For
its razor-sharp evocation of land and sea. For its trenchant insights into
Irish history. For its elliptical style. But most of all, for its characters.
Magee sets her novel on a small island off Ireland’s west coast in 1979 when
the Troubles were at their height in Northern Ireland. The dynamic running
through the narrative involves a bitter dispute between two self-important
visitors: an English painter and a French academic.
But the islanders
themselves provide the emotional heart of the book, especially a teenage boy
named James, who is patronized by one of the visitors and betrayed by the other.
When I remember The Colony now, I think first and foremost of that
lonely, vulnerable boy.
SHORTLISTED FOR THE ORWELL PRIZE LONGLISTED FOR THE BOOKER PRIZE 2022
'Vivid and memorable.' SARAH MOSS 'Luminous.' Observer 'I utterly ADORED it.' MARIAN KEYES
He handed the easel to the boatman, reaching down the pier wall towards the sea.
Mr Lloyd has decided to travel to the island by boat without engine - the authentic experience.
Unbeknownst to him, Mr Masson will also soon be arriving for the summer. Both will strive to encapsulate the truth of this place - one in his paintings, the other by capturing its speech, the language he hopes to preserve.
The Toronto novelist Martha Baillie has written about her family before –
in the guise of fiction, that is.
Now, in a memoir, she strips away the
fictional covering and lays her family bare: her artistic, sometimes remote
mother; her tender-hearted, professorial father; and her brilliantly gifted
sister, Christina, who battled mental illness for decades before taking her own
life in the family home in 2019.
Baillie faces up to her own partial
responsibility for her sister’s death. But she does so in graceful, chiseled
prose, as elegant as it is unflinching.
There Is No Blue shows that
elegies, even when written from deep pain, can be profoundly life-affirming.
Martha Baillie's richly layered response to her mother's passing, her father's life, and her sister's suicide is an exploration of how the body, the rooms we inhabit, and our languages offer the psyche a home, if only for a time.
Three essays, three deaths. The first is the death of the author's mother, a protracted disappearance, leaving space for thoughtfulness and ritual: the washing of her body, the making of a death mask. The second considers the author's father, his remoteness, his charm, a lacuna at the centre of the…
Who could have expected a 14-year-old autistic boy,
regularly bullied at school, to write with enthusiasm and eloquence about the
natural world? Yet that’s exactly what the Irish teenager Dara McAnulty does.
He
has a flair for language and a wild passion for other life forms. Whether
he’s writing about dandelions (“A blaze of uplifting yellow to brighten even
the greyest of days”), spiders (“They’re such a beguiling sight – it hurts me
to think how people so carelessly kill them”), or birds (“Sparrow song, a coven
of cackling. A raucous, glorious racket”), he wears his big heart on his
sleeve.
Reading this book rekindled my own love of nature. It also taught me
many lessons about autism.
'Dara is an extraordinary voice and vision: brave, poetic, ethical, lyrical' Robert Macfarlane
'It's a diary but essentially timeless . . . It's really, really special' Chris Packham
ALSO WINNER OF: THE WAINWRIGHT PRIZE FOR NATURE WRITING 2020, AN POST IRISH BOOK AWARD FOR NEWCOMER OF THE YEAR 2020, BOOKS ARE MY BAG READERS AWARDS FOR NON-FICTION 2020; SHORTLISTED FOR: WATERSTONES…
A literary travel book with a difference: it’s not only
a portrait of some astonishing places, it’s a personal journey through
time. In 1978, I left Oxford for Istanbul and traveled east with a friend along
the ‘hippie trail’: an arduous overland trek on local buses and trains at a
turbulent historical moment.
The journals I kept – 120 single-spaced pages – made
this book possible. Decades later, I could set off those vivid, day-to-day impressions
with some reflections on what has happened in Asia since my student days.
I
came down hard on my younger self; like so many other young Westerners, I was privileged,
innocent, sometimes thoughtless. But I encountered tremendous generosity, and I
hope Strange Bewildering Time honors the people I met.