The writing in this book was excellent. The subject matter, a boy all but abandoned in crash-depressed Ireland, is grim with the odd light moment. But I’m not sure I altogether bought the story and think I expected something different from the jacket copy. The Greek/fantasy travel theme wore a little thin for me after a while. I’d definitely read something else of McGonagle’s, though, from the Irish Times review, his short story collections sound similarly grim.
Good stuff. Not your straightforward, easily untangleable mythology like the Greeks with a pantheon of gods gathering in the one place. Lady Gregory’s compilation is a head-stealing romp of fights and cows and great feats and an eye-gouging array of letters making up each name that graces the page.
This was way more fun than I’d expected. He tells a great, wacky story with some excellent characters. I think I had expected the gimmick of the dead man’s voice to wear a little thin after a while but the damaged Ruddy McCann is an excellent companion for his voice. Sure, it’s a little implausible, but the writing is crisp and fun and worth suspending your disbelief for.
I thought this story was fine, I liked the plot and the writing in general was good. I was worn down by the narrative voice , though. We’re inside the character’s head and hear each. and. every. mundane. thought. From everybody. It’s omniscient molasses that just bogs the thing down for me. Blake had an ending worthy of Ken Bruen, but, then, I think I have the same complaint about Bruen (good, if not great ending, on that last page), but the journey to get there is riddled with large swaths of boredom at yet more ruminating.
Whoof. What a book. I picked it up with both dread at the prospect of reading a gimmicky one sentence long book and hope that it would turn out every bit as the reviews and praise and awards had said it was. I don’t want to overhype it, but I thought this was a beautiful book, a lovely reflection on family and a real sense of place that defines a person’s life and love of all sorts. I could imagine Michael Joyce writing a book like this, it’s that poetical and elegiac. I have dozens of page edges turned down for little moments that were funny, poignant, touching, or just so well written. What a book.
This was a good story, mired in a heck of a lot of bilious, overwrought, sometimes plodding adjectives. But entertaining with a few little funny moments and observations (even funnier when they weren’t laden with the minutest of details regarding the angle of both theft and right arms, hands, each finger, hair on the character’s head, &c.). It reminded me of an Irish version of The Secret Agent, by Joseph Conrad (which I loved and flowed more smoothly, so far as I recall).
Whoof. What a book. I picked it up with both dread at the prospect of reading a gimmicky one sentence long book and hope that it would turn out every bit as the reviews and praise and awards had said it was. I don’t want to overhype it, but I thought this was a beautiful book, a lovely reflection on family and a real sense of place that defines a person’s life and love of all sorts. I could imagine Michael Joyce writing a book like this, it’s that poetical and elegiac. I have dozens of page edges turned down for little moments that were funny, poignant, touching, or just so well written. What a book.
I didn’t think this book would be my cup of tea; I thought it would be too dry and dense with historical facts that sucked the life out of a story, but I really enjoyed this romp across Europe up to and including the first World War. Follett keeps the story ticking along and moving and I had the added side benefit of reading this while my son was devouring everything he could read on World War I, and so we were able to compare notes. Looking forward to grabbing the next in the series.
I thought this story was fine, I liked the plot and the writing in general was good. I was worn down by the narrative voice , though. We’re inside the character’s head and hear each. and. every. mundane. thought. From everybody. It’s omniscient molasses that just bogs the thing down for me. Blake had an ending worthy of Ken Bruen, but, then, I think I have the same complaint about Bruen (good, if not great ending, on that last page), but the journey to get there is riddled with large swaths of boredom at yet more ruminating.
