I was perusing a list of recommended books from a journal in England and crossed The Secret scripture by Sebastian Barry, I didn't read a review , I simply picked it up at the library and read it. Usually such indiscriminate reading turns out poorly, but this had several bright moments. It is an historic novel of sorts, covering 100 years of Irish history revealing the weird and dramatic politics of religion, Great Britain'ness, mental illness and aging; all by themselves compelling subjects and as a bouillabaisse a flavorful experience. "Casting doubt upon the reliability of human perceptions and, indeed, the very nature of truth, it also upholds the possibilities of dignity and redemption." So a said one review - it s good read
The story line was a bramble but the writing was a delight including :
- The terror and hurt in my story happened because when I was young I thought others were then authors of my fortune or misfortune
- But Fr Gaunt was so clipped and trimmed he had no antennae at all for grief
- He was like a singer who knows the words and can sing, but cannot sing the song as conceived in the heart of the composer
- We have neglected the tiny sentences of life and now the big ones are beyond our reach
- ... My mother's wits were now in the attic of her head which had neither door nor stair, or at least none that I could find
- Little sins of omission that loom large now
- The Arabs say that everything is already written in the book of life, our job is merely to fulfill the narrative already there, invisible, unknown
- It is always worth itemizing happiness, there is always so much of the other thing in life, you had better put down the markers for happiness while you can.
- There has never been a person in an old person's home that hasn't looked dubiously at the other inhabitants. They are the old ones, they are the club no one wants to join.but we are never old to ourselves. That is because at the close of the day the ship we sail in is the soul not the body.
- ... Time passing is just a trick, a convenience. Everything is always there, still unfolding, still happening. The past, the present, the future, in the noggin eternally, like brushes, combs and ribbons in a handbag
- ... Who was obviously sane to such a degree it makes sanity almost undesirable
I appreciate phraseology that ports me somewhere and becomes the nugget of a new thought or moment to ponder. I then craft the story I want to hear more than the story perhaps intended by the author.
