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Way Out West
Fintan Doherty's 1950s childhood in Glenbay, Donegal, is filled with two tales of America told by a plethora of 'returned Yanks' and the silent sadness after his mother's death.
Soon as he can, Fintan leaves for the States – via Europe – and never stands still again. His journey way out west to Ohio, Texas, California and back up to Boston brings to him an eclectic and diverse array of jobs, rented rooms, landscapes, acquaintances, friends and lovers, each one either confirming or confounding his idea of the land he now inhabits. His life as a new and nomadic emigrant – a self 'missing in motion' – is underscored by his search for a painting of his mother by an American artist, who once visited the home place long before Fintan was born.
Fintan's vision of America as a place of fantasy, escape and adventure is as old as the hills. But Anthony Glavin's gentle coming-of-age story will enthral with its texture and world-building, the many delicately and affectionately observed characters, and its subtle reflections on trauma, loss and a hope that somehow renews.
Soon as he can, Fintan leaves for the States – via Europe – and never stands still again. His journey way out west to Ohio, Texas, California and back up to Boston brings to him an eclectic and diverse array of jobs, rented rooms, landscapes, acquaintances, friends and lovers, each one either confirming or confounding his idea of the land he now inhabits. His life as a new and nomadic emigrant – a self 'missing in motion' – is underscored by his search for a painting of his mother by an American artist, who once visited the home place long before Fintan was born.
Fintan's vision of America as a place of fantasy, escape and adventure is as old as the hills. But Anthony Glavin's gentle coming-of-age story will enthral with its texture and world-building, the many delicately and affectionately observed characters, and its subtle reflections on trauma, loss and a hope that somehow renews.
260 pages, Kindle Edition
Published March 15, 2024
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
June 1, 2024
This collection of poetry vividly captures what it must have been like to have been an early settler in the American west.
The opening poem, "From the Bench," also captures what a band of native people must have thought and felt as they watched "a pathetic line of settlers' dust / straggling up valley" into "this home of theirs / borrowed as it was / from the Great Spirit." The poem suggests the combination of consternation and puzzlement that they must have felt not knowing if "these interlopers" would be staying or moving on. For us who now know the story, it's a sad one indeed from the perspective of the original inhabitants (see "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" by Dee Brown, 1970).
After the opening poem the volume shifts to the settlers. The first poems after "From the Bench" - "The Early Ones" and "Wagons Ho" - give you a sense of what it was like to leave everything you knew behind, travel to St. Louis (Gateway to the West), purchase a prairie schooner, oxen, and supplies, and set off into the unknown, literally, the unknown! The later poems capture many aspects of the settlers' lives once they had "tucked themselves into / the folds and creases of the land / and settled in for good."
There are many memorable descriptions of the challenges they faced, such as "the winter air / so cold and clear and alive / a fist full of it would crackle in your hand." And an explanation of how the spring-time run-off irrigates a field: "beneath the drifts / in the deepest drain, a pulse faint and slow / waits to quicken in the thaw and braid the dry fields / with cool extended fingers."
The book concludes with a short story, "Freezing," which explores the thoughts of an old man who encounters a sudden snow storm on his way to town to pick up mail and supplies. It's a reflection on human nature, our relationships with others, and the natural world.
Even if you are not a regular reader of poetry, I recommend this book. It is very clear and accessible, yet rich with special insights and wonderful turns of phrase.
The opening poem, "From the Bench," also captures what a band of native people must have thought and felt as they watched "a pathetic line of settlers' dust / straggling up valley" into "this home of theirs / borrowed as it was / from the Great Spirit." The poem suggests the combination of consternation and puzzlement that they must have felt not knowing if "these interlopers" would be staying or moving on. For us who now know the story, it's a sad one indeed from the perspective of the original inhabitants (see "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee" by Dee Brown, 1970).
After the opening poem the volume shifts to the settlers. The first poems after "From the Bench" - "The Early Ones" and "Wagons Ho" - give you a sense of what it was like to leave everything you knew behind, travel to St. Louis (Gateway to the West), purchase a prairie schooner, oxen, and supplies, and set off into the unknown, literally, the unknown! The later poems capture many aspects of the settlers' lives once they had "tucked themselves into / the folds and creases of the land / and settled in for good."
There are many memorable descriptions of the challenges they faced, such as "the winter air / so cold and clear and alive / a fist full of it would crackle in your hand." And an explanation of how the spring-time run-off irrigates a field: "beneath the drifts / in the deepest drain, a pulse faint and slow / waits to quicken in the thaw and braid the dry fields / with cool extended fingers."
The book concludes with a short story, "Freezing," which explores the thoughts of an old man who encounters a sudden snow storm on his way to town to pick up mail and supplies. It's a reflection on human nature, our relationships with others, and the natural world.
Even if you are not a regular reader of poetry, I recommend this book. It is very clear and accessible, yet rich with special insights and wonderful turns of phrase.
December 28, 2025
A thoroughly human story about Ireland and America, and everything in between.
Picture Fintan growing up in Donegal, a three-room whitewashed cottage still thatched in 1955, in Glenbay, where ‘the wide world washed in from time to time’, where praying against fairies only stopped with Father Boyle’s arrival. His uncle Condy and other returned émigrés ‘swap lies about America’, filling an emotional gap after his mother dies.
This creates a wanderlust in him, and he never stops, London, Paris, Hanover, Ohio, St Louis, Wisconsin, San Francisco, Boston, a ‘self missing in motion’. He voraciously reads books which he gets from libraries. He searches for a painting of his mother by an American artist, which becomes a metaphor for his unrestful soul, which shies from the ‘overblown excesses’ of America, yet hunts for ‘the bleed between a storied past and the here and now’.
‘To be here now is more about consciousness than locale.’
It begins slowly, as we meet Fintan’s parents Packy and Mary and all the characters in the village. The novel’s structure roves like Fintan, its storytelling style, while wholly appropriate, is hard to sink one’s teeth into at first. He moves from town to town ‘like a dart thrown on a map’, from job to job, observing America, the people, the ‘earnestness’. The stories aren’t tall tales, just little vignettes of humanity.
Author Glavin is an émigré from the other direction, from Boston to Donegal, yet his work has an Irish feel, with pathos, subtlety and vivid storytelling. His portraits of Glenbay folk seem so authentic, I’d bet he himself has heard some of those stories. He sees America through Irish eyes.
There’s an understated loneliness pervading this novel, all the more poignant as the language is beautiful, the people, their stories and the little vignettes wondrous.
This review first appeared in Historical Novels Review.
Picture Fintan growing up in Donegal, a three-room whitewashed cottage still thatched in 1955, in Glenbay, where ‘the wide world washed in from time to time’, where praying against fairies only stopped with Father Boyle’s arrival. His uncle Condy and other returned émigrés ‘swap lies about America’, filling an emotional gap after his mother dies.
This creates a wanderlust in him, and he never stops, London, Paris, Hanover, Ohio, St Louis, Wisconsin, San Francisco, Boston, a ‘self missing in motion’. He voraciously reads books which he gets from libraries. He searches for a painting of his mother by an American artist, which becomes a metaphor for his unrestful soul, which shies from the ‘overblown excesses’ of America, yet hunts for ‘the bleed between a storied past and the here and now’.
‘To be here now is more about consciousness than locale.’
It begins slowly, as we meet Fintan’s parents Packy and Mary and all the characters in the village. The novel’s structure roves like Fintan, its storytelling style, while wholly appropriate, is hard to sink one’s teeth into at first. He moves from town to town ‘like a dart thrown on a map’, from job to job, observing America, the people, the ‘earnestness’. The stories aren’t tall tales, just little vignettes of humanity.
Author Glavin is an émigré from the other direction, from Boston to Donegal, yet his work has an Irish feel, with pathos, subtlety and vivid storytelling. His portraits of Glenbay folk seem so authentic, I’d bet he himself has heard some of those stories. He sees America through Irish eyes.
There’s an understated loneliness pervading this novel, all the more poignant as the language is beautiful, the people, their stories and the little vignettes wondrous.
This review first appeared in Historical Novels Review.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews