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The Short Day Dying
Charles Wenmoth is a blacksmith and Methodist lay-preacher in the wildest reaches of South-West England. It is 1870 and Wenmoth devotes his weekdays to work and the Sabbath to walking great distances to preach to dwindling congregations. Charles burns with faith - but it's a faith balanced by his pleasure in nature and the physical world around him. In his relationship with Harriet French, a blind girl who maintains her belief despite her debilitating condition, Wenmoth finds his fragile faith tested in the most trying of circumstances.
199 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2005
3 people are currently reading
236 people want to read
About the author
Peter Hobbs
12 books29 followersPeter Hobbs grew up in Cornwall and North Yorkshire and was educated at New College, Oxford. He began writing during a prolonged illness that cut short a potential diplomatic career.
He is the author of two novels: The Short Day Dying (2005) and In the Orchard, the Swallows (2012), and of I Could Ride All Day in my Cool Blue Train (2006), a book of short stories. He is also published in New Writing 13, an annual anthology of new work, and 'Zembla'. He is currently a writer-in-residence for the charity First Story.
The Short Day Dying was short listed for the 2005 Whitbread First Book Award (known now as the Costa Book Awards), the 2005 John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, the 2007 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and won a 2006 Betty Trask Award.
He is the author of two novels: The Short Day Dying (2005) and In the Orchard, the Swallows (2012), and of I Could Ride All Day in my Cool Blue Train (2006), a book of short stories. He is also published in New Writing 13, an annual anthology of new work, and 'Zembla'. He is currently a writer-in-residence for the charity First Story.
The Short Day Dying was short listed for the 2005 Whitbread First Book Award (known now as the Costa Book Awards), the 2005 John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, the 2007 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award and won a 2006 Betty Trask Award.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 37 reviews
February 2, 2018
This short novel from 2005 deserves to be better known; it was shortlisted for the Whitbread (now Costa) First Novel Award, but Hobbs has produced just one book since. It reminded me a bit of Days Without End and On the Black Hill, but most of all of Francis Kilvert’s diary, perhaps as voiced by a rustic from Poldark. We journey through 1870 with Charles Wenmoth, a twenty-seven-year-old blacksmith’s apprentice and Methodist lay preacher in Cornwall mining country. This is one of those novels where very little actually happens; the focus is very much on atmosphere and voice, and the main action is internal, in Wenmoth’s psyche. The few events that do bear down on him are illness – his own and that of Harriet French, a blind parishioner he visits dutifully – and trouble with his quarrelsome landlady. But the major struggle is with his melancholy spirit, which causes him to doubt his salvation and feel like he is past hope. As winter circles round again, the days grow shorter just as he senses life growing shorter.
Novels (and memoirs) of faith and doubt are like catnip for me, so I appreciated Wenmoth’s spiritual struggle – though others might find it repetitive or dull. It was also interesting to ponder how much Wenmoth might be withholding. Is he in love with Harriet, or are those faintly homoerotic moments with male characters not just my imagination? The short chapters are like undated diary entries (apparently based on the author’s great-great-grandfather’s), and though he’s not wholly unlearned Wenmoth seems to have only a rudimentary education: his sentences are almost completely unpunctuated, which at first had me twitching for my pencil to add commas to the run-on sentences, but eventually I gave myself up to the flow.
Favorite wintry passages:
“Well this winter too has been severe there were days when I could not shake the cold no matter how hard I worked and I have felt for those who are not as strong as I am neither do they have a fire to work beside. … It is a shame we cannot stay children for ever and remain blind to the slow death of the land. How different it will all be in a few months the bare trees revealed as dark gnarled bodies. Something inside them though lives through the yearly famine and they always find new colour. I trust it is the same for us all.”
Novels (and memoirs) of faith and doubt are like catnip for me, so I appreciated Wenmoth’s spiritual struggle – though others might find it repetitive or dull. It was also interesting to ponder how much Wenmoth might be withholding. Is he in love with Harriet, or are those faintly homoerotic moments with male characters not just my imagination? The short chapters are like undated diary entries (apparently based on the author’s great-great-grandfather’s), and though he’s not wholly unlearned Wenmoth seems to have only a rudimentary education: his sentences are almost completely unpunctuated, which at first had me twitching for my pencil to add commas to the run-on sentences, but eventually I gave myself up to the flow.
Favorite wintry passages:
“Well this winter too has been severe there were days when I could not shake the cold no matter how hard I worked and I have felt for those who are not as strong as I am neither do they have a fire to work beside. … It is a shame we cannot stay children for ever and remain blind to the slow death of the land. How different it will all be in a few months the bare trees revealed as dark gnarled bodies. Something inside them though lives through the yearly famine and they always find new colour. I trust it is the same for us all.”
August 22, 2009
En una época en la que prácticamente toda la literatura contemporánea parece que tiene que tratar de grandes sagas familiares, o bien tener una trama rebuscada e inverosímil que pase en diferentes países y en la que el azar juegue un papel determinante, o bien tiene que aparecer el escritor del libro como personaje o algún otro recurso de metaficción para las masas, es sorprendente encontrar un libro tan sencillo, pausado y sobrio como 'Solsticio de invierno' de Peter Hobbs, que se centra en las vivencias de un predicador metodista laico, en Inglaterra durante el 1870, recogidas en forma de diario. En un momento en que parece que todas las novelas se escudan detrás de la ironía y la metareferencia, es una maravilla encontrar una obra tan valiente que sea capaz de ser una zona totalmente libre de ironía y metaficción.
El libro es pausado y duro, lo elegí porque me enteré que el protagonista tenía 27 años y quería leerlo mientras yo aún tuviera 27 años, esperando encontrar, a pesar de la distancia que nos separa, coincidencias entre nosotros. Y así ha sido, porque a pesar de la distancia es un libro que habla de cosas universales en cualquier época: la nostalgia por la infancia perdida, la añoranza del hogar, la belleza del mundo, el amor, la enfermedad, la muerte, el sufrimiento, el dolor físico, el dolor psíquico, la soledad, la monotonia del trabajo, la sensación de que los días se nos escapan y no podemos hacer nada para retenerlos, la desilusión, la duda, el miedo... Es un libro tristísimo, que se lee con un nudo en la garganta, porque habla de la tristeza y el dolor que todos hemos sentido alguna vez. Charles Wenmoth tiene 27 años y divide sus días entre el trabajo como aprendiz de herrero y sus deberes de predicador. Vive lejos de casa y añora a su familia y a sus amigos, se siente solo y uno de sus pocos consuelos es visitar a Harriet French, una joven enferma, ciega y moribunda, de la que está enamorado, pero es incapaz de verlo o quizás no quiere verlo.
Charles Wenmoth tiene 27 años, pero se siente viejo, siente que ya es tarde para formar una familia y tiene la sensación de estar malgastando la vida. El libro es tristísimo. La progresión de Charles durante un año (un año en el que pasa de una simple añoranza por la libertad y la despreocupación de la infancia y una leve frustración hasta un sufrimiento insoportable, un miedo aterrador y un asco de existir) está perfectamente executada: la progresión es lenta pero implacable y al llegar al final ya no hay vuelta atrás y uno no podría describir cómo ha ocurrido porque todo ha sido tan progresivo que es necesario prestar mucha atención para advertir los cambios. Es una novela de las que ya no se hacen, una novela sobrecogedora e impactante por su dureza emocional. Es una descripción detallada de una depresión que cualquier persona podría padecer en cualquier época. Es como 'La campana de cristal' del siglo XIX.
El libro es pausado y duro, lo elegí porque me enteré que el protagonista tenía 27 años y quería leerlo mientras yo aún tuviera 27 años, esperando encontrar, a pesar de la distancia que nos separa, coincidencias entre nosotros. Y así ha sido, porque a pesar de la distancia es un libro que habla de cosas universales en cualquier época: la nostalgia por la infancia perdida, la añoranza del hogar, la belleza del mundo, el amor, la enfermedad, la muerte, el sufrimiento, el dolor físico, el dolor psíquico, la soledad, la monotonia del trabajo, la sensación de que los días se nos escapan y no podemos hacer nada para retenerlos, la desilusión, la duda, el miedo... Es un libro tristísimo, que se lee con un nudo en la garganta, porque habla de la tristeza y el dolor que todos hemos sentido alguna vez. Charles Wenmoth tiene 27 años y divide sus días entre el trabajo como aprendiz de herrero y sus deberes de predicador. Vive lejos de casa y añora a su familia y a sus amigos, se siente solo y uno de sus pocos consuelos es visitar a Harriet French, una joven enferma, ciega y moribunda, de la que está enamorado, pero es incapaz de verlo o quizás no quiere verlo.
Charles Wenmoth tiene 27 años, pero se siente viejo, siente que ya es tarde para formar una familia y tiene la sensación de estar malgastando la vida. El libro es tristísimo. La progresión de Charles durante un año (un año en el que pasa de una simple añoranza por la libertad y la despreocupación de la infancia y una leve frustración hasta un sufrimiento insoportable, un miedo aterrador y un asco de existir) está perfectamente executada: la progresión es lenta pero implacable y al llegar al final ya no hay vuelta atrás y uno no podría describir cómo ha ocurrido porque todo ha sido tan progresivo que es necesario prestar mucha atención para advertir los cambios. Es una novela de las que ya no se hacen, una novela sobrecogedora e impactante por su dureza emocional. Es una descripción detallada de una depresión que cualquier persona podría padecer en cualquier época. Es como 'La campana de cristal' del siglo XIX.
February 17, 2008
Peter Hobbs's book is a lovely meditation on faith and vocation. How do we carry on with what we feel is right when so much of what we experience tells us to give up? What does it mean to be faithful to our friends, family, and, for the protagonist, God? Hobbs's writing lifts off the page and you're lucky if you can grasp the odd fragment and hold it close to your heart for safe keeping.
January 7, 2017
I found this little volume at a Bargain Books seasonal store in the mall. For $1.99. It proved to be a real bargain!
I was drawn to pick it up by the flyleaf note. The author,"drawing on his great-great-grandfather's diaries...has created a novel of breathtaking ambition and stylistic innovation, and of enormous emotional power."
The setting is Cornwall, England in 1870. Charles Wenmoth is 27. He has left his family farm to apprentice as a blacksmith. He is working to become a lay preacher, like his father and grand-father before him. His life is harsh. His landlady provides no comfort or solace and barely tolerates his being there. Although his boss is fair and patient, the work is strenuous and the days are long. Charles finds himself drawn to a young woman who is dying of tuberculosis and is blind, but has a deep faith and acceptance of her situation in life.
Too poor to afford transportation, Charles takes many long walks around the countryside, finding beauty and inspiration in nature. The land and weather becomes a major character in the novel.
Aware of the shortness of life, struggling with the decline of the church and the meaning of his call to a generation who has turned from God, and wrestling with the hope of a better life in Australia, Charles's inner conflicts are told in his own thoughts and speech.
As I read this slender volume, the first snow of the season was encasing West Michigan in it's chill white blanket, the short days offering little brightness. Perhaps not the best setting for reading a novel as deep and bleak as "The Short Day Dying". Charles despairs over how quickly our time here flies. "It is a dispiriting thing to think that another year has almost escaped us with many of the hopes I had for it remaining unfulfilled." And here I am in mid-December, looking back over a year that saw the death of my father and my husband's mother, the leaving of one church and community for a new two-year interim appointment for my husband, and two surgeries for him as well. My mother died when she was still the age I am now. This young man, the author Peter Hobbs, born in 1973 could be our son. How did he come to understand these things, the swiftness of time and the frustration of a dying church, the loneliness of being far from family, and the struggle of faith?
"The years will not be restored to me."
"And still the days come meted out like water from a drying well. How many more of them shall we have? The days come they number fewer they grow short and I feel how pressing time is. Everything given over to be lost from us. The hours desert us while we still have hold on them and though we open our hands to see what it is we grip we find our hands are empty. This present where we live is an impossible point it cannot be. There is nothing other than a falling into eternity our freedom taken from us in the rush of time."
"And yet I have felt free in the past so why not now. Each moment must be new. We have them briefly but they have not been lived before. Though they go quickly from us and there is nothing in the days that we have not already seen there must be room for us. Room for decisions and choices room enough for us to be free so that we are not condemned to trudge our plotted courses to their end without say on where those roads lead us. Except for our freedom we are all a part of the lifeless Inferno consumed and destroyed by this world. We must have choice. I cannot see it in my life but it must be so. How else shall we be saved?"
We today have luxuries and comforts far beyond our great-great-grandfather's wildest dreams. Twenty-seven is not mid-life, but when many begin families. But we still search for meaning and connection and direction. Perhaps if we were as aware of the shortness of life as Charles in this novel, we would struggle more to use our time wiser than we do. Less sitting at television, fewer take-out meals. More long walks in communion with God's beauty. More time showing our love. Struggling with how to best use the days allotted us.
It is something to consider as another calendar year ends.
I was drawn to pick it up by the flyleaf note. The author,"drawing on his great-great-grandfather's diaries...has created a novel of breathtaking ambition and stylistic innovation, and of enormous emotional power."
The setting is Cornwall, England in 1870. Charles Wenmoth is 27. He has left his family farm to apprentice as a blacksmith. He is working to become a lay preacher, like his father and grand-father before him. His life is harsh. His landlady provides no comfort or solace and barely tolerates his being there. Although his boss is fair and patient, the work is strenuous and the days are long. Charles finds himself drawn to a young woman who is dying of tuberculosis and is blind, but has a deep faith and acceptance of her situation in life.
Too poor to afford transportation, Charles takes many long walks around the countryside, finding beauty and inspiration in nature. The land and weather becomes a major character in the novel.
Aware of the shortness of life, struggling with the decline of the church and the meaning of his call to a generation who has turned from God, and wrestling with the hope of a better life in Australia, Charles's inner conflicts are told in his own thoughts and speech.
As I read this slender volume, the first snow of the season was encasing West Michigan in it's chill white blanket, the short days offering little brightness. Perhaps not the best setting for reading a novel as deep and bleak as "The Short Day Dying". Charles despairs over how quickly our time here flies. "It is a dispiriting thing to think that another year has almost escaped us with many of the hopes I had for it remaining unfulfilled." And here I am in mid-December, looking back over a year that saw the death of my father and my husband's mother, the leaving of one church and community for a new two-year interim appointment for my husband, and two surgeries for him as well. My mother died when she was still the age I am now. This young man, the author Peter Hobbs, born in 1973 could be our son. How did he come to understand these things, the swiftness of time and the frustration of a dying church, the loneliness of being far from family, and the struggle of faith?
"The years will not be restored to me."
"And still the days come meted out like water from a drying well. How many more of them shall we have? The days come they number fewer they grow short and I feel how pressing time is. Everything given over to be lost from us. The hours desert us while we still have hold on them and though we open our hands to see what it is we grip we find our hands are empty. This present where we live is an impossible point it cannot be. There is nothing other than a falling into eternity our freedom taken from us in the rush of time."
"And yet I have felt free in the past so why not now. Each moment must be new. We have them briefly but they have not been lived before. Though they go quickly from us and there is nothing in the days that we have not already seen there must be room for us. Room for decisions and choices room enough for us to be free so that we are not condemned to trudge our plotted courses to their end without say on where those roads lead us. Except for our freedom we are all a part of the lifeless Inferno consumed and destroyed by this world. We must have choice. I cannot see it in my life but it must be so. How else shall we be saved?"
We today have luxuries and comforts far beyond our great-great-grandfather's wildest dreams. Twenty-seven is not mid-life, but when many begin families. But we still search for meaning and connection and direction. Perhaps if we were as aware of the shortness of life as Charles in this novel, we would struggle more to use our time wiser than we do. Less sitting at television, fewer take-out meals. More long walks in communion with God's beauty. More time showing our love. Struggling with how to best use the days allotted us.
It is something to consider as another calendar year ends.
October 2, 2008
First thought upon finishing this book was that it was beautiful, peaceful, sad and hopeful. I had picked up this book desperately wanting to love it and was not disappointed.
Upon skimming back through it to jot down some quotes and passages that I had particularly liked, I re-discovered something that I had thought at various times throughout but had forgotten by the end: the main character is pretty whiny and self indulgent. Always crying about time going by and how he feels stuck in his position and he gets wrapped up in his own problems and ignores a lot of his duty, succumbing to self pity and basically incapacitating himself.
But then I remember, this is written as a journal, and where else can you show off a little bit of your whiny, fearful, impotent side than in a journal? So I shrugged it off as a literary device and as showing the humanity of the character. Who am I to judge when I feel much the same sometimes.
What made me like the book so much was how it deals with faith, balancing that against the all too human tendency towards fear and despair and doubt. One moment we can look at the clouds and hills and feel the sunshine and all of a sudden feel that there is something more, feel at peace with the world, feel true joy and freedom. But then tragedy strikes, or sickness, or we just get caught up in the day to day drudgery of life, and suddenly we no longer have the peace we felt yesterday. This book very poignantly displays this tug between faith and doubt in the life of an ordinary man, trying to be the best that he can be and find his place in the world, trying to balance his duties with his hopes and dreams and maintain just a little faith.
Upon skimming back through it to jot down some quotes and passages that I had particularly liked, I re-discovered something that I had thought at various times throughout but had forgotten by the end: the main character is pretty whiny and self indulgent. Always crying about time going by and how he feels stuck in his position and he gets wrapped up in his own problems and ignores a lot of his duty, succumbing to self pity and basically incapacitating himself.
But then I remember, this is written as a journal, and where else can you show off a little bit of your whiny, fearful, impotent side than in a journal? So I shrugged it off as a literary device and as showing the humanity of the character. Who am I to judge when I feel much the same sometimes.
What made me like the book so much was how it deals with faith, balancing that against the all too human tendency towards fear and despair and doubt. One moment we can look at the clouds and hills and feel the sunshine and all of a sudden feel that there is something more, feel at peace with the world, feel true joy and freedom. But then tragedy strikes, or sickness, or we just get caught up in the day to day drudgery of life, and suddenly we no longer have the peace we felt yesterday. This book very poignantly displays this tug between faith and doubt in the life of an ordinary man, trying to be the best that he can be and find his place in the world, trying to balance his duties with his hopes and dreams and maintain just a little faith.
March 17, 2016
Bleak and beautiful.
April 12, 2025
A gripping evocation of the Cornwall of 1870, told, in the first person, by Charles Wenmoth, a Wesleyan lay preacher and apprentice blacksmith. This sounds much like a diary from the period, indeed it was inspired by the diary of Hobb’s own great grandfather. It is reminiscent of a similar work, ‘Lifting the Latch’ by Shiela Stewart. The choice of sentence structure, with no commas, and missing full stops, seems on the verge of stream of consciousness, but this serves as, at least to me, a great vehicle to show the mores and schooling of the period. One can never forget that this is Victorian Cornwall and the text is a constant reminder. But this is also a work of some fiction, though having a similar factual basis. Apparently, nothing much happens, but the fascination is in the working of the narrator’s thoughts and trials. One feels for Charles, who is sickly and very lonely, tormented by his Christian faith, which should have given him comfort, nostalgic for his childhood innocence, and with an adult inability to ‘only connect’. His only friend seems to be a very sickly blind girl, and, one senses, someone with whom he is (unrequitedly) in love. At the very least, he loves the natural world and this does seem to give him a little joy. Hobb’s has composed some beautifully written passages here, showing the beauty of Nature, as well as, in one chapter, its terrible fury.
The book was written almost a quarter of a century ago, but the modern world seems so much more distant now from this world. It is a dour journey, full of grief, but worth taking.
The book was written almost a quarter of a century ago, but the modern world seems so much more distant now from this world. It is a dour journey, full of grief, but worth taking.
June 4, 2021
Still not sure how I feel about this unique little novel. The more melancholy I became over the past few weeks--for various reasons--the more I liked the book, if that says anything.
December 2, 2023
I can relate 😕
July 9, 2011
It’s been a week since I finished this, but the delay reviewing has as much to do with my strange reaction as a lack of time to set my thoughts out. I don’t think I’ve read anything quite like it before.
It’s the journal of a lay Methodist preacher in south west England in around 1870, written with an authenticity similar to Peter Carey’s True History of the Kelly Gang – i.e. long sentences with little punctuation that require the reader to focus, but provide real intimacy. Our narrator, Charles Wenmoth, is a young man of genuine religious fervour, spending his free time travelling long distances to preach, visiting the sick, and replacing tracts in an area of declining religious attendance. But though I rushed through the first half, the second half of the book provides a heart-breaking account of Wenmouth losing his faith, prompted by the death of a sick girl who he has visited regularly. His days are spent working in a forge, and he lives far from home with little comfort or friendship; his spiritual doubts are rendered all the more intense.
This is an impressive book, but I found it impossibly bleak. Wenmouth is sustained, just, by his love of the natural world, but his human loneliness and existential doubts come thick and fast as the book develops. Stepping back, it’s an interesting window into a small area of our relatively recent history, but the tone is so genuine that I kept wanting to look away.
It’s the journal of a lay Methodist preacher in south west England in around 1870, written with an authenticity similar to Peter Carey’s True History of the Kelly Gang – i.e. long sentences with little punctuation that require the reader to focus, but provide real intimacy. Our narrator, Charles Wenmoth, is a young man of genuine religious fervour, spending his free time travelling long distances to preach, visiting the sick, and replacing tracts in an area of declining religious attendance. But though I rushed through the first half, the second half of the book provides a heart-breaking account of Wenmouth losing his faith, prompted by the death of a sick girl who he has visited regularly. His days are spent working in a forge, and he lives far from home with little comfort or friendship; his spiritual doubts are rendered all the more intense.
This is an impressive book, but I found it impossibly bleak. Wenmouth is sustained, just, by his love of the natural world, but his human loneliness and existential doubts come thick and fast as the book develops. Stepping back, it’s an interesting window into a small area of our relatively recent history, but the tone is so genuine that I kept wanting to look away.
August 29, 2016
A magnificent book, compact, lyrical, profound. I was taken into the psyche of the narrator and his surroundings by a mesmerizing, unique, poetic voice, and he remains in my mind still as one of the fully-shaped characters of modern literature. As with the great modernist novels, this is a complete work of art, beautifully constructed and conceived. It's a work of profound empathy, about an empath, a rare soul who has in common with much of humanity throughout history--but especially in the times of scarcity and trouble--his life of quiet desperation. It is hard to go through his trials with him, because he is so often dragged down by loneliness and his acute awareness of mortality, but he has such a capacity for deep and sensitive perception, you find yourself ever more desperately wishing him happy and well. No happy ending, but a satisfying one. Hobbs is a genius.
April 24, 2009
A skilled and detailed portrait of rural 19th century England. Hobbs immerses the reader in well-researched discourse and authentic language. The resulting journey into the specific issues faced by a Methodist lay preacher at the turn of the century, reminding the reader of many enduring spiritual questions (generally speaking, those related to a wavering of faith) as well as many ecclesiastical questions (generally speaking, those related to a waning of attendance).
Slow-paced, not for everyone, but a brilliant acheivement that will reward a patient reader.
Slow-paced, not for everyone, but a brilliant acheivement that will reward a patient reader.
December 17, 2012
Written in the style of a journal, this short novel is about a lay preacher trying to live out his faith in a small English town. He has to be holy with out being legalistic, do his duty but keep his vigor. I think the book captured the time period well with the churches entanglement with the temperance movement. Not an overly happy ending but one with hope as the main charactor developes more spiritual maturity.
March 27, 2013
I'd compare the experience of reading this book to lying naked in a bath and having several buckets of cold (though perfectly made) porridge slowly poured over you. Not particularly uplifting, though certainly an experience you won't have forget. Hobbs' comma-less style is grim, drear and relentless, much like the internal wranglings of conscience endured by his protagonist. A beautifully written book, however.
September 29, 2009
Besides containing a wonderfully refreshing and inspirational story about perserving through diminishing returns, the author writes in a language the is fascinating on its own. I had no idea that eliminating all commas and using the verb 'were' with singlular nouns would ad such richness to a story.
September 15, 2020
Any evaluation of this book on my part is certain to be unfair; it's a beautifully written portrait of a place and time as experienced through the life of a lay preacher in 19th century pastoral England. Peter Hobbs infuses his prose with the ethos and style of language prevalent. His protagonist, a man of scant education, never falters from this unadorned form of speech; every phrase rings with sincerity. The book is an internal monologue, entirely driven by character and local color; nothing of note ever happens.
Regrettably, the book was probably an unwise choice for me, simply because of its deeply religious theme. I don't doubt that a reader who is a devoted Christian would embrace it and offer a much more sympathetic review, while I cannot do so.
Regrettably, the book was probably an unwise choice for me, simply because of its deeply religious theme. I don't doubt that a reader who is a devoted Christian would embrace it and offer a much more sympathetic review, while I cannot do so.
September 14, 2020
I really did like this book. Set around the late nineteenth century, I felt immersed throughout. It seemed very real. So often we read books from this time that are emotional/passionate but not always believable but this book was different, It was the sensitive account of a blacksmith/lay methodist preacher narrated by himself. If you want sex, romance or violence this isn't for you but it is beautiful in other ways. I felt the setting was very descriptive and the characters well thought out. Never reading the write ups, I wondered could this be a true account, even written by the main character but it's not, it's just a very good novel, one that you wont want to rush.
August 17, 2017
Cornwall story of sadness and depression as the main character struggles to get through a blacksmith apprenticeship in a town away from his home and family as well as to preach in a parish of declining membership. Unremitting loss of days as life passes without promise of freedom from sadness and alienation. Finally a visit to family and . . .
January 15, 2018
FIve stars because I could relate to the main character. I did like his writing style as well.
July 4, 2019
Very well written, but depressing. As simple as that!
December 18, 2021
A reflective but rather mournful read.
April 14, 2025
made me really miss praying
…and i knew in my heart. i knew it as i have known nothing before or since.
…and i knew in my heart. i knew it as i have known nothing before or since.
November 6, 2019
This book was just boring.
December 27, 2025
A quiet, exacting portrait of faith, landscape, and loneliness
The Short Day Dying is one of those rare novels that feels both meticulously crafted and deeply inhabited. Peter Hobbs reconstructs the inner life of Charles Wenmoth, a Methodist lay preacher in 1870s Cornwall, with such precision that the book often reads like a recovered diary rather than a modern novel. The voice is astonishingly authentic: long, unpunctuated sentences shaped by biblical cadence, regional dialect, and the rhythms of nineteenth‑century spiritual reflection. It is demanding, but once you settle into its flow, it becomes hypnotic.
What struck me most is how Hobbs uses this voice to explore the tension between faith and physicality, duty and desire, isolation and longing. Charles moves through a landscape of poverty, mining injuries, dwindling congregations, and spiritual exhaustion, yet he clings to a sense of purpose that feels both admirable and painfully fragile. His quiet attachment to Harriet French, a blind young woman whose suffering and piety haunt him, becomes the emotional centre of the novel. Their connection is understated, but it lingers.
The novel’s relationship with landscape is equally powerful. Cornwall is not just a backdrop but a living presence: harsh, beautiful, indifferent. Hobbs’s descriptions of nature are some of the most striking passages in the book, and they often reveal more about Charles’s inner life than his explicit reflections. The environment becomes a mirror for his spiritual uncertainty.
That said, the novel’s strengths are also its limitations. The commitment to interiority means the plot is minimal, and the pacing can feel slow. The stylistic authenticity, while impressive, can create emotional distance, and there are moments when the narrative’s restraint borders on austerity. Readers who prefer dramatic arcs or richly developed secondary characters may find the novel too narrow in scope.
But for me, the quietness is part of its power. Hobbs refuses to sensationalise Charles’s life, and that restraint gives the book a rare integrity. The emotional force accumulates gradually, almost imperceptibly, until moments like Charles’s near‑drowning or his crisis of faith land with unexpected weight.
In the end, The Short Day Dying is a contemplative, beautifully wrought novel that rewards patience. It is not a story of grand events, but of small, piercing revelations. For readers drawn to historical fiction that privileges voice, atmosphere, and spiritual introspection, it is a quietly extraordinary achievement.
The Short Day Dying is one of those rare novels that feels both meticulously crafted and deeply inhabited. Peter Hobbs reconstructs the inner life of Charles Wenmoth, a Methodist lay preacher in 1870s Cornwall, with such precision that the book often reads like a recovered diary rather than a modern novel. The voice is astonishingly authentic: long, unpunctuated sentences shaped by biblical cadence, regional dialect, and the rhythms of nineteenth‑century spiritual reflection. It is demanding, but once you settle into its flow, it becomes hypnotic.
What struck me most is how Hobbs uses this voice to explore the tension between faith and physicality, duty and desire, isolation and longing. Charles moves through a landscape of poverty, mining injuries, dwindling congregations, and spiritual exhaustion, yet he clings to a sense of purpose that feels both admirable and painfully fragile. His quiet attachment to Harriet French, a blind young woman whose suffering and piety haunt him, becomes the emotional centre of the novel. Their connection is understated, but it lingers.
The novel’s relationship with landscape is equally powerful. Cornwall is not just a backdrop but a living presence: harsh, beautiful, indifferent. Hobbs’s descriptions of nature are some of the most striking passages in the book, and they often reveal more about Charles’s inner life than his explicit reflections. The environment becomes a mirror for his spiritual uncertainty.
That said, the novel’s strengths are also its limitations. The commitment to interiority means the plot is minimal, and the pacing can feel slow. The stylistic authenticity, while impressive, can create emotional distance, and there are moments when the narrative’s restraint borders on austerity. Readers who prefer dramatic arcs or richly developed secondary characters may find the novel too narrow in scope.
But for me, the quietness is part of its power. Hobbs refuses to sensationalise Charles’s life, and that restraint gives the book a rare integrity. The emotional force accumulates gradually, almost imperceptibly, until moments like Charles’s near‑drowning or his crisis of faith land with unexpected weight.
In the end, The Short Day Dying is a contemplative, beautifully wrought novel that rewards patience. It is not a story of grand events, but of small, piercing revelations. For readers drawn to historical fiction that privileges voice, atmosphere, and spiritual introspection, it is a quietly extraordinary achievement.
July 10, 2013
There's a clue in the title... this was such a different book from In the Orchard the Swallows except in its delicious slimness and poignancy. It is the internal monologue of a 19th Century Cornish lay preacher and blacksmith's apprentice and brings a curious combination of period piece and portrayal of what to me looks like depression or burn out.
The mood of the book is almost stifling. Charles Wenmouth has been billeted with an uncongenial landlady and works hard at learning his trade. His real passion is his religion and yet his devotion seems to have stretched him beyond his endurance and does not seem to bring him the fundamental comfort he seeks. Perhaps he is just worn out with tramping around in all weathers to change the 'tracts' in what I presume are 'wayside pulpits' and to attend meetings and services which are ever more sparsely attended. He does an awful lot of complaining - about his own deficiencies and those of others and although he clutches at moments of happiness, especially out in nature or sitting in communion with the ailing Harriet, it is all effort and his heart is not really in it. He is is experiencing a slow crisis of faith, accelerated by physical illness and by a sense of loss he doesn't fully comprehend. He is puzzled and lost.
It is a hard world to understand, he feels he has so few choices and yet others change their lives - his brother has emigrated, his best friend has gone further West in the county where the Wesleyan congregations are more vigorous. Yet he is far from alone in his grey, repressed outlook on life - Harriet's young brother William, with whom Charles strives but always fails to make a connection, his landlady who will not join her own son in Australia. The archaic language and religious way of speaking do not make this an easy read but it is a good one.
The mood of the book is almost stifling. Charles Wenmouth has been billeted with an uncongenial landlady and works hard at learning his trade. His real passion is his religion and yet his devotion seems to have stretched him beyond his endurance and does not seem to bring him the fundamental comfort he seeks. Perhaps he is just worn out with tramping around in all weathers to change the 'tracts' in what I presume are 'wayside pulpits' and to attend meetings and services which are ever more sparsely attended. He does an awful lot of complaining - about his own deficiencies and those of others and although he clutches at moments of happiness, especially out in nature or sitting in communion with the ailing Harriet, it is all effort and his heart is not really in it. He is is experiencing a slow crisis of faith, accelerated by physical illness and by a sense of loss he doesn't fully comprehend. He is puzzled and lost.
It is a hard world to understand, he feels he has so few choices and yet others change their lives - his brother has emigrated, his best friend has gone further West in the county where the Wesleyan congregations are more vigorous. Yet he is far from alone in his grey, repressed outlook on life - Harriet's young brother William, with whom Charles strives but always fails to make a connection, his landlady who will not join her own son in Australia. The archaic language and religious way of speaking do not make this an easy read but it is a good one.
July 14, 2014
This is a unique and beautiful book - unusual in that nothing really happens but nonetheless I found it addictive reading.
Set in Cornwall, S W England, in 1870 it cronicles a year in the life of Charles Wenmouth. Charles earns a meagre living as an apprentice blacksmith while dedicating all his spare time to walking from hamlet to hamlet preaching, visiting the sick & teaching the faith to the children. By the 1870's many of the copper and tin mines of Cornwall are exhausted and most of Charles congregation live close to destitution and many young people, including Charles brother, have emigrated to Australia. Those who remain are less that dedicated to their Church and while initially his deep and unwavering faith supports him & Charles is unfailing in his duty and sees God in everything around him & his outlook remains optomistic. However when he includes in his sick visits the family of a young blind woman whose health is slowly failing he encounter a "dark night of the soul" and is brough close to, if not into, a deep depression.
This book has a most original and unique style of writing. There is little or no punctuation and it does take a bit of getting used to, in many instances I found myself reading sentences aloud and sometimes repeatedly to get their meaning. But once I got used to it I actually loved the uniques of the writing and found myself repeating the sentences just for the beautiful words.
"That the old lives will not be lived again that we stumble to our end along new roads through shortening days".
Set in Cornwall, S W England, in 1870 it cronicles a year in the life of Charles Wenmouth. Charles earns a meagre living as an apprentice blacksmith while dedicating all his spare time to walking from hamlet to hamlet preaching, visiting the sick & teaching the faith to the children. By the 1870's many of the copper and tin mines of Cornwall are exhausted and most of Charles congregation live close to destitution and many young people, including Charles brother, have emigrated to Australia. Those who remain are less that dedicated to their Church and while initially his deep and unwavering faith supports him & Charles is unfailing in his duty and sees God in everything around him & his outlook remains optomistic. However when he includes in his sick visits the family of a young blind woman whose health is slowly failing he encounter a "dark night of the soul" and is brough close to, if not into, a deep depression.
This book has a most original and unique style of writing. There is little or no punctuation and it does take a bit of getting used to, in many instances I found myself reading sentences aloud and sometimes repeatedly to get their meaning. But once I got used to it I actually loved the uniques of the writing and found myself repeating the sentences just for the beautiful words.
"That the old lives will not be lived again that we stumble to our end along new roads through shortening days".
January 25, 2010
This novel is set in rural England in 1870. The narrator & main character is a 27-year-old apprentice blacksmith & lay Methodist preacher. In short chapters that read very much like weekly journal entries, with regularized spelling but irregular punctuation & run-on sentences, he recounts his spiritual & material struggles over the course of that one year. His faith is inspired by the faith of a suffering young dying woman he visits regularly, but when she dies he himself suffers a "darkness" that he cannot shake. It is a story of longing for a simpler past and both a long and a fear for the future--a longing for a future he seems to have only a dim hope of attaining and a fear that he will be alone in his darkness. From my knowledge of religious history (including a reading of some journals of early 19th-century Methodist preachers), this all appears very authentic historically--a remarkable achievement especially in capturing a past age of faith (and doubt)--but it also seems to speak to the contemporary experience of twenty-something college grads (like 2 of my daughters) who have not yet quite mapped out their future. It also spoke to my current spiritual crisis, though not in a particularly hopeful way. All in all, a very remarkable book, though I should add that I admired it more than I liked it.
February 5, 2016
Written in a style modeled after a 19th century diary written by the author's great-grandfather, The Short Day Dying has a unique voice and a unique story. It reminds me in places of José Saramago, with its stubborn unwillingness to utilize standard punctuation (though whereas with Saramago this is a stylistic decision, with Hobbs it is rather a part of the historical setting and structure), as well as of James Kelman's Kieron Smith, boy in its lilting, often lyrical yet still earthy first person descriptions of everyday life. In terms of plot, Hobbs' novel follows a year in the life of Charles Wenmoth, a young circuit preacher in 19th century Cornwall, as he faces financial, spiritual, and health troubles. Central to the story is Harriet French, a young blind woman who is bedridden and whom Charles frequently visits in the course of his lay preaching work.
February 1, 2013
This powerful and utterly original short novel chronicles one year (1870) in the life of a young blacksmith and Methodist lay-preacher as he struggles with his love for God, as well as an earthly love for a blind girl living her last days in the shadow of death that our narrator has difficulty acknowledging to himself. The guileless voice belonging to this man of simple faith is deceptive - this is an intensely sophisticated work of art, bearing comparison with Faulkner or Cormac McCarthy. Hanging over the novel as a whole is the cruel nature of rural poverty, and many scenes are heartrending, hard to read. There are books five times the length of this one that I've read in half the time, and it's a pleasure to yield to The Short Day Dying's slow pulse.
February 16, 2014
What I will remember most about this book is VOICE. The voice of the main character Charles Wenmoth, a young lay preacher in Cornwall in 1870 is immediate and accessible as he struggles with his place in the world of a dying society dealing with the ravages of mining. Will his faith sustain him, if not him then how can he minister to his dying flock. I picked this slight book up on the staff picks at the PPL and I couldn't put it down.
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