Maggie O’Farrell’s latest book, “Hamnet”, is quite different and distinct from all her previous creations. Her other novels have revolved around modern families in crisis. This new novel seems to tell the story of William Shakespeare’s son Hamnet.
Maggie O’Farrell’s latest book, “Hamnet”, is quite different and distinct from all her previous creations. Her other novels have revolved around modern families in crisis. This new novel seems to tell the story of William Shakespeare’s son Hamnet. He died as a child and supposedly provided the inspiration for Shakespeare’s famous play “Hamlet”.
However the novel really tells the story of the enigmatic Agnes, Will’s wife and Hamnet’s mother. She is an interesting and unorthodox country woman with “elfic” tendencies. She knows the medicinal and healing properties of the local flowers, plants and roots. She communes with nature like an alternative priestess even after falling in love with Will. She moves to live with his dysfunctional family.
The drama of the novel however is found in the intimate relationship of Hamnet with his identical twin sister Judith. It is in the description of this special dynamic that O’Farrell displays her literary mastery of the intricacies of close family encounters. The manner by which Hamnet takes on Judith’s illness is surely poetic license rather than historical fact. The intense grief of each family member at Hamnet’s passing almost causes the family to disintegrate. It is only when Agnes realizes that, in creating the play Hamlet, her husband is transforming his grief into memory. Thus she can be reconciled with him.
The language and imagery of this novel is poetical and lyrical. It reads beautifully. The other characters emerge as realistic, the irascible and unpleasant father, John, the jealous and vindictive step-mother Joan, the rustic and reliable brother Bartholomew and the practical older sister Susanna. However I found this novel somehow stilted and laboured unlike all O’Farrell’s other books. I wondered why.
In most of her modern stories, an unusual sickness or medical condition casts a shadow or poses a challenge to her range of feisty, credible characters. This detail furnishes a link with Hamnet. In “After you’d gone”, one person is left in a coma. in “Instructions for a heat-wave”, one daughter has reading disorder. In “The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox”, Esme spends her adult life in an asylum. In “This Must be the Place”, the son has a serious skin ailment while his father is an alcoholic. In O’Farrell’s autobiographical account of close encounters with death, “I am, I am, I am”, the most striking event occurs in Italy when O’Farrell and her husband race to find a local hospital to treat their daughter who is having a severe allergic reaction.
However in these stories, the inter-play of medical science and common sense work themselves out in a credible and realistic way. Not so in Hamnet. Agnes is powerless against the plague which attacks Judith first, before leaving her to attack Hamnet. Somehow there is an inconsistency here. Agnes has been presented as wise but “unorthodox” or as living outside the normal faith traditions of the community. Their ordinary medicines never work anyway. But now her own medicines don’t work. It’s as if her “non-faith” is just as illusory as the others’ “faith”. In this sense, the novel is hopeless. It does not lead anywhere. It offers no new way of reflecting on family difficulties and tragedies. O’Farrell’s previous novels offered new insight. More than this, one could sense in her previous works that disaster was averted (just about) because the characters’ malevolence was somehow curtailed by a benevolent presence hovering at the very edge of her stories. Perhaps this presence is missing in “Hamnet”.
In order to try to fill in the gaps in my understanding of how the island of Ireland has changed over the last 30 years, I have read three books; Seamus Mallon’s autobiography, “A Shared Home Place’; “Say Nothing” by Patrick Radden Keefe which follows the personal stories of those involved in the abduction and murder in 1972 of Belfast woman, and mother of six children, Jean McConville; and “The Education of an Idealist” by Samantha Power, the Irishwoman who worked as the US Ambassador to the UN under President Obama.
When I left Ireland in 1993 for Cambodia, the troubles in Northern Ireland were still inflicting murder and mayhem on both the Unionist and Nationalist communities there. The media were constantly reporting on brutal atrocities followed by funerals, both Protestant and Catholic.
When the peace process finally produced the Good Friday Agreement in 1998 thus ending the violent hostilities, I counted it as one of the most extraordinary miracles that I have witnessed in my lifetime. I could never quite understand how Dr Ian Paisley and Martin McGuiness could subsequently cooperate together in the governance of Northern Ireland while becoming “chucklers” into the bargain.
The Republic of Ireland has also changed beyond recognition over the thirty years that I have been away. Gay marriage, legalised abortion and the turning away from the Catholic Church that happened in response to the clerical sexual abuse crisis are only the outer manifestations of a profound transformation of inner attitudes regarding social issues. Former Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern once commented that there were three great “institutions” in Irish society, the Fianna Fáil party, the Catholic Church and the GAA (Gaelic Athletic Association). Now only the GAA has weathered the storms and continues to thrive. The recent RTE (Raidió Telefís Ēireann) program on “New Gaels”, shows why. I mean, even my seven-year old niece is into Camogie.
On my last visit home to Dublin, I met the Protestant rector of my home parish on the 42 bus. He cheerfully informed me that this year the number of Church of Ireland ordinations to the priesthood exceeded the number of Roman Catholic ordinations in the Dublin diocese for the first time since who knows when.
In order to try to fill in the gaps in my understanding of how the island of Ireland has changed over the last 30 years, I have read three books; Seamus Mallon’s autobiography, “A Shared Home Place’; “Say Nothing” by Patrick Radden Keefe which follows the personal stories of those involved in the abduction and murder in 1972 of Belfast woman, and mother of ten children, Jean McConville; and “The Education of an Idealist” by Samantha Power, the Irishwoman who worked as the US Ambassador to the UN under President Obama.
In the first book, Seamus Mallon traces his political journey as SDLP (Social Democratic and Labour Party) councillor and MP (Member of Parliament) with laconic wit and honesty. He remembers all the killings and murders in his own area and attends all funerals both Protestant and Catholic even when his presence is not welcomed. His story is one of perseverance and courage in a time of despair lived out over a life-time. He is vilified and persecuted at different times by militant Nationalists and by militant Unionists who speak the language of hate. He never flinches. Even the title of his book “A Shared Home Place” demonstrates his commitment to peace and harmony. He articulates “parallel consensus” as a political principle to guide future discussions about the future status of the society in Northern Ireland. Only when both Unionist and Nationalist communities agree on a way forward, can there be a way forward. I sense that my Protestant forbears would concur.
In the second book, Patrick Radden Keefe, amasses a wealth of historical detail to weave together a tapestry of characters involved in the IRA (Irish Republican Army) of West Belfast. By focusing on the Price Sisters, Dolours and Marian, Keefe is able to link, personalities, events and stories together over a period of nearly fifty years. The Loyalist characters and British officials offer an alternative viewpoint throughout the narrative so it seems balanced in the end. The wonder of the book is in fact the person of Dolours Price who listens to her conscience and instead of “saying nothing”, says something. The something is not much, mind you, but Keefe follows each thread right to its end. He solves the mystery that the police force could not solve (the abduction and murder of Jean McConville). The fact that certain key characters refuse to recognise the truth about what they did in the past, means that they lock themselves into their own world. It’s the world of the living dead. No character in this long story is able to speak of forgiveness like Timothy Knatchbull did in his story “From a Clear Blue Sky”.
In the third book, Samantha Power, describes leaving Ireland while still a primary school student as her mother launches out into a new life in America away from her alcoholic father. Samantha’s candid love of both father and mother enable her to negotiate the family tragedies cheerfully. She makes a new life for herself each time her new family moves. During a trip abroad she discovers an interest in finding out the truth about conflicts that cause suffering to many people. She spends time in war-torn Bosnia and learns how American political action can help or hinder the peace-process. She returns to study Law and becomes involved in political action. However it is the description of her time as US Ambassador to the UN, while remaining a dedicated mother of two kids, which is the most interesting. She moves from crisis to crisis. Syria, ISIS, Ukraine, Ebola, etc.
Power has a simple honesty which makes these complicated situations and issues easy to grasp. While her account is personal, it does not seem self-serving and she is able to learn from her mistakes. It is also interesting that for someone dedicated to dialogue for peace, the one outstanding regret regarding the Obama administration that she voices is the decision not to strike Syrian military targets after the regime used Sarin gas on the population of Aleppo in March 2013 until the US Congress approved such strikes. They crossed the “red line” and nothing happened.
In a funny example of Democratic dis-connect, Power describes the house party she arranged for all the female ambassadors at the UN in her home on election night to celebrate the upcoming victory of Hillary Clinton over Donald Trump. She was not the only one who got it wrong.
These three books witness to the enormous transformations that Ireland has experienced over the last thirty years. However a few long hikes up Lugnaquilla and Mullaghcleevaun in the Wicklow mountains have allowed me to savour the beauty and tranquility of what has not changed. It will be a challenge to find the right words to speak to the new spiritual language being whispered here and there.
But the novel’s real strength lies in the poignant vignettes of ordinary people, both men and women, whose lives have been ruined by personal or collective tragedy. In particular, Walker tries to follow up on the experiences of fellow soldiers who end up on the bottom tier of society and are left just hanging on there until they fall off into the abyss of nothingness.
The Long Take is a most unusual novel. Robin Robertson has penned a wonderful poetic description of a man’s spiritual journey after some horrific experiences as an Allied soldier in World War 2. Walker’s geographical journey away from Nova Scotia to post-war Los Angeles, parallels his inner journey from contended innocence before the war to moral degradation after it. Robertson describes the tearing down of the old quarters of the City which scatters the fragile communities living there in exquisite and compassionate detail.
The Long Take also catalogues the attempts by several movie directors to capture this sense of rapid but destructive capitalist development taking place before Walker’s eyes in the city.
But the novel’s real strength lies in the poignant vignettes of ordinary people, both men and women, whose lives have been ruined by personal or collective tragedy. In particular, Walker tries to follow up on the experiences of fellow soldiers who end up on the bottom tier of society and are left just hanging on there until they fall off into the abyss of nothingness. In the end, Walker simply follows them. His fellow journalist, Pike, is simply the symbol of an evil, lurking behind always, just waiting to devour him when the time comes.
But while this novel is a literary master-piece, I found it to be a moral kop-out. Walker’s approach and attitude to his own and other’s suffering is the exact anti-thesis of Edith Eger in her auto-biography, “The Choice”, which I reviewed last month. While Walker relates with kindness and compassion to those suffering loss in the dark and lonely places of Los Angeles and other cities, he can offer no real hope to those people at all, because he has none himself.
In the few, curt but sincere post-cards that Walker sends to his former fiancée, Annie MacLeod back in Nova Scotia, we catch a glimpse of what Walker could have become had he been able to overcome his own private suffering. It is only towards the end of the novel, that we realize that his real problem is not the suffering of others but the evil acts that he himself committed during the war. His own religious background (rosary beads at the bottom of a box) is not strong enough for him to hope for redemption. So he simply denies himself and others that possibility.
In the end, he can only describe the destruction of communities, of individuals and of himself. He cannot construct anything new as those recovering through involvement in Alcoholics Anonymous may be able to do. Walker chooses the bottle rather than the Bible. That is why the novel is a kop-out. There are other choices to be made. Other choices that are more humanly authentic.
It turns out that all the positive thinking tricks that Edith Eger used to survive in the camp with her sister Magda are not so helpful later on as she tries to cope with the after effects of trauma and prevent it from harming her children.
This Christmas, I received the gift of a book which I will count as a priceless treasure. It broaches the issue of psychological trauma head on and comes out on the other side with a human way of processing things. The book is called “The Choice” and it was authored by Edith Eger, a Hungarian Jewess, who survived Auchwitz (just about) and took a long time to tell her story. Her book was only published in 2017.
When I arrived into the Cambodian refugee camps in Thailand during 1986, the malevolent presence of the Khmer Rouge was still tangible. Fear and insecurity crippled people’s thinking processes. I remember listening to stories where a family member routinely described the death and disappearance of other family members in a passionless, robotic manner which prevented any real sharing in sadness or grief.
People were still surviving as isolated monads and were only slowly readjusting from horrific trauma to relative peace.
Over the past few years, I have read many books which have broached these issues in various ways. Among those which have lingered in the memory longest are “The Book Thief” by Marcus Zuzak and “In the Shadow of the Banyan” by Vaddey Ratner.
What really impressed me about Edith Eger’s life-story in “The Choice” was its rigorous honesty in self-examination. I found a resonance similar to testimonies of people who have recovered from long-term debilitating addictions or violent abuse of different types. There is no hint of false romanticism on these pages.
Once the young Edith is asked by Dr. Mengele to perform a ballet dance for him which she does even though she knows that it was he who had ordered the killing of her mother. Eger describes how the malevolent power of evil infiltrated the lives of the innocent in Auchwitz and somehow managed to remain buried in painful memories inside her mind that were never aired or shared. Later panic attacks would occur in response to sounds or sights like sirens or train carriages etc.
Eger also describes life in Communist Hungary after “liberation”. She explains her dramatic and brave decision to emigrate to America with nothing, rather than to Israel where the family wealth had already been sent. Her husband Bela followed her. She works in manual labour for a few years like so many other immigrants. Slowly she finds her way to study and eventually to Psychiatry. Victor Frankl’s book “Man’s Search for Meaning” played a role in her spiritual journey.
However it is clear in her personal care for the individual “troubled” patients, that she finds her own way. Firstly, she helps these individuals to understand themselves more deeply. Then, secondly, she comes to understand herself more deeply by thinking about what they said. She argues that we need to recognize how both “feelings” and “thinking” are influencing or controlling our behavior patterns. This process of sharing and analysis can itself be traumatic as the feelings can be explosive or dangerous. However only by a patient sharing and re-sharing of these feelings in a human relationship can we rediscover wholeness in our wounded humanity.
The thinking patterns also need to be analysed and examined. It is interesting to note that the most important question to be answered deep down is “What do I really want”. Once I have crossed the stormy sea of tumultuous feelings and so can see clearly what I really want and am striving for, the next question falls into place easily. Are my present behavior patterns helping or hindering my journey towards what I want or not? In most cases the answer is no. So change is required. Hence “The Choice”. It is mine to make and I have the power to make it. No one else can make it for me. While her perspective is medical and scientific, a remote faith perspective remains. At one point Dr. Eger will say, “I do not just receive patients. I feel that they are sent to me”. When all else fails, she will pray.
One of the most moving passages in the book is where the mature Dr. Edith Eger returns to Auschwitz for a visit and remembers everything. Here she describes her own actions and her own innocent mistake which resulted in the death of her mother. Many Cambodians have shared with me their traumatic experiences during the Khmer Rouge time and how their family members died or were killed. Yet, I have not heard someone say “I really regret what I did during the Khmer Rouge time”.
The Khmer artist, Vann Nath, led a deep reflection on the evil of the Khmer Rouge in a documentary on the notorious S21 Tuol Slaeng prison. It was hard for his former guards to take responsibility for their actions even under his gentle questioning.
The real strength of Dr. Eger’s book is that it invites to take a radical personal responsibility for our choices in life. Each new day offer us a choice to grow up or to grow down.
At Christmas, my sister sent me a novel to read. The title was “Where the Crawdads Sing” and it was written by Delia Owens. It takes place along the coast of North Carolina. The novel tells the story of Kya, a girl who was abandoned in the marsh by her mother, her siblings and finally by her father when she was still only a small child.
At Christmas, my sister sent me a novel to read. The title was “Where the Crawdads Sing” and it was written by Delia Owens. It takes place along the coast of North Carolina. The novel tells the story of Kya, a girl who was abandoned in the marsh by her mother, her siblings and finally by her father when she was still only a small child. “Jumpin”, an old Black man running a small store helps her.
The unusual strength of this novel is that we learn to discover the beauty, mystery and interior life of the plants and animals of the marsh through Kya’s eyes as she fends for herself to survive there alone. The author describes Kya’s resilience and deep isolation leading to severe and crippling loneliness in a sensitive and credible manner. At the same time the author describes the prejudice and negative judgments that the local people demonstrate towards her. With the help of one childhood friend, Tate, Kya learns to read and to express herself and her scientific curiosity in paintings.
While the novel beautifully describes life in the marsh and almost becomes an ode to its natural preciousness, it also portrays the harshness of a life of poverty on the edges of society with an acuity similar to that of Barbara Kingsolver and Marilynne Robinson.
However while I found the characters credible and varied, I felt that they were somehow more caricatures than real people. In English literature, the novels “Middlemarch” and “the Portrait of a Lady”, portray loneliness among a variety of real characters to the most depth. In this sense prize-winning modern novels, like “Where the Crawdads Sing”, pale in comparison.
The novel could open a reflection on the more general theme of abandonment of remote rural farmers by a technologically connected society that is no longer human. I still remember visiting former Cambodian soldiers in remote rural areas who had suffered mine injuries and were disabled. While some flourished with the love of their family or spouse to envelop them, some were abandoned to survive on their own. I still remember one man, a double amputee, sitting on his remote shack on stilts breaking down in tears as he described how his wife had abandoned him and left him all alone.