“…the milk-white china cups with their beautiful rims of gold, dimmed here and there from the graze of lips…” (3-4).“…telling her that she would have to go to Dublin for observation. Observation for what? As is she were the night sky” (8).“…I’ll never forget this moment, the hum of the bee, the saffron threads of the flower, the drawn blinds, nature’s assiduousness and human cruelty” (81).“…finding himself outside under a roof of frozen stars…” (96).“It was snowing in the vast cemetery in Brooklyn, big bulky overcoats of snow on the tall tombs, draping the headstones and the flat tablets with their long loving recitations” (96).“A multitude of small bells, followed by bigger bells, are ringing inside Dilly’s head, chimes half a century apart, bringing her gradually awake, her mind clogged with memories and with muddle” (119).“…Nolan deems her as only a step above buttermilk and kinda mad” (120).“…clouds like great liners roaming across the rinsed blue heavens…” (131).“A moment of vindication when she read of Christina Rossetti, Christina Rossetti dressed in black at a tea party of Mrs. Virtue Tebbs, having to listen to banality, social nothings, suddenly standing up in the middle of that room, holding a green volume of her poems and saying to the frivolous group, “I am Christina Rossetti. ‘Bring me poppies brimmed with sleepy death.’” Yes, she would be Christina Rossetti when she confronted her mother” (145).“He worked at night. A light in his window and a light in hers is what a traveler would chance on, two disparate lights signaling a divided house” (148).“If ever there was a moment for reconciliation it was there, it was then, the softness of the night, the trees in their spring vesture and the signing of the leaves, not like winter’s brawl” (149).“It was coming from your country and I thought of the mist on the mountain, the clods so big, so roaming, reluctant to cross the Irish Sea and come and hang over this great wide blotch of a city of London and hang over me” (151).“…visiting little malices on one another in lieu of their missed happiness” (164).“…rummaging in their rush baskets, asking of their baskets if they had forgotten this or that and the evident relief at finding a bottle of pills or a crochet pattern” (170).“…and elsewhere lagoons of lit candles, hosts of waiters and waitresses all in black, like fledgling birds, swooping to be of use” (214).“ ‘I ate my dinner cautiously and without schnapps,’ he says, quoting Strindberg, poor Strindberg with his deathly melodies” (215).“…separate and tensed as they listen to the wheels pawing the ground outside and the engines puttering in an indecision” (218).*Side note: the author uses the word "baleful" quite frequently, but she doesn't seem to use it correctly.*The book becomes much more complicated (I shouldn't be surprised, it dealing with relationships among family members) during the letters section at the end of the book."The room felt icy, even though the fire was on. It was one of those tall electric fires fronted with a simulation of logs, broken chunks of coal, lit from within by a red bulb that gave a semblance of heat, but not real heat" (267).
Beautiful, sentimental, harsh...I loved it-but since I can't find the words I'll let the book speak for itself-here's the prologue... Prologue 'There is a photograph of my mother as a young woman in a white dress, standing by her mother who is seated out-of-doors on a kitchen chair, in front of a plantation of evergreen trees. Her mother is staring with a grave expression, her gnarled fingers clasped in prayer. Despite the virgin marvel of the white dress and the obligingness of her stance, my mother has heard the mating calls of the world beyond and has seen a picture of a white ship far out at sea. Her eyes are shockingly soft and beautiful. The photograph would have been taken of a Sunday and for a special reason, perhaps on account of the daughter's looming departure. A stillness reigns. One can feel the sultriness, the sun beating down on the tops of the drowsing trees and over the nondescript fields, on and on to the bluish swath of mountain. Later as the day cools and they have gone in, the cry of the corncrake will carry across those same fields and over the lake to the blue-hazed mountain, such a lonely evening sound to it, like the lonely evening sound of the mothers, saying it is not our fault that we weep so, it is nature's fault that makes us first full, then empty. Such is the wrath of the mothers, such is the cry of the mothers, such is the lamentation of the mothers, on and on until the last day, the last bluish tinge, the pismires, the gloaming, and the dying dust.'
Do You like book The Light Of Evening (2006)?
Reading Edna O'Brien's latest novel was sort of like reading a cross between James Joyce -- I definitely noticed his influence here -- and Alice Munro, and maybe a little Virginia Woolf, too. I wish I remembered more of The House of Splendid Isolation, which I read in 2000. Reading this was a lovely yet somewhat devastating experience, but then, I read about mothers and daughters differently now. The story centers around Dilly, a woman dying from ovarian cancer, and Eleanora, her daughter. Eleanora is a writer with a scandalous personal life, and her relationship with her mother is, predictably, often strained. Her final visit to her mother's bedside doesn't provide the closure her mother hopes for; instead, it opens new wounds and much is left unsaid. O'Brien takes us through Dilly's life and experiences as a young Irish woman living in New York City in the 1920's to Eleanora's adult life. It is a heartbreaking yet somehow lovely and familiar account of all the ways in which we lose each other.
—Shari
I really enjoyed this novel. Even though at times it felt too self-consciously literary, I thought it was a nice representation of a contentious mother-daughter relationship. Rather than explicitly stating that her mother was over-bearing and a little manipulating, but that the author felt guilty for keeping her distance, the author told the story from her mother's point of view, so I was always rooting for and cared about her mother. It was at once sweet and mature. At the end, you see more from the daughter's point of view, but it is never cruel or unfair toward the mother. I would like to read her earlier novels now.
—Bess
Dilly Macready lies in her hospital bed, waiting to be reunited with her daughter, Eleanora. Their relationship has been strained, separated by distance and by lifestyle choice. But O'Brien narrates this story from the third person and also from letters written by mothers to daughters.This is my first novel by Edna O'Brien, and upon it's reading, I can understand why she is so highly praised. She is a master wordsmith - the descriptive nature of her prose, the connections she makes and the messages she sends. In The Light of Evening, O'Brien unravels the story behind a mother and daughter, being female, being Irish and struggling to break free from convention and into their own selves. The bond between them is related beautifully and accurately, as we see the love and challenges that come of such a relationship.There were times when the writing jumped around and I found that it did more to detach the reader than draw me in. But still, I enjoyed the journey from Ireland to Brooklyn to London and back home to Ireland again. Makes me want to spend a day at Rusheen. 3 1/2 stars.
—Suzanne
