Scan barcode
A review by chirson
Days Without End by Sebastian Barry
4.0
I tend to be a literary utilitarian: I care more about the overall effect the text makes on me than the literary means it uses, substance over style. Obviously incompetent writing is a no-go, but I'd sooner read an interesting novel that is less than ingenious than a navel-gazing achievement of style. But every once in a while even I must give its due to style. This novel uses style to make itself substantial and it doesn't even need that, because the story and character are strong enough to stand on their own. But the language is what makes this so astonishing. At times intensely lyrical (and so beautiful it could bring tears to my eyes) and at times drily witty and funny, McNulty's narration may have been too beautiful for 1st person narrator but somehow I don't think that makes it any less powerful. Maybe it's not always the language McNulty would use when telling his story, but it certainly the way it is best conveyed.
I hesitate to speak about the plot, but the novel is beautiful in portraying queerness that doesn't know its name (that perhaps doesn't have it yet), in showing how violence is systemic, in showcasing its social and psychological effects and in painting images of astonishing brutality. The older I get, the more difficult it is for me to read about historical acts of cruelty, and this novel is unsparing in its portrayal of suffering of its narrator (the Famine in Ireland, the passage to America) white violence visited on Native and Black characters as well as in showing the continuum on which it exists. The narrator and John Cole are both victims of violence as well as implicated in war crimes they strive to atone for. Genocide happens on both sides of the Atlantic.
The characters are compelling even though we are not allowed into their heads aside from McNulty's. I loved the matter-of-fact way in which the relationship between the characters was portrayed, on page but always in a way that felt respectfully demure, denying any possibility of voyeuristic pleasure.
I cried when I finished the book but I also cried when I thought about the meaning of its title. It's a novel that made me think about the meaning of time, love, death, survival and family, and it will stay with me for a long time. A remarkable achievement.
I hesitate to speak about the plot, but the novel is beautiful in portraying queerness that doesn't know its name (that perhaps doesn't have it yet), in showing how violence is systemic, in showcasing its social and psychological effects and in painting images of astonishing brutality. The older I get, the more difficult it is for me to read about historical acts of cruelty, and this novel is unsparing in its portrayal of suffering of its narrator (the Famine in Ireland, the passage to America) white violence visited on Native and Black characters as well as in showing the continuum on which it exists. The narrator and John Cole are both victims of violence as well as implicated in war crimes they strive to atone for. Genocide happens on both sides of the Atlantic.
The characters are compelling even though we are not allowed into their heads aside from McNulty's. I loved the matter-of-fact way in which the relationship between the characters was portrayed, on page but always in a way that felt respectfully demure, denying any possibility of voyeuristic pleasure.
I cried when I finished the book but I also cried when I thought about the meaning of its title. It's a novel that made me think about the meaning of time, love, death, survival and family, and it will stay with me for a long time. A remarkable achievement.