generations]) and I can see what Maynard was trying to do but I always find that books that try to encompass so much, like entire lives instead of those pivotal moments, sometimes lack the depth that I crave in a more literary sense. Yet, the stereotypes and the coincidences are a little too much to take in places — I appreciate Maynard’s inclusive writing, international adoption, a truly beautiful lesbian partnership, are just two examples, but when it all comes together it feels forced, a little too Jodi Picoult movie-of-the-week for my tastes.

Overall, I was disappointed in this book, and I hate to start off a reading year on such a note, but there’s always tonight for another try. I’m not sure where I’ll go next. There are so many books to choose from. What I’d really like to know is what everyone else is reading and have some recommendations. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to find one or two titles on my shelves.

#67 – Amy And Isabelle

After suffering through Pearl, was I ever grateful for Elizabeth Strout’s excellent Amy and Isabelle. When I was combing the shelves for something to read, I had forgotten that Strout wrote the excellent Olive Kitteridge, and you can see similar themes in her earlier novel: small town life, history repeating itself, the problems of parenthood, mother-daughter relationships (even though Olive had a son, correct?), so I should say parent/child relationships.

Regardless, Amy and Isabelle remains a thoughtful, engrossing novel that takes place, I think as the 60s are turning into the 70s. Isabelle, the mother, and Amy, the daughter, each live with their own internal restrictions that affect their relationship. Isabelle is strict, complex, sad — she tells everyone she’s a widow, but you know that’s not the whole story — and is in love with her boss at the shoe mill where she works as a secretary. So proper she always wears pantyhose in the heat of summer (the hottest on record), her thin brown hair consistently pulled into a French twist, she’s unprepared for the issues that arise over her daughter: typical teenage stuff, lying, inappropriate love affairs, and then a shock that changes everything.

Amy’s naive in an intelligent way. She was raised by an honest, forthright person (for the most part) and believes that when someone says something, they mean it. And her good heart, her good nature, gets her into a situation that ultimately disappoints her, it’s heartbreaking for both mother and daughter.

Strout has a gift for small town life, like in Olive Kitteridge, she intersperses the story of the main character with other colourful people — people like Amy’s best friend Stacy, her parents, the church women and a truly delightful character called Fat Bev (who comes from French Canadian stock; naturally).

Shirley Falls, Maine might be experiencing a heat wave but the weather isn’t the only thing stagnating. As the summer progresses, and as the lies pile up both for Amy and for Isabelle, it’s a relief when the truth rains down, both metaphorically and literally — the storm breaks not just the weather, and it’s glorious. The novel itself reads like that moment just after a storm when everything feels fresh and renewed. I honestly enjoyed this novel so much that I spent the few spare minutes finishing it yesterday morning when I should have still been sleeping. I did regret this for a moment when the RRBB had such a rough night last night, but good lord, it was a good read. I honestly think that Alice Munro is an excellent comp for Strout, so if you’re a fan, I’d be curious to see what someone else thinks.

READING CHALLENGES: What else? Off the Shelf!

WHAT’S UP NEXT: I started Joyce Maynard’s The Good Daughters and am already finding it a bit lacking. The prose feels a little sloppy and repetitious at the moment, but I’m hoping the further I get into the actual story, the more this will abate.

#66 – Pearl

Oh, this book. OH THIS BOOK. I wish I had better things to write about Mary Gordon’s Pearl. I know how hard it is to write a novel, and I always try to judge books with that thought in mind, but I couldn’t get over how annoying I found the narrative voice in this book. Gordon uses the second person, a device that rarely works beyond Choose Your Own Adventure, and the narrator TELLS the entire story. I know it’s obnoxious but it’s the kind of writing I hate — the storytelling, the David Adams Richards-esque, perspective that ultimately means that the writer doesn’t trust the reader to GET it.

Pearl, the title character, is a, natch, beautiful young woman in her twenties; she’s impressionable but brilliant at languages, so she’s studying Irish in Ireland in the 1990s. Taking a very tragic accident to heart, she chains herself to the American embassy after putting herself on a hunger strike for six weeks. She’s going to die for a cause — in a roundabout way, the Peace accord that Sinn Fein signed — and feels her actions are right and just. Her mother, Maria, a strong-minded, strong-willed woman who came of age in the 60s, flies to Ireland to try and save her daughter’s life.

The premise feels so forced, in fact, the melodrama of the entire story degrades the very real politics in the novel. It belittles them to the point that I was a little offended. That Pearl invokes Bobby Sands, that she is so taken by his very real and very necessary actions, isn’t what bothered me, what bothered me the most is the arrogant way the narrator speaks from her perspective. It’s not that Gordon is a bad writer — she’s just far, far too precious of a writer. It’s as if she’s in love with every single sentence and doesn’t have the heart to cut to the actual story, which, had it been allowed to be shown instead of told, could have been quite affecting.

There’s also a moment of such pure absurdity, I mean, eye-rolling absurdity, between Pearl, Maria and Joseph, Maria’s quasi-adoptive brother (he’s the son of her housekeeper; Maria’s mother died when she was two and her father employed Joseph’s mother; he became like Maria’s brother, caretaker, and so much more), that put the nail in the coffin for this novel for me. I almost didn’t finish but I am on a mission and I stuck with it. But I’ll tell you one thing — it’s hellish to try and read a book you really aren’t liking at 4 AM. On the whole, I didn’t find a single part of this book believable, not the characters, not the situation, and especially not the intrusive, annoying, overbearing narrator who just wouldn’t remove themselves and let me enjoy the writing. It’s the first dud from my shelves. How disappointing, eh?

#65 – Payback

Margaret Atwood is one of the few authors, Canadian authors, where I’ve read almost every single thing she’s ever written. It’s not even a love-hate relationship: I count a few of her books among my absolute favourites (Surfacing), and when I saw her at the IFOA a couple of years ago, it was one of the most entertaining readings I had ever been too. So, I bought Payback, years ago, I think, and it sat on the shelves. Atwood’s Massey lecture looks at the philosophical and literary implications of debt — what it means from a balanced perspective. This isn’t a book about the recession or about the failure of our monetary system but it’s about what it means to be in debt from a moral perspective.

I was honestly surprised at how much I enjoyed reading Payback. I actually learned a great deal about the idea of balance. Atwood takes a very thorough look at what defined debt throughout the ages — starting with early philosophical positions (there’s lots of talk of mythology) and ending with a modern-day take on Dickens’ character Scrooge (with all of the implications of how we are living today), Atwood’s point is simple: we can’t keep taking so much without giving something back… and if we don’t give it back, the universe will just take it.

Anyway, I don’t have much more to say about it — this is probably my shortest review ever. Balance is good. Taking advantage of our resources isn’t. Money is so much more than dollars and cents, and there’s a surprising amount of debt in literature. If I ever go back to grad school, what a fascinating thesis that would make.

READING CHALLENGES: Off the Shelf, naturally.

#63 – Moonlight Mile

Murderous Christmas continues, and I finished Dennis Lehane’s Moonlight Mile in record time. I read about three pages last night before crashing into sleep and then, in between visits to the hospital (blood work), visits from my Aunties, and a trip to the Duff, I finished the book about three minutes ago waiting for the baby to go to sleep. The book picks up twelve years after Gone, Baby, Gone, the other other Patrick and Angie book I’ve read (which I enjoyed immensely), and a lot has happened. Patrick and Angie are back together, they have a daughter, and they’re once again hired by Bea to find Amanda McCready, who has once again disappeared.

Nothing is at it seems, of course, and Patrick finds himself stuck in this case that, like all those years ago, puts his life on the line and then changes it forever. I can totally see what Sarah Weinman was talking about in her review of the novel, but I didn’t read and/or experience a love for crime fiction in the same way, so I don’t have the same expectations. The book gripped me from the beginning, and not just because the characters are terrific, but more because the story just dove right into the action. Then, it doesn’t let you go. I appreciate a good, plot-driven novel. I mean, I am a snob, don’t get me wrong, and years ago, if someone told me I’d be reading bucketloads of mystery/crime novels after giving birth, I would have laughed and said something obnoxious.

There are flaws with Lehane’s writing, don’t get me wrong. I’m not convinced that every single character needs their hair described in such immaculate detail but, in the end, it doesn’t matter because the story itself flies off the page — and once you pick up the book, you seem to get to the end before you even realize it. I guess you have to forgive him for these petty details, for the odd over-description and the sometimes melodramatic sentences, because he writes great dialogue and has created such a hard-driving narrative. It’s immaculate commercial fiction and that’s a hard balance to strike — it satisfies literary snobs like me and more general readers in one fell swoop. That’s not something to be overlooked or under appreciated.

Many of my co-workers tell me that the entire series is just that good. Maybe I’ll go back and read more than just the two I have done, but I’m satisfied with my Lehane experience. Maybe I don’t want to ruin it. I’ll just leave it where it is for now. So, no reading challenges accomplished with this novel, but that’s okay too, right?

#62 – Calling Out For You!

When I was babbling on about all of the Scandinavian mysteries I’ve been reading lately, Melanie, over at Indextrious Reader, tweeted about her favourite, Karin Fossum. So I scanned my shelves and happily discovered I had an Inspector Sejer mystery, Calling Out For You! at the ready. I might as well call this my Mystery Christmas for all novels in this genre I’ve been reading, and I’m pleased that I can cross Norway off my Around the World in 52 Books challenge with Fossum as well, and the translation by Charlotte Barslund is one of the better that I’ve read — far less clunky than all of The Girl With novels and, on the whole, Fossum’s a much more skillful novelist than Camilla Lackberg.

Calling Out For You! (the exclamation point seems a bit, well, tedious) finds Inspector Sejer solving a heinous crime involving the brutal murder of an Indian woman, the newlywed wife of a middle-aged farm equipment salesmen who was truly looking forward to welcoming his wife to his country, his home. Gunder Jomann, quiet, reserved, lonely, takes the biggest risk of his entire life and simply decides to go to India. Upon his return, the very day his new wife Poona was set to arrive, his only sister ends up in a terrible car accident and he can’t collect her from the airport. Tragedy ensues — Poona doesn’t arrive. Instead, she’s found bludgeoned to death in a field outside of town.

Fossum’s careful not to lead you entirely in the right or wrong direction. There’s a mystery to the mystery — who actually killed Poona and why — that’s inferred but not entirely delineated by the end of the novel. It’s a character-driven book, you feel emotionally connected to the Gunder, the distraught, decent man who ultimately suffers unspeakable tragedy. And the detective work is straightforward, simple, to the point. There isn’t the driving plot that you’d find in the The Girl With books, but that’s okay, there’s a decency to Fossum’s characters that’s very real. Setting doesn’t play as an important part in this book the other mysteries I’ve read by authors from this part of the world (that was the only thing I truly enjoyed about The Ice Princess). But you get the small-town, everyone-knows-everyone, feeling throughout the novel, which always contributes to the shocking nature of the crime.

I flew through this novel, primarily because I truly, honestly wanted to know who did it — and it was VERY hard not to cheat. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve read the last page of the book sometimes even before the first and it’s an especially hard habit to break with mysteries. I don’t want to spoil it but then I absolutely just have to know. In this case, I managed to be patient, but mainly because it was such an easy read, and didn’t take too long to get to the end. Any longer and I wouldn’t have been able to stand it.

READING CHALLENGES: Around the World in 52 Books and The Off The Shelf Challenge. Two birds with one book, yet again.

WHAT’S UP NEXT: I can’t decide: AS Byatt or Dennis Lehane. I suppose it’ll be up to what concentration levels I can manage this evening upon retiring for the long, long night as the RRBB eats, sleeps, eats, sleeps, eats, sleeps.

#60 – A Long Long Way

Sebastian Barry’s A Long Long Way surprised me, and that’s not easy to do. Yesterday, I had plucked it and Sarah Waters’s Affinity off my shelves to start reading upon finishing up the Mo Hayder. I don’t know why I chose one over the other — except the beginning passages of Barry’s novel reminded me in a way of A Star Called Henry, and once I started, I couldn’t put the book down until I was weeping at the end.

Willie Dunne, the son of a police commander in Dublin, hasn’t grown tall enough (you must be six feet) by his teenage years to join the constabulary so, instead, he joins the army at the very beginning of the First World War. Willie and his three sisters live in the Police Castle with their father, their mother having passed away in childbirth years before. The Dublin before the war is a very different Dublin during the war and even more so once the war is over. Home Rule becomes an issue, and the Irish soldiers fighting for freedom, country and King, go from heroes to villains in one fell swoop. And while Willie is far away from the politics invading his country, his life, his identity, stuck in the mud at the Somme, breathing in mustard gas at Ypres, and seeing death and destruction all around, the very nature of the issues are never far away either.

Barry, from what I can gather from his short bio at the beginning of the novel, is a playwright, and often you can sense this throughout. The dialogue and characters are so very well developed, so pristine in their environment, that you know there’s been a sure hand in their creation. But, often, much of what sits outside the characters and their dialogue, and this is a rare criticism for I enjoyed this novel very much, feels like stage direction — a lot of repetitive details, re-used observations, and a little bit too much of a dependence on heavy metaphors.

Yet, you can’t help but have your heart on your sleeve when reading Willie Dunne’s story. He has tender feelings for Gretta, a girl whose father was injured by Willie’s dad himself during a particular uprising; and this love keeps him alive as he sits covered in lice, grime and his own piss at the bottom of a trench. The horrors of the First World War have been fictionalized by Canadian writers so exceptionally over the course of our literary history. The horses sinking into the mud in The Wars, the morphine-addicted character in Three Day Road; the First World War defined Canada as a nation, we were exhalted for our bravery, we held positions, and this is how I’m used to reading the events. Yet, Barry has an entirely different perspective — Willie’s split in two. He’s on furlough when Easter 1916 happens, and he sees the violence in a way that changes his mind about how or why he should be fighting. But it’s so easy to be political when you’re not the one in the trench, in a way, when you’re the one throwing the rocks and refusing to go, abandoning the boys that went — but those boys are still suffering, barraged by mortars and attacked at every corner by the enemy, their lives are not their own, but they must own their actions.

And when Willie is left for his second furlough, and aspects of his homecoming are inevitably difficult, your heart breaks for him. Nothing has stayed the same in Dublin during the time he’s been at war, but he needs the stability, and needs to come home. What happens to a man no, rather, a boy born into his manhood by seeing and participating in unspeakable horror, who can’t go home again? It’s fitting when he arrives upon his doorstep that his youngest sister doesn’t recognize him, and when everything he hoped to come back to falls apart, Willie still does the honourable thing — he goes and visits the family of his fallen Captain, a man he respected because he held the line during the first instances of the gas when everyone else, rightfully, fled to save their lives.

There’s a cast of motley characters that survive alongside our hero. My favourite, Christy Moran, the second in command, a brash, ballsy, opinionated brave fellow who hands away a medal as easily as he would share a ration, manages to add a lightness to many situations. There’s the usual stereotyping of the Irish by the brass — and by some of the other soldiers — but the perspective on this war, the sacrifices that these boys made, and how it all changed because of what was happening at home, well, I’ve never read anything like it. While Henry Smart was holed up in the Post Office in A Star Called Henry, Willie Dunne was holed up in a trench in France and Belgium. They come from different places but they represent two very distinct aspects of Irish history, and Barry, alongside Roddy Doyle, creates an interesting, almost bookended reading experience should one choose to tackle the two novels together.

In the end, I wept, and wept, and there was more than one moment where I put my hand over my heart and held tight to my baby. This is not a post-partum emotional reader talking — this is the result of a powerful story wrapped in a wonderful character. In the end, I was very sad to see his story close.

READING CHALLENGES: The Off the Shelf Challenge of course, and as Barry is Irish, I’m counting A Long Long Way for Around the World in 52 Days. Over the last couple weeks, I think I’ve managed to get through about 10 books from my shelves. There are hundreds more to go but I doubt I’ll make my annual reading goal of 100 books. Simply too much went on this year. I think, too, I’ll forgo my annual top 10 books list as well — I’m just going to keep plowing through titles in the wee hours of the morning and actually enjoy the fact that our baby still wakes up a couple of times in the night to give me those stolen moments when everything is so quiet and my mind can wander over words, imagination, and impressive stories I don’t expect to enjoy as much as I do.