Monday, April 8, 2013

Reviewing All Gods Dead - A Fascinating Read


Brigit Egan is dying but she has no intention of going quietly into the dark night. In All Gods Dead, an extraordinary and ambitious novel, the author Marian O'Neill explores the external and internal struggle that surrounds Brigit's final days. Externally, she is watched over by her daughters, Deirdre and Ruth, who are caught up in the tragic ritual of their mother's approaching demise. They share shifts at the nursing home, console each other with meals, bottles of wine, black humour and recollections of their childhood.

Both have different perceptions of the love they received from their mother. Ruth has always viewed it as deep and unconditional whereas Deirdre believes that Brigit’s love came laden with demands and expectations she was never able to fathom.

Brigit, outwardly drooling, confused and heavily sedated, is engaged in an internal struggle as her memory cuts through the mists of her past with pitiless accuracy. Skin by skin, the layers of her youth are stripped away as she reveals how she escaped from the dulled confines of middle-class Irish society in the 1920 and created a new life for herself on the edges of Parisian society.  

Beautiful and reckless, Brigit senses her escape when a brash young man in a flashy car drives by her parents’ house. Without hesitating, she climbs abroad and turns her face towards the freedom she senses beyond the green hills of home. But there are no greener, faraway hills. Just city after city, London, Paris, Berlin, each with its thrills, its dangers and its temptations.

Brigit becomes JoJo, she is today's wannabe, the groupie, hanging on the edges of other people’s lives, knowing she can never be part of this sophisticated, swinging society. Marian O'Neill is an lyrical writer, sparse yet precise in her descriptions of the cafe culture that danced its way through the decade and beyond.

JoJo whirls with it, part-time dancer and singer, short-time lover of Picasso, confidante of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, circus performer and, eventually, when there are only two paths she can take, she opts for her safe, middle-class roots and embraces marriage and motherhood instead of self-destruction.

Her secret is safe and is banked down over the decades until, as she faces her own mortality, her story must be told, even if only she can hear it. To the others who come and go from her bedside, they are hearing the muttered ravings of a dying woman.
All Gods Dead brings a fascinating, decadent decade to life. The author has a brave voice and a light touch that moves us effortlessly from city to city, endowing each one with its own unique and historical atmosphere.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Aurora Romps Home Today


I'm no angel - and the only use I have for the head of a pin is to jab it into the line-up for the Grand National. Usually, my other hand is over my eyes as I place my absolute trust in the haphazard nature  of fate.

Today, I used the internet to check the runners. As  it's rather difficult to jab a computer screen, I was forced to read the names.  Auroras Encore seemed to leap from the screen and I backed her. The reason was as whimsical as my jabbed pin choices - Aurora is a character in my latest novel, which is still a work in progress.

Currently, my Aurora is a rather cunning and crazed woman who exists on the sidelines of the main story. Imagine my disbelief when her name sake streaked home in first place with the wonderful odds on 66 -1. 

No one was more astonished than me when I realised my €2.50 each way bet had netted me a hefty €211
As the horses raced around the track and the commentator told us they were approaching the Foinavon fence I was reminded of a dream my father-in-law had on the night before the 1967 Grand National. In his dream all the horses fell down until only horse remained capable of crossing the finishing line. He could hear people cheering on this lone horse. "Fionavon! Foinavon!" The name was repeated many times and the following day when he was studying the form he noticed the name and remembered his dream.

Fionavon was running at 1oo-1 and he placed modest bet on the horse. To his astonishment his dream unfolded before his eyes as horse after horse fell down or refused the jumps. Alone, with the field in disarray, Fionavon romped home to victory. To commemorate that famous win the fence was officially named after Fionavon in 1984.

Today Auroras Encore leaped that fence cleanly  - and I'm the richer for it.  But what do I do with my Aurora character whom I've treated with scant respect until now. As writers we are advised not to fall in love with our characters. We control them, not the other way round - and love makes fools of us all.  I feel like  pressing the delete button on Aurora's more unpleasant aspects. I want to promote  her from the wings of a subplot and make her the heroine of the main plot.

I'm hoping the fever will pass ... once I've squandered my winnings.Otherwise,  there's just too much rewriting to be done and really, she's far more interesting when she's crazed and cunning, and always capable to surpassing the others by a long streak.