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ez_heath's review against another edition
emotional
hopeful
informative
inspiring
reflective
slow-paced
5.0
Content Warnings
Graphic: Addiction, Alcoholism, Death, Emotional abuse, Suicidal thoughts, Suicide, Grief, Suicide attempt, Murder, Fire/Fire injury, Abandonment, and Alcohol
unfiltered_fiction's review against another edition
dark
emotional
hopeful
reflective
slow-paced
5.0
Content Warnings
Graphic: Death, Emotional abuse, Hate crime, Suicidal thoughts, and Violence
Moderate: Addiction, Alcoholism, Toxic relationship, Medical content, Suicide attempt, Murder, Fire/Fire injury, Toxic friendship, Abandonment, and Alcohol
monalyisha's review against another edition
challenging
dark
emotional
hopeful
informative
reflective
sad
tense
slow-paced
4.0
I feel strongly about this book as a physical object; I think it might be the prettiest book I’ve ever seen, with the gossamer wings of a moth gracing its cover. My feelings about the words inside are more complicated. The author tells of her life growing up in Ireland, specifically in Derry, at the center of the Troubles, in a mixed religion household. Her childhood home is bombed with her inside.
Though she and her family escape, the rest of her life is marked by this trauma and more. Her best friend is senselessly murdered when she’s 16, in a place (not Derry) that she’d just begun to think of as “safe.” She battles alcoholism, depression, and suicidal ideation, as well as physical illness. She struggles to escape abusive relationships with others and with herself.
Though she finds sanctuary in nature (especially in the water, as well as through a connection with winged things), this isn’t an easy book. The story the words tell isn’t an easy one. Neither are the words themselves easy; oftentimes, sentences are fractured, mirroring the brokenness inside. The teller is also unabashedly in love with certain ideas — liminal spaces, in particular (see: title) — and I think the voice of those ideas sometimes overshadows her own, unique voice.
I wish there had been more structure, too - that each chapter had been more like a separate essay. It almost feels as though each page is written like it’s the end of the book, like the language is coming together and everything is wrapping up, continually. But then…it doesn’t. It keeps going. It’s as if she has become so sick of boundaries that her words and her work have none of the typical ones I’ve come to expect. And that’s not wrong. It’s just not easy. Dochartaigh’s deep consciousness of language sometimes reads as affected; when it doesn’t, it dips, soars, and sparkles.
I struggled as a reader at times. But on some level, that feels sort-of right. I’m glad that the author has come to a place where she’s so herself and is no longer afraid if her story makes other people feel unsettled. Even if I was unsure about the particulars of the telling, I was never uninterested or unbothered. I would read more by Kerri ni Dochartaigh - with the foreknowledge that I’d need to be comfortable with moving through her words slowly and with patient attention - which, fittingly, is also what nature asks of us.
Though she and her family escape, the rest of her life is marked by this trauma and more. Her best friend is senselessly murdered when she’s 16, in a place (not Derry) that she’d just begun to think of as “safe.” She battles alcoholism, depression, and suicidal ideation, as well as physical illness. She struggles to escape abusive relationships with others and with herself.
Though she finds sanctuary in nature (especially in the water, as well as through a connection with winged things), this isn’t an easy book. The story the words tell isn’t an easy one. Neither are the words themselves easy; oftentimes, sentences are fractured, mirroring the brokenness inside. The teller is also unabashedly in love with certain ideas — liminal spaces, in particular (see: title) — and I think the voice of those ideas sometimes overshadows her own, unique voice.
I wish there had been more structure, too - that each chapter had been more like a separate essay. It almost feels as though each page is written like it’s the end of the book, like the language is coming together and everything is wrapping up, continually. But then…it doesn’t. It keeps going. It’s as if she has become so sick of boundaries that her words and her work have none of the typical ones I’ve come to expect. And that’s not wrong. It’s just not easy. Dochartaigh’s deep consciousness of language sometimes reads as affected; when it doesn’t, it dips, soars, and sparkles.
I struggled as a reader at times. But on some level, that feels sort-of right. I’m glad that the author has come to a place where she’s so herself and is no longer afraid if her story makes other people feel unsettled. Even if I was unsure about the particulars of the telling, I was never uninterested or unbothered. I would read more by Kerri ni Dochartaigh - with the foreknowledge that I’d need to be comfortable with moving through her words slowly and with patient attention - which, fittingly, is also what nature asks of us.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Alcoholism, Death, Emotional abuse, Suicidal thoughts, Violence, Suicide attempt, Abandonment, and War
sorcha_rosa's review against another edition
challenging
emotional
hopeful
reflective
medium-paced
5.0
This book was beautiful. The nature writing, in between personal anecdotes, is stunning, and really draws on how the landscape of Ireland really makes you feel. I come from a town a little way outside of Derry, and the way that ni Dochartaigh writes about Derry and the North is so real and raw and vivid. The narrative at times it is hard - life in the North was hard - but it doesn't loose hope. Overall, highly highly recommend.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Addiction, Alcoholism, Hate crime, Mental illness, Suicidal thoughts, Murder, and War
Moderate: Fire/Fire injury and Abandonment