Tag: contemporary fiction

The News from Dublin by Colm Tóibín

Irish writer Colm Tóibín Laureate for Irish Fiction 2022-2024

Colm Tóibín remains a favourite of mine. This, his latest short story collection, is characteristic of his writing: sparse simple sentences using plain unadorned English without sentiment or judgement. Yet it always astounds me that such writing can still stir the emotions.

I’ve come to believe that his work, and writing like it, leaves room for the reader to insert their own experiences and understandings of human behaviour into the narrative, forcing it to be relatable and therefore moving. This is what readers do.

These stories are of everyday people confronted with everyday dilemmas and how they deal with them. Dilemmas such as delivering bad news; facing your own bad decisions; restoring a damaged life; trying to get a good night’s sleep. I’m reminded of the other master of the short story, W Somerset Maugham, but not because they are similar. Maugham’s stories are neat: a beginning, a middle and an end. This is now a dated format, which some readers find disappointing. Tóibín’s stories, and those of some of his contemporaries, are not like that. They are anecdotes. They could be scenes from a novel, there isn’t necessarily a climax, an end. There are sometimes resolutions but sometimes just an acceptance of how things are. This does not make them less engaging, less true, or less affecting. It just makes them different. 

This is the type of book that will sit on my bedside table with my phone, hearing aids and loose change. Just sitting there for me to delve into to remind me that the stuff of fiction is the stuff of life. A good resolution for a good night’s sleep. 

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A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood

Christopher Isherwood, British born
American writer, (1904 – 1986)

If and when I’m asked about literary fiction, this is the book I will name to explain it. Don’t be put off by that, nor its first short sentence. Its meaning will be clear by the end of the first short paragraph. What an opening! It’s so apt … for every reader, for everybody … because we all know about it: getting up in the morning.

Christopher Isherwood is described as “a seminal 20th century Anglo-American writer, a chronicler of Weimar Germany, a pioneer of autofiction, and a monumental icon of the Gay Liberation movement” brought to prominence again by the fashion icon, Tom Ford, who produced, directed and cowrote the screenplay – along with David Scearce – of his 2009 feature film adaptation, and his debut, of this Isherwood classic.

A little piece of trivia: Isherwood’s partner, the portraitist, Don Bachardy is still alive (aged 92) and worked as creative consultant on the film and has a tiny cameo non-speaking role in it. He lives and works in the same Santa Monica home he shared with Isherwood for decades.

It’s 60’s beachside California when the word ‘old’ is a new dirty word, but the word ‘queer’ has been around, but whispered, for years. George, late fifties, with a kind face, is suddenly alone. His much younger partner, Jim, is gone. He is a single man again. Two men living together in a romantic relationship is rare, but made to look otherwise: for the sake of the well-meaning neighbours and the cashier at the supermarket. They know of course but it’s all hidden behind propriety and the wish for no unpleasantness.

The action takes place over a day and well into the evening. George tries to make this day as normal as possible, appearing remorseful for refusing a last minute dinner invitation from a neighbour who, pointedly, refuses his suggestion that they dine together the following evening; teaching his students the finer points of the work of Aldous Huxley, emphasising societal norms and how they affect the outsider; refusing to give into the sexual tension between himself and his favourite student Kenny; keeping at bay the amorous advances of his best friend, Charlotte. She seems more insistent now that he is single again.

Published in 1964, A Single Man is often considered Isherwood’s masterpiece and groundbreaking for painting a queer life as authentic, normal and representative of something simple, and as difficult as being human.

It’s a small book but with a big heart, and for those interested in writing as a craft, a must read.



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The Sea by John Banville

Irish writer John Banville

If you are looking for a definition of literary fiction, this 2005 Booker Prize winning novel is it. I know that may put some people off; it seemed to have put John Banville off too; from 2006 Banville began writing crime novels, featuring the pathologist Quirke (no first name ever mentiuoned), under the name of Benjamin Black right up until 2021 when the Quirke novel, April in Spain, was released under his own name. Since then his Quirke novels, beginning with Christine Falls (2006) have been released under his name as well.

An elderly man, Max Morden, returns to a seaside house where his family used to holiday when Max was a child. We meet the Grace family, parents and the children Myles and Chloe, from that time and the inhabitants of the same place, now a rundown boarding house, all those years later. These two time frames, and the people in them, are woven tapestry-like to create a picture of Max’s current demeanour.

This is a slow burn of a book. It creeps up on you, but you need to stay with it. I got to a stage where I could not pinpoint what was wrong but I knew that there was something definitely not right, either about what happened in the past or what was going to happen in the present. It’s about capricious memory and self-awareness and, more importantly, about that slippery slope between behaviour and intention.

Someone once wrote, memory is like an oven. You put something in, close the door, wait a while, open it, and there it is, something different.

I’m now searching for the Quirke novels. When a writer of this skill-set takes on the ubiquitous crime genre there has got to be reading richness to discover.

Give it a go.

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Time of the Child by Niall Williams

Irish writer Niall Williams born 1958

“From the reeds a second rain dripped harder than the first and the brim of the doctor’s hat released it as a third.” So, the poor doctor had three curtains of rain to deal with: from the skies, from the roof and from his hat before he made it to the back door. This descriptive layered richness of detail is the William’s trademark and peppers a simple scene with verbal interest and understanding of place and character. This latest novel Time of the Child (2024) from the Irish writer is again set in his mythical town of Faha on the western edge of Ireland making the third in what has become known as the Faha Trilogy. The first two being The History of Rain (2014) and This is Happiness (2019). The most notable feature of Faha is rain. Even when it stops, rarely, it is still on everyone’s mind; it will surely start again any minute.

There is not a lot of dialogue in William’s novels. The characters don’t talk much, hence many plot points rely on misunderstandings both comical and tragic. People understand each other by the nod, the look, the shrug, but ironically despite the lack of talking gossip spreads like a virus.

It’s coming up to Christmas 1962 and doctor Jack Troy and his eldest and unmarried daughter Ronnie are presented with a child, a foundling. Ronnie immediately loves it and names her Noelle. Keeping the child cannot happen without a man, husband and father to go with it and keeping it is exactly what Ronnie is determined to do. Jack Troy knows of a possible contender for the role of husband/father but he is in America, but conscious of his own failings and mis-steps as a father hatches a plan to bring happiness to his daughter.

It is not necessary to have read the first two to enjoy the third. Each novel is self-contained. The characters and culture of Faha are in themselves a story and you are presented with a rich tapestry of both before the child is found in a graveyard. The enjoyment of reading Williams is not just because of the plot – his focus he admits – it’s his writing style and his uplifting of daily detail to importance in the local’s lives but in rich and lyrical language. I loved this book. Highly recommended.

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Flesh by David Szalay

Hungarian-British writer David Szalay

I posted recently my views on Szalay’s 2016 novel, All That Man Is, which was shortlisted for the Booker. This, his latest, Flesh, won this year’s Booker and is in the same mould. The former is a collection of short stories about nine unrelated men; the later is a collection of stories, scenes, about the life of one man, István, beginning in Hungary when he is fifteen years old. Like all the men in All That Man Is he says ‘I don’t know’, ‘OK,’ and ‘Sure’ a lot. He is not the driver of his own destiny. Women play far more important roles, his neighbour, his boss’s wife, his wife and ultimately and ironically, his mother. From a rudderless boy he becomes a soldier, a bodyguard, a wealthy man, a step-father, a father and … well, you’ll just have to read it to find out; no spoilers here. There are only a few clues as to what happens to him between the stories, scenes, of his life that Szalay chooses to feature. His style is minimalist: short sentences, simple language, stark facts without much linguistic adornment, a bit like István. This had the effect of causing this reader to gasp – I love it when a writer makes me do that – several times since the gob-smacking events are relayed with such simplicity and directness that they leap out at you like a favourite uncle who hides behind a door and says Boo! I had to re-read several of these events again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Although women and sex feature he is not exploitative nor unkind. He doesn’t use women, women use him, and he’s thankful to them. Without women you wonder how he would have survived. I love Szalay’s style as it respects readers’ intelligence and allows us to bring our own experience and understanding to fill in what he doesn’t say. He makes the story of a plain man an interesting one. I have criticised the Booker judges in the past for awarding the prize to a writer for writers; this one is a writer for readers.

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Intermezzo by Sally Rooney

Irish writer Sally Rooney

A few hundred pages into the novel I was struck by the narrative format; actually Rooney employs two narrative formats.

This is the story of two brothers and their bumpy relationship following the death of their father.

Peter, 32 is a lawyer and Ivan, 22 is, well, nothing much but a wiz at chess but scraping a living from his checkered passion is not easy.

Peter has two girlfriends; Ivan has one. Peter seems happy but Ivan is happy. I feel sorry for Peter but I love Ivan. 


Sally Rooney is quite a literary phenomenon. Most of the action goes on in her character’s heads. She is a digger of truth about what goes on in the human mind which is often at odds with the way people behave. Especially men. So eager is she to explore our mental shenanigans, she sometimes overdoes it a bit. That’s a minor criticism.  

But back to the double narrative styles: for the chapters about Peter the narrative is almost stream-of-consciousness. Short sentences. Shorter phrases. Even just one word followed by a full stop. They all tumble over each other. It pretty much reflects Peter’s state of mind: full. His two girlfriends, his high pressured job, what to do about his under-achieving brother, and did he love his father. Enough? Ivan’s chapters are more conservative, the third person narrator is more conventional: long sentences, precise grammar, at a slower pace. This is Ivan. He’s a simple soul not much concerned with material matters but he knows love when he feels it. Although I’m not a fan of stream-of-consciousness narration it works here; it works for Peter. Another grammatical technique binds the narratives together. The dialogue, there’s a lot, isn’t punctuated. A modern trend. But it is easy to follow. When you listen to an audio book – another modern trend – the punctuation is not read yet it is always clear who says what to whom. 

I am almost to the end so I cannot tell you what happens. It’s a great read. I’m loving it. If you haven’t already give it a go.    

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The Shepherd’s Hut by Tim Winton

Australian writer Tim Winton.

I can clearly understand that once Winton heard the untethered voice of the teenager, Jaxie Clackton, in his head there was nothing he could do but tell his story. Write it down. Rudyard Kipling said “When your Daemon is in charge, do not try to think consciously. Drift, wait, and obey.” Here, Winton’s Daemon is Jaxie Clackton.

The plight of the boy, a victim of his brutal drunken sole-parent father is known by everyone but no-one intervenes, not the neighbours, not the social workers, not the police. The opening is confronting; violence always is. Everyone expects him to retaliate one day. As it turns out, he doesn’t need too. A freak accident does the trick. It’s obvious to the boy that he’ll be blamed. Jaxie is no ordinary lad, he is undereducated but street-smart, resilient, cautious and in love. He steals a car and disappears into the Australian bush on the way to the only person who understands him: Lee, his pretty 15-year-old shaven-headed cousin with eyes of different hues.

Jaxie tells his story. If course language offends you don’t pick this one up.

As Jaxie’s supplies run low he needs to make some difficult choices. Again, fate comes to his aid. He discovers Fintan MacGillis, an old dero living in a dilapidated hut surviving on goats, guilt, and a meagre veggie patch. Although it seems these two have nothing in common there is a lot, deep down, they share. Otherness mainly. Fintan, a defrocked priest, has been ousted, but thinly supported, by the Church. His crime seems obvious but is never confirmed. Jaxie is wary and suspicious but they form a bumpy relationship which lasts until Jaxie discovers another crime.

The Shepherd’s Hut (2018) is a story about friendship, trust, survival, and redemption and Jackson Clackton’s voice and character will stay with you for quite some time. If you know Winton’s work you’ll relish this. I loved reading this book.

I’m all set now for Winton’s latest, Juice. It came out in October 2024.

Here is a very brief description by Winton of his creation, Jaxie Clackton.

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Long Island by Colm Tóibín

Irish writer Colm Tóibín, Laureate for Irish Fiction 2022-2024. This is his eleventh novel.

As a Tóibín fan it was like coming home to a cosy room as I settled in to page one and his simple very clear narrator’s voice with its always formal tone elicited by mainly short sentences with no contractions. It’s been twenty years or so of novelistic time since the happy ending of his novel Brooklyn (2009) when Eilis Lacey, from Enniscorthy (Tóibín’s home town in County Wexford, NE Ireland) returned to Brooklyn to continue her role as the recent wife of Italian, Tony Fiorello and to raise a family on Long Island.

Tóibín wastes no time and opens the narrative with the plot point that propels the story: a stranger arrives at Eilis’s front door with a piece of harsh news and his even harsher promise to make things worse. She lives in an enclave of the Fiorello family including her parents-in-law and Tony’s married brothers and she has forged a place in that family that she thought was secure but it’s her reaction to the news, and the only action she feels she can take, that causes her to doubt everything she has done in the past. This is despite her in-laws offering to solve the problem for her. Her stubborn Irish decision is played against the Italian pragmatic approach which she finds untenable. She refuses their help.

This is a common novelistic format: begin with an explosive event and then fill in the backstory along with the repercussions of the bomb. The reader is hooked from page one.

Brooklyn is an immigrant tale and the choices an immigrant must make, personified in the story as two men, one Irish and one an immigrant, like herself, forging an American life. She returns to Ireland to find if she has made the right choice; a little foolhardy since she has already married the Italian-American, something she does not tell anyone including her mother. She returns to America, her choice forced upon her because of her previous decisions. So, there has always been a doubt lurking in the dark, in the back of her mind and this doubt is brought to the fore in this new novel of a much older Eilis Lacey, a married American, secure, and with two teenage children.

She returns again to Ireland on the pretext of her mother’s forthcoming 80th birthday. Her twenty year ago Irish lover is still unmarried, but plans are underway to fix that. Can the way forward get more bumpy? Yes. Her children arrive! How does Eilis navigate her return to the family and ‘her Irish home’? She makes mistakes but will she learn from them? Meanwhile Tony, her foolish but devastated husband waits longingly for her to return to ‘her American home’. Once an immigrant, always an immigrant?

This is literary family fiction at its best.

You can buy the book here, in various formats.

On YouTube there are several videos, short and long, of Tóibín talking about this new book. Start with this short one.

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Earth by John Boyne

Book two of The Elements Quartet.

Irish writer, John Boyne whose work has been
translated into 59 languages making him the most
translated Irish writer of all time.

Evan Keogh is a minor character in the first novella of Boyne’s Elements Quartet, Water (2023) where, like, Earth, it is told in the first person; this time by Evan and his life after he fled the little island off the Irish coast forever, but left with the smell of its earth still under his fingernails.

He has an innate talent for football but no interest in it. He wants to be a painter. His upbringing was hell. An isolated backward place with a brutal and hateful father, a silent and down-trodden mother, and a best friend who betrays him. No wonder he ran away. He has vowed never to return to that island, he knows he is attractive, he is at ease with his sexuality (but always falls for the wrong people), and very ambitious. However, life doesn’t pan out as expected.

It opens in the days before a notorious rape trial. The narrative is two pronged: before and after. Evan, now a famous and wealthy soccer player is accused of accessory to rape; his straight mate, Robbie, accused of the crime itself. As the poor boy sits and waits for the trail to begin we learn about his life in London and how he ended up is such a threatening situation. Then comes the trial itself when we hear the testimony of the rape victim, an intelligent girl called Lauren. But we don’t hear about the testimony of Evan and Robbie; there’s a novelistic reason for that.

What impresses me about Boyne’s writing is it is so clear: the situation, the characters, how they feel, and his narrative choices that keep important plot events dangling before your wished discovery, just out of reach, until you are aching for them.

The scenes of sex and violence are vivid but Boyne’s words lead the reader to imagine them; he doesn’t actually describe them in detail. In other words, there’s more going on in the reader’s head than on the page. That’s good writing in my book, so don’t be fearful of what you might read.

Evan’s final decision is a very satisfying one, but will it finally rid him of that sour smell of his home island’s earth?

The next installment of The Elements Quartet is Fire, scheduled for release in November 2024.

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The Labyrinth by Amanda Lohrey

Australian writer Amanda Lohrey. The Labyrinth won the 2021 Miles Franklin Award, the 2021 Voss Literary Prize, and the 2021 Prime Minister’s Literary Award for Fiction.

I came to Lohrey’s novel, The Labyrinth (2020) with a little trepidation. I hadn’t read her fiction before but knew her from book reviews in (I think) The Monthly. I don’t remember much about them as there was very little information about the books or writers, which is why I found her reviews extremely annoying: heavy writerly syntax and nothing much else.

A visiting friend had left The Labyrinth with me. It sat on my coffee table for a few days when I finally picked it up. I put a lot of faith in page 1 and this page 1 did not disappoint, in fact it galvanised me to continue.

It’s a familiar narrative trope epitomised by the 1949 novel, Shane by Jack Shaefer which was filmed in 1953 and its success launched the plot as an iconic narrative; it was originally published in 1946 in three parts in Argosy magazine, and originally titled Rider from Nowhere: a stranger arrives in an isolated place and changes the local’s lives forever. Such a well-used storyline has morphed into more sophisticated versions over the decades – including, it’s the stranger who changes – but the bones of it are just that. John Boyne’s latest novella Water (2024), the first of a quartet, has a similar spine. Boyne’s protagonist is escaping her past; Lohrey’s, Erica, has followed hers: her son is imprisoned in a local gaol and she’s bought a dilapidated cottage to be near him even though he’s quite antagonistic towards her. As a mother she feels she has no choice; she’s all he has, she says… in fact, he’s all she has.

The first-person narrative allows Lohrey to tantalisingly release little bits of information from Erica’s back story which keeps the reader’s attention and interest. It also doesn’t allow any close writing of any other characters leaving them as intriguing observations and keeping the focus solely on the protagonist, her thoughts and fears; that’s the beauty of the first person.

While she waits for her fortnightly visits to her son, Daniel, Erica embarks on a project inspired by her late father, and plans to build a labyrinth in a flat piece of land between her cottage and the sand dunes. A labyrinth is a single continuous path but of an intricate and mathematical design that promises you will achieve the goal of getting to the centre if only you keep moving forward. A maze, on the other hand, has many turns and dead-ends so reaching the centre may never happen. A labyrinth is inspirational; a maze is a game.

An itinerant Albanian, Junka, possibly an illegal immigrant, is a wonderful novelistic creation. He is camping near the beach and happens to be a stone mason and seeks to keep Erica on track to build her labyrinth. Make what you will of the symbolism, if you think it’s relevant, but the narrative is engaging and the characters interesting even though the plot is soft and the ending a little undercooked.

 Here, listen to Lohrey talk about the book and what inspired her to write it.

You can purchase the book and other Lohrey writing here.

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