An Irish Novel to Read in July

Since mid-April I have lost time, and now June is over.  But this Sunday I suggest reading This Is Happiness by the Irish writer, Niall Williams. In early April an orthopedic & literary friend gave me this novel. This week I happily read it … from the first four word chapter: “It had stopped raining” to the 44th chapter, “Electricity was switched on in Fara, County Clare, Ireland.” Rain and electricity are powerful metaphors in This Is Happiness.

The novel opens with three pages of testimonials. The one by Ron Charles of the Wash Post especially resonated. He wrote the novel is comic and poignant in equal measure. And he admitted that if he hadn’t stopped underlining passages, the whole novel would have been underlined.  This was true for me, too, with a blue Le Pen in hand. That’s how intoxicating I found the language. Charles ended by saying, “If you’re a reader craving a novel of delicate wit, laced with raw wisdom, this one, truly, is happiness.”

At 380 pages the novel felt short, absorbed as I was in time travel to rural Ireland, living with memorable characters whose generosity of spirit and expanded hearts was a gift.  I thank Sir William, the orthopedic, for his gift of this novel. “Everybody carries a world.  But certain people change the air about them.  That’s the best I can say.  It can’t be explained, only felt.” (p. 41)

Until next week…for literature I love….Gail

I chose not to uncover … The Buried Giant

Kazuo Ishiguro won the Nobel Prize for Literature.

This was an acknowledgement of a novelist who has written brilliant, distinct books each time he writes one. I’ve remained with Kazuo through  his literary journey. That is… until he headed into the Middle Ages & Arthurian fantasy. ( Note: My enchantment with King Arthur ended with the televised Robin Hood. Which is to say the genre of Fantasy is one I skip, along with Science Fiction. (Note:  I was a devoted reader of  Doris Lessing until she flew out into space. But after a series there, she returned to realism on earth and won the Nobel.)

Why did I not want to unbury Kazuo’s giant in his Anglo-Saxon 6th-7th century novel? Because the voices that told the story are “ham-handed, stilted, and tiresome.” I’ve borrowed these adjectives from New York Times literary critic, Michiko Kakutani, whose review was Feb. 23, 2015. That same month two other Times reviewers discussed The Buried Giant. Alexandra Atler’s includes an interview with Ishiguro, which I was glad to read. I especially appreciated Lorna Ishiguro, who spoke candidly about Kazuo’s first stab at this novel. She read the opening pages and said to him, “None of this can be seen by anybody.” Her husband put the book aside and did not return to it for six years. The next time, Kazuo did not show his wife the novel until it was finished. Then together they arrived at the novel’s title while on a road trip.

In the interview, I appreciated this famous writer’s words about aging.  At 60, he feels his mental powers slipping. That was ten years ago, when he said: “Everything’s declining. I used to be able to hold really complicated things in my head at once, complicated worlds. Now if I have an idea, I write it down.” Reassuring for me to read this!

I’m glad I skimmed this 2015 novel, and that my friend with a NYT subscription sent me the three reviews. In thinking about this period of history and “Old English,” I remembered a work of Fantasy I greatly appreciate. I speak of the late John Gardner’s Grendel. This small work of genius is the story of Beowulf, but told from his mother’s point of view.

To be continued next week…

Long Ago the Beatles sang…Will you still love me/ When I’m 64?

Sounds young to deaf ears now, just days from 82.  What sounds even younger is the age that Mike and I were when we moved to the Northern Neck of Virginia in fall 2004.  I was 61 and he 59.

Then in 2010, a five-year-old Miata came into my life.  Now at twenty, it still runs with gusto: a sportscar capable of high speeds that requires me to be alert and shift its five gears. Great for my right hand and left foot. The Miata in British racing green looks much younger than it is. One early winter morning in the dark, I was on the way to play indoor tennis, when a turkey buzzard hit the right headlight and caused considerable damage to the car. I saw a blur of under-belly-white pass by the right side. How that buzzard could have remained in flight after a head-on still mystifies me. But thanks to new paint and body parts, the car looks great for its age.

Together, the two of us, as shown in this photo, are 102 years old. And the ‘hand-me-down’ jacket I wear is a size two my mother wore. Barbara Wilson died a month short of 98. She often said these words, before dementia set in: “I might be old, but I am not fat.” A small triumph Mother felt, in an increasingly larded nation.

I will think of my mother this Thursday when I turn 82. In thinking about her today, I re-read  A Woman’s Story. a 90 page book by Annie Ernaux.

This French writer won the 2022 Nobel Prize for Literature. And Ernaux has written words that resonate with me: “I believe I am writing about my mother because it is my turn to bring her into the world.” On June 5th,  I will give thanks to Barbara F. Wilson for giving life to me in 1943, during the war years, when despair was a luxury the patriotic could not indulge.

Until next week, and an author I’ve long admired: Kazuo Ishiguro and The Buried Giant