By the Lake – John McGahern

My first reaction, as I was into the opening pages, was: “Who is this guy?” I had never heard of McGahern, but what I was reading was very good. A bit of research told me that in his lifetime (he died in 2006, at age 71) he was acclaimed for his work, but he existed outside the literary in-crowd. As I read on I found this to be a novel of unusual depth. It takes place in a Irish farming village in the mid 1900s and involves everyday matters. The lives of a handful of characters are followed through what seems like a year. It’s all quite interesting – the village and its occupants (many of whom are eccentric) come alive, the activities (bringing in a crop, a cattle sale) have an authenticity (the author lived his early and his last years working on a small farm). The dialogue is outstanding in that each voice is distinctive and conveys the essence of the speaker. The main character, Ruttledge, though mostly an observer, gets involved in the predicaments of others. In his relations with those others he’s always considerate, thoughtful, generous. He’s a man who has obviously made a choice as to how to conduct his life. He also made a choice as to where to live: London or the village? His choice seems to be the right one for him. The village is not an idyllic world – far from it – but there exists a sense of community; people care for one another (even if it is mainly out of curiosity). His friendship with a neighbor, Jamesie, is one that will endure (though Jamesie, on parting, often says “I never liked yous anyhow.”). Ruttledge has no answers to life’s big questions, but those questions exist as an aura – or a mood – which envelopes this novel. One thing that emerges is a sense of mortality. McGahern died of cancer four years after On the Lake came out; possibly he had a diagnosis. Another aspect of the aura concerns the relationship between Ruttledge and his wife, Kate. She exists almost entirely in the words she speaks; though none of these words express love, the sense of a deep love between the two quietly evolved in my mind. Anyway: read this one — it’s a masterful job. *

Paul Cezanne – John Rewald

A good biography, one that relies heavily on letters. Many come from a childhood friend – Emile Zola. That the friendship eventually foundered was unfortunate, but Cezanne was a very difficult man. And, although they broke off relations, they still retained affection for one another. I won’t go into the personality of Cezanne and his art – the book does that. But I found it interesting how schools of thought existed concerning what good painting should be. The Paris Salon dominated in the mid 1800s, but there was a rebellion against its dictates. Rightly so; it was a dull, stagnant art. The Impressionist movement evolved, and was initially vilified. Though some artists (Manet, Renoir, Degas, Monet) gradually attained acceptance, Cezanne wasn’t proclaimed to be a master until old age. And when acceptance finally came, his attitude was this: Once those whose judgements people follow ridiculed me; now people follow the judgements of people who laud me. All followers! Art would continue to change in its attitudes as to what was of value. The trend has been toward a turning away from the human face and form. Cezanne never went in this direction; his portraits are character studies. I wonder what he would say about blocks of color and dribbles of paint and Campbell soup cans. Last note: this book proclaims on the cover that it has “over 100 illustrations,” but almost all are in black and white. To Cezanne color was a primary element of his work. He wouldn’t be pleased.

The Story of Lucy Gault - William Trevor

I’ve reviewed eleven other books by Trevor, and four he’s written are on my Most Meaningful list. Not all of those eleven got good reviews, but I finished them. This one – the shortest, a novella – I only made it halfway through. The prose was good, and so was the beginning, but when Lucy (age eight) runs away and is permanently separated from her mother and father, there were too many pages in which Trevor struggles to make these events plausible. But what bothered me the most was his abandonment of what is going on in Lucy’s mind. He had given us access to that mind, but when dire events occur to her (injury, near starvation, etc.) we learn nothing of what she was experiencing. When she’s found, and recovers (though with a permanent limp), we continue to be excluded; she’s merely presented as a subdued and withdrawn presence. Then Ralph arrives (he drives up to the house by mistake), and love blooms. Suddenly we’re again privy to eighteen-year-old Lucy’s thoughts and feelings, and she seems remarkably stable, sensible, well adjusted. How did she get this way? If it’s her story, as the title proclaims, why the gap between eight and eighteen? And the love happens too quickly, without basis (Ralph lacks much of a personality). I simply wasn’t buying it, so I stopped reading.

Reality and Dreams – Muriel Spark

At age 78 the spark of creativity had died in Dame Muriel. Despite the pretentious title, this is a silly mishmash involving a bunch of characters who all have problems with marital fidelity. The prose is still good – that’s the last to go. I guess the lifelong habit of sitting down to write is hard to break. And when an eminent author issues yet another book, it gets published (no editor is going to say, Muriel, you’ve lost it – don’t embarrass yourself). And it also gets praised by other eminent authors; on the back cover we have blurbs by Updike, Vidal, Byatt. I was only able to plod my way to the halfway point of this very short book. But – let me end this with a reappraisal. I had the belief that I was a fan of Spark’s writing. But I just looked back through my previous reviews of her work (12 in all), and discovered that I was mostly disappointed. Only one – The Driver’s Seat – impressed me. And, before I began reviewing, I greatly admired Momento Mori and The Bachelors. So my positive feelings for Spark rests solely on three novels. But, actually, that’s enough to garner respect. And, as for authors who continue writing when the well is empty (Trevor was another one), they’re responding to a compulsion. They have to write.