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valparaiso45's review against another edition
4.0
Masterful short story writers make their craft seem easy. They give you a window to the world that is as accessible and intimate as if you were part of the story. In William Trevor’s case, the writing is so mellifluous that your instinct is to feel a bit guilty for eavesdropping on the lives of his characters.
Ireland is a 1998 collection of previously published stories by Trevor, and my own introduction to his work. Trevor, an Irishman who spent most of his long life in England, died in 2016 and is widely recognized as one of the finest short story writers in the English language. After reading this book, I understand why.
I can’t easily explain why I love Trevor‘s stories, but I do. There’s very little going on in them--at least on the outside. Yet he relates in a rich but digestible style the inner workings of his characters' hearts and minds, and explores their circumstances with a deft gift for description and pacing. He reveals the undercurrent of his characters' lives and so provides a touchstone for our own experiences. Though his stories are often set in the Ireland of the 1940s, there is a universal quality to them that is no doubt part of his global appeal.
We read about two brothers on a long awaited trip to the Holy Land who learn that their mother has passed away back home. We see them react differently to that news and learn about their delicate family dynamic in the process, which spurs us to consider the sensitivities of our own complicated family relationships.
We catch a glimpse of a young woman and her visits with her father, who has divorced her mother and no longer lives with them. He faithfully spends time with her, but their activity is always the same--oysters and drinks at the local pub, and the same surface chitchat interrupted by horse racing advice to various patrons. She takes the bus home; he leaves to his flat. Little happens, yet Trevor masterfully explores her self-doubts, her love for her dad, her worries about the life he leads and whether she could take care of him when she's older. We wonder about the echoes of familiarity with our own relationships.
Similar to Chekhov, Trevor's stories begin and end rather abruptly. This is part of their magic to me. We, the reader, are left to fill in the gaps. I found myself wondering often what became of the characters. In an interview with the BBC before he passed, Trevor said himself that this was part of the magic of short stories. I agree. But for the parts he does reveal to us, he makes a masterwork of it. I'll be on to more from him soon. To think I stumbled across this collection in a used book shop in Denver.
Ireland is a 1998 collection of previously published stories by Trevor, and my own introduction to his work. Trevor, an Irishman who spent most of his long life in England, died in 2016 and is widely recognized as one of the finest short story writers in the English language. After reading this book, I understand why.
I can’t easily explain why I love Trevor‘s stories, but I do. There’s very little going on in them--at least on the outside. Yet he relates in a rich but digestible style the inner workings of his characters' hearts and minds, and explores their circumstances with a deft gift for description and pacing. He reveals the undercurrent of his characters' lives and so provides a touchstone for our own experiences. Though his stories are often set in the Ireland of the 1940s, there is a universal quality to them that is no doubt part of his global appeal.
We read about two brothers on a long awaited trip to the Holy Land who learn that their mother has passed away back home. We see them react differently to that news and learn about their delicate family dynamic in the process, which spurs us to consider the sensitivities of our own complicated family relationships.
We catch a glimpse of a young woman and her visits with her father, who has divorced her mother and no longer lives with them. He faithfully spends time with her, but their activity is always the same--oysters and drinks at the local pub, and the same surface chitchat interrupted by horse racing advice to various patrons. She takes the bus home; he leaves to his flat. Little happens, yet Trevor masterfully explores her self-doubts, her love for her dad, her worries about the life he leads and whether she could take care of him when she's older. We wonder about the echoes of familiarity with our own relationships.
Similar to Chekhov, Trevor's stories begin and end rather abruptly. This is part of their magic to me. We, the reader, are left to fill in the gaps. I found myself wondering often what became of the characters. In an interview with the BBC before he passed, Trevor said himself that this was part of the magic of short stories. I agree. But for the parts he does reveal to us, he makes a masterwork of it. I'll be on to more from him soon. To think I stumbled across this collection in a used book shop in Denver.
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