I’ve said it before: Anne Enright is a force of nature. Pure literary power unleashed. She hits strong, she dives deep in raw emotion, she is complicated and crude and rude. Most of the times, I have no idea what she means, what she’s talking about. I finish a story or a book and don’t understand a thing - it leaves me blank. But I feel an immense need for more. The non-understanding blankness she’s left me with turns into a magnet for inspiration, my heart opens wide for something around me I can turn into a sign or a symbol or a religion. She inspires me to want to understand her more and to want to read her better next time. To be more like the force of nature she is.
I think it’s her language. It’s her rhythm and melody, the way her words rise and fall, how her sentences create the sound of a train speeding towards a tunnel. It’s the way her mind ticks and her associations. Things like:
“His parents called him Paul because they were the kind of people who couldn’t decide on the right wallpaper.”
“She made her husband laugh once a day, on principle, and her sons were either virgins or had the excuse of a good job.”
Or one that made me hold my breath:
“In my childhood book of saints there were pictures of people standing with ploughshares at their feet, cathedrals in their hands. This is the church that St. Catherine built. If I painted myself now there would be a round hazy space where my stomach is, and a cathedral inside. This baby is a gothic masterpiece. I can feel the arches rising up under my ribs, the glorious and complicated space.”
I don’t recommend Enright to everyone, because she’s raw and crude and because mostly you don’t know what she’s on about. I don’t know who I’d recommend her to, but I know she’s MY author, she speaks to me, and even if I have no idea what she’s saying (like in half of this tiny story collection), I am here to listen to her and adore her. She pours all the confusion I feel inside on a page in front of me and says:
“I used to drink to bring the house down, just because I saw a few cracks in the wall. But Truth is not an earthquake, it is only a crack in the wall and the house might stand for another hundred years.”