About this title: 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. His sister, Veronica was there then, as she is now: keeping the dead man company, ...
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Description: Good. Light shelf wear and minimal interior marks. Millions of satisfied customers and climbing. Thriftbooks is the name you can trust, guaranteed. Spend Less. Read More. read more
Description: Good. Light shelf wear and minimal interior marks. Millions of satisfied customers and climbing. Thriftbooks is the name you can trust, guaranteed. Spend Less. Read More. read more
Description: Good. Light shelf wear and minimal interior marks. Millions of satisfied customers and climbing. Thriftbooks is the name you can trust, guaranteed. Spend Less. Read More. read more
Description: Very good. Book has appearance of light use with no easily noticeable wear. Millions of satisfied customers and climbing. Thriftbooks is the name you can trust, guaranteed. Spend Less. Read More. read more
Description: Good. Light shelf wear and minimal interior marks. Millions of satisfied customers and climbing. Thriftbooks is the name you can trust, guaranteed. Spend Less. Read More. read more
Description: Good. Light shelf wear and minimal interior marks. Millions of satisfied customers and climbing. Thriftbooks is the name you can trust, guaranteed. Spend Less. Read More. read more
Description: Good. Light shelf wear and minimal interior marks. Millions of satisfied customers and climbing. Thriftbooks is the name you can trust, guaranteed. Spend Less. Read More. read more
Description: Very good. Book has appearance of light use with no easily noticeable wear. Millions of satisfied customers and climbing. Thriftbooks is the name you can trust, guaranteed. Spend Less. Read More. read more
"I remember walking through the Guggenheim Museum and stopping at an exhibit called "White Canvas" or something like that. For all I know, somebody bought a blank canvas, realized they had no talent with painting but a knack for knowing what passes for cool and sold the idea to the powers that be of art. Or, perhaps it is actually art. I have no degree or expertise in that area, but a white canvas doesn't look like art to me.
Likewise, someone, Anne Engright in this case, writes a confusing and murky, "This horrible thing happened. But my memory is fuzzy so maybe it didn't," filled with steam of consciousness writing that is only readable because the author knows how to use a comma.
And what happens? The book wins a prize! And not just from her book club, but the Man Booker Prize, which is awarded annually to an English or Irish author. It's just the kind of thing that tricks readers like me, who assume the powers-that-be of literature know a thing or two about what qualifies as good and what doesn't, to read it.
So, I do. And it's just like staring at a blank canvas. No doubt, there are some who pass their superior knowledge to the rest of us, pointing out to the obtuse that it's obviously a statement about society's blabbity-blah-blah, and it's tempting to nod and say, "Yeah. I see that."
But all I see is a naked emperor. A blank canvas. A book that contains nothing but the jumbled thoughts of a depressed and self-absorbed woman who isn't sure what point she wants to make."
"Anne Enright's The Gathering deserves every ounce of praise it has received, and perhaps a bit more. It's a family history of the Hegartys, told by Veronica after the death of her brother, Liam. So, and therefore, it is a wake, a stream of consciousness response to bereavement. There are more than shades of Molly Bloom here, as Veronica recounts intimate details of her own and her relatives' ultimately inconsequential lives. And despite its obvious - and necessary - preoccupation with death and mourning, it is eventually an optimistic work, as optimistic as it can be when we are all revealed as rather inconsequential, temporal additions to the grand scheme of things, a grand scheme which, itself, is neither grand nor, indeed, a scheme. In such a void, we need blame to compensate grief. And after that is duly apportioned, at least we can just get on with it.
What The gathering is not, by the way, is the kind of book that would appeal to anyone wanting instant gratification, a murder on every page, celebrity, wealth, empty melodrama, character that can be worn, or even axe-grinding. It is not snobbish to say that The Gathering runs kilometres above such pulp. That it deals with the lives of ordinary people in a less than successful family is stated at the outset by the author. Of the Hegarty family experience, Veronica writes, "the great thing about being dragged up is that there is no-one to blame. We are entirely free range. We are human beings in the raw. Some survive it better than others, that's all." Now this is fascinating, because a little later she asserts that when individual Hegartys feel aggrieved with their lot, there is always someone to blame, "because with the Hegartys a declaration of unhappiness is always a declaration of blame." So within the family, blame is impossible to apportion, but always applied. Given my own assertion that we often need blame to compensate grief, this leads us to an understanding of Veronica's diatribe, her frustration at being unable to find someone to blame, but needing to do so in order to cope with the loss. The book, then, is her personal catharsis.
The beauty of The Gathering is its ability to remind us, fairly constantly, of the dysfunctional nature of the Hegarty family, whilst at the same time recording that most of those involved, in one way or other, find some kind of fulfilment in their lives. Liam, the brother who committed suicide by jumping off Brighton pier, was undoubtedly one of the casualties. And eventually the whole family shares his tragedy and, at the very end, ride through and past it.
One aspect of the Hegartys is particularly enigmatic, however, and that is their relation to religion. There's a priest, now an ex-priest, if that is possible, in the family and, at least nominally, they are Catholics. But the religiosity in Veronica's narrative is less than convincing and hints at the grudging, though perhaps she cannot admit this, even to herself. If she were still practising, she would be more deferential. If she had rejected her faith, she would be more cynical. And if she were a sceptic, her attacks would be more vehement. The next time I read The Gathering, I will be careful to note references to religion, since it remains an enigmatic aspect of Veronica's character.
As Veronica's narration progresses, it feels like she is getting things off her chest, a prosaic enough reaction to bereavement. By the end, we are confident that she has achieved her goal and that she will approach at least the next few days of her life with renewed vigour. Until, perhaps, she is plunged again into the miry uniqueness of who she is, its unacceptability, and its inevitability. For that is who we are. Choice is not ours."
"The Gathering is a book full of very fine sentences and moments of uncanny insight--some (sentences and moments) quite stunning. But it was not an enjoyable reading experience for me. It's dreary book about grief and shame in which a self-indulgent narrator wanders randomly through memories old and new, none of them good. As my friend J put it, this was "just not a room I wanted to be in.""
"Another one for the growing life-is-just-too-short pile. This book was draggy and depressing, and I didn't get a whole lot out of it. What were those Booker judges thinking?
First of all, while I would be the last person to minimize molestation, its prevalence, and its traumatic effects, it has really become a literary cliche: young child of a dysfunctional family living in a less enlightened place and/or time is molested, no one ever finds out/addresses it properly, young child is psychologically damaged and grows up to live a dissolute life with a tragic end. I can't tell you how many depressing books I've read like this. The way the author built up to the Big Secret that may (or may not) explain Liam's suicide, I was expecting something a little more original. Maybe if I had found the characters more sympathetic and relatable, I would have responded differently, but here, I was so tired of the annoying jumpy stream-of-consciousness and flat characters that my reaction was cynical rather than appropriately moved.
As I read the main character's various musings, I came up with two themes, neither of which particularly resonated with me:
1. Woe is me. My selfish, careless parents went and had this huge family without considering their children's needs. How could they do this to me. I may be an adult, but I'm still not over it and probably never will be.
2. I'm really into sex (except with my husband, for some unexplained reason). Most of my fantasies about my grandmother's imagined past are sexually charged. I'm particularly obsessed with male genitalia, and frequently imagine/describe them in various states with florid detail.
Maybe I'm just not sufficiently intellectual to appreciate this book, but despite some interesting prose, I just couldn't find the tragedy or either of these themes sympathetic, and really couldn't relate to the main character nor to anyone else in the book. As I plodded through, I found myself alternating between depression and apathy and finally decided to just put the book down."
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