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276 pages, Hardcover
First published March 3, 2022
...She thinks of the Yeats poem: this tumult in the clouds...in balance with this life, this death...and she thinks how strange, how strange it is, the sides on which we find ourselves, the things we, really, have no choice or say in, the ways we blindly go through a life in which the grooves are already set.
But the times we live through, she thinks, as they turn onto Sydenham Avenue, have bred in us all a grim, stoical sort of endurance. After the Great War, and the civil war, and the shattering Troubles of the twenties, those hundreds of people dead...After the unemployment and the riots of the thirties, the sectarian pogroms, the chaos, the roads blockaded, the burning, only half, a quarter of a mile away...You're not surprised by anything anymore: you shake your head and press your lips and get on with whatever else there is to be doing, make the most of things, make of what you have - what you're fortunate, and yes, grateful to have - the best you can.
It hasn't surprised her, over the years, she sometimes secretly thinks, that the city around her should periodically erupt into barricades and flames, doesn't surprise her that it should be obliterated now from above, because that, sometimes, is how a cold small part of her feels - just take it, take all of it, I want none of it, none of this, because none of it - how can it? - none of it matters.
It will never go away, she wants to say then. None of it does - the real or the imagined. Once you have seen those images, whether with your eyes or or in your mind's eye, they are etched there - seared into the body. They are there forever and you can't pretend otherwise. When they rise up, you need to try not to fight them, try not to push them away. You must just focus on the smallest, most incidental thing you can. You must make yourself breathe, and feel the current of breath through your body.Meticulously researched, the days of the Belfast Blitz are brought to life in the pages of this novel, those familiar with the streets and surrounds of the area will imagine it all the more evocatively.
"Why do you say it all so sadly?"I was going to say that I cannot forgive a woman author for just dangling a same-sex relationship between women into a novel seemingly to add spice, without any intention of exploring positive future possibilities if that relationship were to flourish. I wanted to know whether Caldwell's straight or not."Oh Emma, this isn't something you'd choose."
"I choose it, Sylvia! I choose it!"
[...]"You don't know anything yet."
"I do!"