Huh.
The back of my copy tells me that this is a character study. I guess so.
We have a protagonist who, in her head, presents herself as meek and mild, yet in interactions with others seems quite formidable.
She gets what she wants, almost all the time, with the exception of one thing: her husband dies before the beginning of the book.
So it’s a meditation on grief, I suppose.
Here in Canada, there are days that only really occur in November and February, days that could best be described as slush. I know some of you are nodding along right now; you know exactly what I mean. This novel is like the feeling of those slush days but bookified. Even the cover of my copy is that dull grey that dirty piles of snow get when they melt. If this book is to be taken as fact, Ireland in the 1970s was a whole decade (at least) of slush.
It’s so dour. Bits of hope and sunshine come through. But almost every conflict that arises is resolved within minutes by Nora, so her struggle towards normality doesn’t seem to have much agency. She doesn’t like her job, so she gets another. She needs a painter, so he comes. She needs someone to buy her cottage, so someone does. She needs to find her daughter, so she does. We could maybe call this book so she does.
The grief is quiet, but there. The conflicts are small, but there. But the book is a sustained note held, a low one, quiet, you have to strain to hear. The similar smallness and dullness of my own life makes me crave more excitement in my living-vicariously-through-reading life.
When bad things happen, life keeps going. The end.
Nora Webster by Colm Tóibín went on sale October 14, 2014.
I received a copy free from a goodreads giveaway in exchange for an honest review.