I’m an Irish writer drawn to the ways in which the biggest questions – of human nature, existence, late capitalist realism, politics, ethics, and consciousness – play out via the minutiae of specific locations; in this case, the city of Dublin, where I’ve spent most of my adult life. I don’t think of cities as monuments but living and complex microcosms of concerns and urgencies the whole world shares.
Joyce’s first novel is kind of an Irish Catcher in the Rye: a book about sullen adolescence so profoundly resonant with actual adolescence it can turn lonely teenagers – me included – into novelists.
I was sixteen when I first read it and the Dublin it contained, full of rattling political arguments, philosophical waffle, reeking beaches, brothels, boarding schools, and an entire chapter itemizing hell, was recognizable to me even though almost ninety years had passed since it appeared.
Portrait, like other works by Joyce, dignifies the decrepit postcolonial outpost that is Dublin without ever being anything other than honest and fantastically true to detail. This is important to me because I don’t believe the banalisation of fiction – where everything should be set ‘everywhere’, or be as translatable as possible to mainstream American and British audiences – is doing it any favours.
The Dublin of Portrait is mercilessly specific and real.
A masterpiece of modern fiction, James Joyce's semiautobiographical first novel follows Stephen Dedalus, a sensitive and creative youth who rebels against his family, his education, and his country by committing himself to the artist's life.
"I will not serve," vows Dedalus, "that in which I no longer believe...and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can." Likening himself to God, Dedalus notes that the artist "remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails." Joyce's rendering of the impressions of…
McGahern is famous for writing slow-burning accounts of life in mid-century rural Ireland.
The Pornographer, however, is about a lonely bachelor who writes porn in his suburban bedsit then gets the bus into town to seduce women in gloomy dancehalls. He makes one of them pregnant and a battle of wills begins: he thinks she should obtain an abortion, she thinks they marry. This is remarkable because it is set in 1960s Dublin, a time and place in which the Catholic Church reigned supreme.
The book’s depiction of a night-time city composed of grimy pubs and starchy hospital wards is unforgettable, but its fascination for me lies in the protagonist’s casual cruelty towards his lover: this was what I had in mind when developing Cormac, the protagonist of my book – a passive, affable, but ultimately detached man who wreaks emotional havoc by accident and reflects a very Irish, still enduring, brand of insulated misogyny.
I also planted little references to The Pornographer throughout my book. Nobody seems to have spotted them yet.
One of the preeminent writers of our time, John McGahern has captivated readers with such poignant and heart-wrenching novels as Amongst Women and The Dark.
In The Pornographer, Michael creates an ideal world of sex as a writer of pornographic fiction, while he bungles every phase of his entanglement with an older woman who has the misfortune to fall in love with him. But his insensitivity to this love is in direct contrast to the tenderness with which he attempts to make his aunt's slow death in a hospital tolerable. Everywhere in this rich novel is the drama of opposites,…
When Enright won the Booker for this novel she blazed onto my horizon – I was nineteen – as an Irish woman who wrote candidly about the legacies of poverty and abuse, set much of her novel in the radically unfashionable suburb of Broadstone, staged a climactic scene in the flatlands of Donabate (close to where I grew up), and then won a massive prize for doing that.
Everything Enright writes is marvelous, but The Gathering gives you a frank, familiar, post-Celtic Tiger version of Dublin that has been endlessly inspirational to my own recreations of it.
I love the scene in which the protagonist, middle-class Veronica, stands helplessly in the posh department store Brown Thomas realizing that she can buy any number of luxury things but nothing will ever please her worn-out, vacant mother, a victim of history: that so much pain can be registered in so slight and feminine a moment is an example of pure skill.
'Witty, original, inventive...utterly compelling' Daily Mail
Winner of the Man Booker Prize
The nine surviving children of the Hegarty clan gather in Dublin for the wake of their wayward brother Liam. It wasn't the drink that killed him - although that certainly helped - it was what happened to him as a boy in his grandmother's house, in the winter of 1968.
The Gathering is a novel about love and disappointment, about thwarted lust and limitless desire, and how our fate is written in the body, not in the stars.
'It is clearly the product of a remarkable intelligence, combined…
A non-fiction recommendation this time, and a recent release.
Hennigan’s essay collection is a beautifully written account of the final years, and opaque recollections, of her grandmother Phil, who spent much of her life in various psychiatric institutions.
I have been interested in this theme for years – Ireland, in the first decades after independence from Britain, has some of the highest rates of citizen incarceration in the world: prisons, borstals, orphanages, magdalen laundries, and psychiatric hospitals both provided employment and regulation and also kept a whole population of ‘problem’ people out of sight).
This fact, and its repercussions in culture today, fascinate me, and Hennigan’s gentle and loving consideration of Phil’s trauma, loneliness, mania, and the maternal lineage it involves (her own mother was institutionalized) is also an angry illustration of just how badly women and the working class have been treated here.
"Phil doesn't like physical affection. She doesn't love you because you don't exist. She doesn't care if you have something important coming up. A busy week, a daunting appointment, a divorce, because she believes the world is going to end in the morning. Every morning."
Having grown up visiting her grandmother in various psychiatric hospitals, Molly Hennigan began writing about the gaps in and intimacies of her relationship with this matriarch. Tracing the organic path of her grandmother's experience to her great-grandmother's time in Irish mental hospitals, she explores her own family trauma and what it means to be an…
A post-Donna Tart’s Secret History-esque tale of literary mystics who make up a secret society at Trinity College Dublin which tends, unfairly, to get left behind in analyses of Irish ‘Celtic Tiger’ fiction.
This is fiction from or dealing with the abrupt and accelerated modernity that hit Ireland like a cultural torpedo in the early 2000s, and quite a lot of it fails to capture the discombobulation of living through that time.
The First Verse is a campus novel about sexy secretive students and shady deeds which also plots a queer geography of Dublin’s gay scene as well as illustrating the emotional tension that exists in Dublin between city centre and its polarised northern and southern suburbs.
Dublin is such a mannered city, caught in Georgian poses while falling apart as postmodernity obliterates its value system, that it surprises me there aren’t more Dublin novels about baroque subcultures. McCrea is also a Proustian scholar, so you know you are in good hands.
A thrilling twist to the suspenseful games of The Rule of Four and The Da Vinci Code sends a gay student reeling through the pubs, nightclubs and streets of present-day Dublin. 'In this brilliant first novel, the best of recent memory, a young Irish writer of great psychological dexterity takes on a handful of exciting themes. For a hundred years, Ireland has provided the English-speaking world with its most eloquent writers; Barry McCrea now joins this illustrious company.' - Edmund White
Cormac is a photographer. Approaching forty and still single, he suddenly finds himself 'the leftover man'. Through talent and charm, he has escaped small-town life and a haunted family. But now his peers are all getting divorced, dying, or buying trampolines in the suburbs.
Cormac is dating former students, staying out all night, and receiving boilerplate rejection emails for his work, propped up by a constellation of the women and ex-lovers in his life. In the last weeks of the year, Cormac meets Caroline, an ambitious young dancer, and embarks on a miniature odyssey of intimacy.
Constance is a wild, stubborn young girl growing up poor in a small industrial town in the late 1800's. Beneath her thread-worn exterior beats the heart of a dreamer and a wordsmith. But at age twelve, she’s orphaned. Running away to join the circus—like kids do in adventure books—seems like such a brilliant idea…or is it?
"Flight to Brassbright appeals to my inner child's desire for adventure and independence as well as my (mostly) grown-up desire for really well-written stories that capture my imagination and hold my attention." - Tricia, Amazon Reviewer
"...well plotted with a likable protagonist...upbeat with…
Constance is a wild, stubborn young girl growing up poor in a small industrial town in the late 1800's. Beneath her thread-worn exterior beats the heart of a dreamer and a wordsmith. But at age twelve, she’s orphaned. Running away to join the circus—like kids do in adventure books—seems like such a brilliant idea… or is it?
