Robin's Reviews > The Gathering

I have no idea how to feel about this book, let alone rate it.

For the first half, I was in love with it. I was in love with the writing, which is exceptional, inviting, personal, painful, and *sparkling*. I was squinting with as much derision as confusion, like Clint Eastwood in all of his spaghetti westerns, at all the low ratings.

The book explores grief and the love-hate complications of a big Irish family, who get together for the funeral of Liam, a beloved brother who took his own life. Oh, and it's also about the complications of memory, a theme that is starting to feel worn out to me. I've read too many books that bemoan the inaccuracy of memory, the betrayal of recollection, the haziness of the past. And this one does that A LOT. In fact, it does that for almost the entire book.

See, the main character spends much time imagining how her grandparents got together (down to the nitty gritty of their couplings), over and over and over. Imagining the print of her grandmother's dress, imagining the erection in an onlooker's pants, and then, and then, and then. After each of these imaginings, she doubts the scene she just painted and it evaporates into nothingness, and all that is left is a broken, half-drunk, middle aged woman on her way to her brother's funeral.

Fortunately, it's a pleasure to read these imaginings, because they are so fucking gorgeous. Because you feel like it's your best friend telling you about an intimate dream while she's high on opiates. But the dream goes on so long, you're almost forced to pat your friend's hand, and say "just tell me who molested who, sweetheart, and I'll be on my way."

Because it's also about sexual abuse, and its devastating, lifelong damages, its lethal consequences.

By the time the author reveals a few pages of "reality" you may find yourself annoyed at all the musings of what might have happened when all along the narrator knew damn well what actually happened.

Or does she? The "reality" gets snatched back pretty quick, and you close the book (after a brilliant final paragraph) wondering if you know anything about that family, after all. It comes off as contrived and self indulgent, even if it pulled me in with its stunning artistry.

So this is an example of how a marvellous writer can get away with pretty much anything, solely based on her mad skills as a wordsmith. She could have stuck a few grocery lists in here and she'd still have won the Man Booker. But I predict this ethereal flight won't stick in my memory long. It will join the forgetful haze that she wrote so much about. And that seems fitting.