What do you think?
Rate this book
This is the Ritual
A young man in a dark depression roams the vast, formless landscape of a Dublin industrial park where he meets a vagrant in the grip of a dangerous ideology. A woman fleeing a break-up finds herself taking part in an unusual sleep experiment. A man obsessed with Nietzsche clings desperately to his girlfriend's red shoes. And whatever happened to Killian Turner, Ireland's vanished literary outlaw?
Lost and isolated, the characters in these masterful stories play out their fragmented relationships in a series of European cities, always on the move; from rented room to darkened apartment, hitchhiker's roadside to Barcelona nightclub. Rob Doyle, a shape-shifting drifter, a reclusive writer, also stalks the book's pages.
Layering narratives and splicing fiction with non-fiction, This is the Ritual tells of the ecstatic, the desperate and the uncertain. Immersive, at times dreamlike, and frank in its depiction of sex, the writer's life, failed ideals and the transience of emotions, it introduces an unmistakable new literary voice.
Lost and isolated, the characters in these masterful stories play out their fragmented relationships in a series of European cities, always on the move; from rented room to darkened apartment, hitchhiker's roadside to Barcelona nightclub. Rob Doyle, a shape-shifting drifter, a reclusive writer, also stalks the book's pages.
Layering narratives and splicing fiction with non-fiction, This is the Ritual tells of the ecstatic, the desperate and the uncertain. Immersive, at times dreamlike, and frank in its depiction of sex, the writer's life, failed ideals and the transience of emotions, it introduces an unmistakable new literary voice.
208 pages, Paperback
First published January 28, 2016
9 people are currently reading
655 people want to read
About the author
Rob Doyle
26 books147 followersRob Doyle’s first novel, Here Are the Young Men, is published by Bloomsbury, and was chosen as a book of the year by The Irish Times, Sunday Times, Sunday Business Post, and Independent. It was shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards Newcomer of the Year. His second book, This Is the Ritual, will be published in January 2016 (Bloomsbury / Lilliput). Rob’s fiction, essays, and criticism have appeared in The Dublin Review, The Stinging Fly, The Irish Times, Sunday Times, Sunday Business Post, Gorse, Dalkey Archive’s Best European Fiction 2016 and elsewhere.
Ratings & Reviews
Friends & Following
Create a free account to discover what your friends think of this book!
Community Reviews
Displaying 1 - 28 of 28 reviews
April 1, 2017
This is the Ritual is a collection of short stories concerned, in its own twisted way, with literary life. Not the glamorous New-York-publishing-world type, but the kind experienced by those who try and fail, try again and fail harder, and toil in relative or total obscurity. As one chapter of 'Three Writers' begins: Failure can be a kind of career. Bitterness too. In these stories, writers live in poverty and squalor, work in depressing, mindless jobs, and wander stretches of wasteland in their spare time. The better-off among them might live with their parents, travel a bit, have a relationship (before its inevitable demise) or enjoy mild success (before its inevitable collapse). They sink into depression and medicate themselves with cheap, shitty drugs and drink and empty sex. The author, or someone bearing his name, wanders in and out of the narrative, but many other characters also seem intended as avatars of the author. A handful of the stories take the form of biographical accounts of forgotten writers. (They're all fictional characters, but it's easy to wonder, and I had to double-check more than once.)
Imaginary literary forms and microgenres litter these tales: the 'paltry realism' invented by John-Paul Finnegan; Fredrick Mulligan's 'Paddy-slasher'; the ill-advised 'Nazi-pastoral' of Killian Turner. I could read Doyle's writing about other, off-page, invented writing forever, and the faux-biographies were my absolute favourite parts of the book. 'Exiled in the Infinite – Killian Turner, Ireland’s Vanished Literary Outlaw', 'Jean-Pierre Passolet, a Reminiscence' and the three chapters of 'Three Writers' are all among the best parts of This is the Ritual. They can be laugh-out-loud funny but they often end with a downbeat thump of a sentence: Haynes never wrote again. Banned on first appearance, Mulligan's books have never been published in Ireland to this day. He died in 1999, following complications of the large intestine.
The centrepiece story, 'Outposts', is difficult. Told in four parts, some of which are further split down into sub-chapters, it consists of short, patchworked fragments and snippets of dialogue. Characters traverse a post-apocalyptic landscape, spouting noirish lines. Figures and emblems recur, blur, switch; the resulting mental images resemble a surreal, stubbornly inexplicable film, and the structure, such as there is one, reminded me of Roberto Bolaño's Antwerp. Doyle actually describes it best himself – except of course he's not describing 'Outposts' at all, but the forgotten masterpiece Cities in Crystal by Jean-Pierre Passolet:
Set in an unnamed, mist-enshrouded country during a time of war, and populated by characters who appear and then drop out again without logic or pattern, only to reappear with different names and personalities, [it] is one of the few novels I know deserving of that much-overused epithet, 'dreamlike'. It is also a singularly menacing read: although no violence or horror is depicted directly, it is impossible not to sense, on almost every page, the proximity of an intense, brooding malevolence.
This is a fiercely intelligent collection that nevertheless recognises the tedium inherent in conventional literary fiction and seeks to violently usurp it. (In the opening story Doyle has his protagonist, John-Paul Finnegan, deliver a scathing screed against Ulysses and its status in Irish literary culture, but also alludes to Joycean style with Finnegan's stream-of-consciousness monologue.) The result is the rare sort of book that will appeal to lovers of experimental metafiction and reluctant readers alike. Critics have lavished praise on it in droves, but I'm surprised at the small numbers of reader reviews on this site, Amazon and elsewhere. More people need to read this book. It's accessible, but there's nothing quotidian about it.
In a nutshell, This is the Ritual is bleak, nihilistic, funny and filthy; I loved it.
TinyLetter | Twitter | Instagram | Tumblr
Imaginary literary forms and microgenres litter these tales: the 'paltry realism' invented by John-Paul Finnegan; Fredrick Mulligan's 'Paddy-slasher'; the ill-advised 'Nazi-pastoral' of Killian Turner. I could read Doyle's writing about other, off-page, invented writing forever, and the faux-biographies were my absolute favourite parts of the book. 'Exiled in the Infinite – Killian Turner, Ireland’s Vanished Literary Outlaw', 'Jean-Pierre Passolet, a Reminiscence' and the three chapters of 'Three Writers' are all among the best parts of This is the Ritual. They can be laugh-out-loud funny but they often end with a downbeat thump of a sentence: Haynes never wrote again. Banned on first appearance, Mulligan's books have never been published in Ireland to this day. He died in 1999, following complications of the large intestine.
The centrepiece story, 'Outposts', is difficult. Told in four parts, some of which are further split down into sub-chapters, it consists of short, patchworked fragments and snippets of dialogue. Characters traverse a post-apocalyptic landscape, spouting noirish lines. Figures and emblems recur, blur, switch; the resulting mental images resemble a surreal, stubbornly inexplicable film, and the structure, such as there is one, reminded me of Roberto Bolaño's Antwerp. Doyle actually describes it best himself – except of course he's not describing 'Outposts' at all, but the forgotten masterpiece Cities in Crystal by Jean-Pierre Passolet:
Set in an unnamed, mist-enshrouded country during a time of war, and populated by characters who appear and then drop out again without logic or pattern, only to reappear with different names and personalities, [it] is one of the few novels I know deserving of that much-overused epithet, 'dreamlike'. It is also a singularly menacing read: although no violence or horror is depicted directly, it is impossible not to sense, on almost every page, the proximity of an intense, brooding malevolence.
This is a fiercely intelligent collection that nevertheless recognises the tedium inherent in conventional literary fiction and seeks to violently usurp it. (In the opening story Doyle has his protagonist, John-Paul Finnegan, deliver a scathing screed against Ulysses and its status in Irish literary culture, but also alludes to Joycean style with Finnegan's stream-of-consciousness monologue.) The result is the rare sort of book that will appeal to lovers of experimental metafiction and reluctant readers alike. Critics have lavished praise on it in droves, but I'm surprised at the small numbers of reader reviews on this site, Amazon and elsewhere. More people need to read this book. It's accessible, but there's nothing quotidian about it.
In a nutshell, This is the Ritual is bleak, nihilistic, funny and filthy; I loved it.
TinyLetter | Twitter | Instagram | Tumblr
July 7, 2016
I wished that I'd liked this, I really didn't. I really, really didn't.
Some might be tempted to call Doyle's style, "uncompromising", but I just found it a mix of pretentious and irritating.
I dunno, maybe I'm getting old, but I found the whole experience dull rather than shocking.
Some might be tempted to call Doyle's style, "uncompromising", but I just found it a mix of pretentious and irritating.
I dunno, maybe I'm getting old, but I found the whole experience dull rather than shocking.
July 26, 2017
Eigentlich bin ich kein grosser Fan von Kurzgeschichten-Sammlungen - oft verliere ich mich zu schnell zwischen den einzelnen Erzählungen und vergesse zu viele Details. Es gibt es aber immer wieder, dass mit ein solches Buch komplett überrascht und vollends überzeugt. "This is the Ritual" von Rob Doyle ist eines dieser Werke, und als erst zweite Veröffentlichung des umso erstaunlicher.
Denn was Doyle hier an Figuren, Stimmungen, Szenarien und Ideen hervorzaubert ist gewaltig. Der Autor wagt sich mit oft dreckiger, vulgärer, gnadenloser und verzweifelter Schrift an gescheiterte Existenzen, literarischen Überlegungen, sexuelle Fantasien, traumähnliche Zustände und den innersten Punkt der nihilistischen Lebensweise.
Die Charaktere in seinen Geschichten haben oft die Welt und sich selber auf eine Weise aufgegeben und suchen Halt in der Vergangenheit - was aber leider zu keiner Lösung führen kann. Trotzdem sind die Geschichten nicht misanthropisch, viel eher real. "This is the Ritual" ist somit ein Buch, das wuchtig und direkt trifft - und die Lobeshymnen auf dem Rücken rechtfertigt.
Denn was Doyle hier an Figuren, Stimmungen, Szenarien und Ideen hervorzaubert ist gewaltig. Der Autor wagt sich mit oft dreckiger, vulgärer, gnadenloser und verzweifelter Schrift an gescheiterte Existenzen, literarischen Überlegungen, sexuelle Fantasien, traumähnliche Zustände und den innersten Punkt der nihilistischen Lebensweise.
Die Charaktere in seinen Geschichten haben oft die Welt und sich selber auf eine Weise aufgegeben und suchen Halt in der Vergangenheit - was aber leider zu keiner Lösung führen kann. Trotzdem sind die Geschichten nicht misanthropisch, viel eher real. "This is the Ritual" ist somit ein Buch, das wuchtig und direkt trifft - und die Lobeshymnen auf dem Rücken rechtfertigt.
July 31, 2025
up Nietzsche, down with Ulysses
August 22, 2024
Enjoyed the spoof author stuff. Hilarious. But often it was just too much for me - think Bataille (one of his protagonists claims to be Bataille reincarnated), Burroughs - one story was about a pornographic film of forty minutes looking at an anus, that sort of thing.
April 14, 2024
mostly brilliant, sometimes harrowing, sometimes funny, quite simply a writer at the top of his craft; personal fav bit was Paris Story
February 5, 2018
This collection—you keep guessing. Dole’s incredible range. No striving for unity here. Keeps me off-balance. He’s dipped into every genre, played with every voice, poked his fingers into all the structural elements. At the very least: you are impressed with the technique. At the worst: you wonder, how far such virtuosity?
The first piece , on the wanna-be author John-Paul Finnegan, a muffled rant on Joyce. Or is it a paean? Another piece, on the imaginary Irish writer Killian Turner, so academic-sounding I had to look the guy up. So evidently did a score of others, on Wikipaedia. So much for incredulity.
Burned twice…I turn to the Ballymouth estate, where the hero/author is isolated in convalescent mode. On one of his dour, winding walks he runs into another loaner. The older man shares his life story and some wisdom about Nietzsche, and his stay in a mental institution. The author finally drops into a troubled dreaming. He spirals deeper and deeper into infinite regression—his own future.
That one had legs, yes, even though it nailed down nothing. So, on to another, the minimalist Paris love story, featuring two struggling writers, X, and K. They marry. They sublimate their true feelings. X pens a scathing criticism. They go on with their lives.
Doyle veers further into full-throttled experimentalism. Disjointed scenes and sensations bombard the reader. Vignettes most involving a writer of some sort—hard-up, hitchhiking all over, waking up disoriented, alone, stoned. Then comes a longer story about Alicia, Alicia who moves to Barcelona, Alicia who meets Halid, Alicia who becomes the artist’s erotic object. The eroticism is subdued. It morphs into the writer’s sensibility hovering drone-like. Finally we zero in on the one ultimate, the black anus, in pornographic close-up.
Which brings us back to Nietzsche. It’s one big rhythmic cycle. Which is the whole flavor of the collection, the rolling waves sensibility.
The first piece , on the wanna-be author John-Paul Finnegan, a muffled rant on Joyce. Or is it a paean? Another piece, on the imaginary Irish writer Killian Turner, so academic-sounding I had to look the guy up. So evidently did a score of others, on Wikipaedia. So much for incredulity.
Burned twice…I turn to the Ballymouth estate, where the hero/author is isolated in convalescent mode. On one of his dour, winding walks he runs into another loaner. The older man shares his life story and some wisdom about Nietzsche, and his stay in a mental institution. The author finally drops into a troubled dreaming. He spirals deeper and deeper into infinite regression—his own future.
That one had legs, yes, even though it nailed down nothing. So, on to another, the minimalist Paris love story, featuring two struggling writers, X, and K. They marry. They sublimate their true feelings. X pens a scathing criticism. They go on with their lives.
Doyle veers further into full-throttled experimentalism. Disjointed scenes and sensations bombard the reader. Vignettes most involving a writer of some sort—hard-up, hitchhiking all over, waking up disoriented, alone, stoned. Then comes a longer story about Alicia, Alicia who moves to Barcelona, Alicia who meets Halid, Alicia who becomes the artist’s erotic object. The eroticism is subdued. It morphs into the writer’s sensibility hovering drone-like. Finally we zero in on the one ultimate, the black anus, in pornographic close-up.
Which brings us back to Nietzsche. It’s one big rhythmic cycle. Which is the whole flavor of the collection, the rolling waves sensibility.
August 22, 2018
I read Doyle's first book, the novel Here are the Young Men. Although very enjoyable and quite unique as far as Irish writing goes, based on the strength of some of his short stories and non-fiction with which I was familiar with, I thought Doyle was falling slightly short of the mark given the prodigious talent I believed him to be. However, with This is the Ritual, I think he is growing into the writer he is capable of being.
It's a collection of short stpries with some highly experimental flourishes. A 30 page section of the book is a disjointed series of vignettes in what appears to be postwar Europe starring two doomed lovers like some Beckettian romance; a series of fictional biographies of unsuccessful writers is presented with all credibility and sincerity; and haunting the collection like a bad smell is the (possibly) semi-autobiographical spectre of Doyle himself. But amidst all of the ficitonal failed writers, it's uncertain how much Doyle is in these figures and how much of it is Doyle having a long, sustained and cynical laugh at himself.
Besides the experimental flourishes and the spectral authorial self-insertion, the more conventional stories are all very strong making this an excellent collection.
It's a collection of short stpries with some highly experimental flourishes. A 30 page section of the book is a disjointed series of vignettes in what appears to be postwar Europe starring two doomed lovers like some Beckettian romance; a series of fictional biographies of unsuccessful writers is presented with all credibility and sincerity; and haunting the collection like a bad smell is the (possibly) semi-autobiographical spectre of Doyle himself. But amidst all of the ficitonal failed writers, it's uncertain how much Doyle is in these figures and how much of it is Doyle having a long, sustained and cynical laugh at himself.
Besides the experimental flourishes and the spectral authorial self-insertion, the more conventional stories are all very strong making this an excellent collection.
August 5, 2024
I read this collection of stories nearly four years ago and aside from being disappointed I noted that they were striving, and failing to be, significant. Unfortunately all other aspects of the collection have vanished from my memory so I am awarding them two stars, on sufferance. I suspect I would have given them one star if I'd rated them at the time I read them. All I can say for sure is that I won't be reading anything else by this author until my TBR of confirmed worthwhile writers is considerably reduced but, at my age, that really means never.
May 1, 2019
Well, that was intense.
I enjoyed reading a book that was reticent to tell you what was really going on in each story. There are some gems in here, and some images that I wasn't sure about, but that stuck in my head regardless.
If you like to toy that line between poetry and prose, I'd recommend it. Definitely not what I'd call light-hearted or uplifting, and I think if you came to this book with too much cynicism you might find it trying a bit too hard to be avant-garde. But I liked it.
I enjoyed reading a book that was reticent to tell you what was really going on in each story. There are some gems in here, and some images that I wasn't sure about, but that stuck in my head regardless.
If you like to toy that line between poetry and prose, I'd recommend it. Definitely not what I'd call light-hearted or uplifting, and I think if you came to this book with too much cynicism you might find it trying a bit too hard to be avant-garde. But I liked it.
June 16, 2022
I couldn't rate this short fiction collection as a whole without giving each story/sequence/piece in it an individual review and rating.
John-Paul Finnegan, Paltry Realist: my Bloomsday read to commemorate the publication centenary of Joyce's ULYSSES (since it references the book and the day). But its nihilistic animosity towards Ireland and literature didn't really do it for me ⭐
No Man's Land: bleak, nihilistic, existentialist; concluding in an emotive silver-lining⭐⭐⭐
Exiled in the Infinite — Killian Turner, Ireland's Vanished Literary Outlaw: made me curious about the mysterious and intriguing writer dealt with ⭐⭐
Paris Story: the suspense created ended in an anti-climactic finish ⭐⭐
Outposts: an impressionable, impressionist/surrealist sequence of eclectic prose pieces, echoing Eliot's The Wasteland ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Barcelona: I finished reading it just as disillusioned & detached as Alicia ⭐
Mexico Drift: the journey of this story's nihilistic, horny drifter left me unaffected ⭐
Anus — Black Sun: this short piece was — though of a pornographic nature — an ass-id trip of exquisitely exceptional writing when read out loud ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
On Nietzsche: engaging (reminded me of how I felt during a prolonged Covid Lockdown) ⭐⭐⭐
Three Writers: interesting, convincing portraits of 3 fictional, disillusioned, failed writers and the plots of their unsuccessful or unpublished books ⭐⭐
The Turk Inside: a tale of obsession and mania. One feels empathic towards the main character in the end ⭐⭐
Final Email from P. Cranley: apart from the opening, explanatory paragraph, I didn't enjoy this neurotic, textspeak narrative, reminiscent of Ginsberg's 'Howl' ⭐
Jean-Pierre Passolet, a Reminiscence: similar to the fictional author portraits of the 'Three Writers' sequence, only longer and more bleaker, containing a Ligottian element to it ⭐⭐
John-Paul Finnegan, Paltry Realist: my Bloomsday read to commemorate the publication centenary of Joyce's ULYSSES (since it references the book and the day). But its nihilistic animosity towards Ireland and literature didn't really do it for me ⭐
No Man's Land: bleak, nihilistic, existentialist; concluding in an emotive silver-lining⭐⭐⭐
Exiled in the Infinite — Killian Turner, Ireland's Vanished Literary Outlaw: made me curious about the mysterious and intriguing writer dealt with ⭐⭐
Paris Story: the suspense created ended in an anti-climactic finish ⭐⭐
Outposts: an impressionable, impressionist/surrealist sequence of eclectic prose pieces, echoing Eliot's The Wasteland ⭐⭐⭐⭐
Barcelona: I finished reading it just as disillusioned & detached as Alicia ⭐
Mexico Drift: the journey of this story's nihilistic, horny drifter left me unaffected ⭐
Anus — Black Sun: this short piece was — though of a pornographic nature — an ass-id trip of exquisitely exceptional writing when read out loud ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
On Nietzsche: engaging (reminded me of how I felt during a prolonged Covid Lockdown) ⭐⭐⭐
Three Writers: interesting, convincing portraits of 3 fictional, disillusioned, failed writers and the plots of their unsuccessful or unpublished books ⭐⭐
The Turk Inside: a tale of obsession and mania. One feels empathic towards the main character in the end ⭐⭐
Final Email from P. Cranley: apart from the opening, explanatory paragraph, I didn't enjoy this neurotic, textspeak narrative, reminiscent of Ginsberg's 'Howl' ⭐
Jean-Pierre Passolet, a Reminiscence: similar to the fictional author portraits of the 'Three Writers' sequence, only longer and more bleaker, containing a Ligottian element to it ⭐⭐
August 31, 2021
Oh my! What an exceptionally good read. I just love Rob Doyle's clear, succinct writing style and his dark quirky subject matter. More than once I found myself laughing out-loud at passages from these stories, which seldom happens when I'm reading. I particularly like the story about the anus. Bizarre and eccentric but absolutely believable.
I'm awarding this book 5 stars.
Well done, Rob. Keep it up.
I'm awarding this book 5 stars.
Well done, Rob. Keep it up.
July 30, 2020
Fantastic book. One or two of the stories were little more than enjoyable but the rest were funny, excruciating, revealing... Lots of excrement. Reminds me of Bolano (the novelette, Outposts, has more than a passing similarity to Antwerp) as well as Detritus & Brux by Euan McBride.
January 3, 2018
I like this author but didn't rave about this book. Well written as always but 4 weeks later am struggling to remember much about it ...
May 21, 2020
As is the case for most anthology books, you'll find some of these to be hits and others misses. However, looking back over the book as a whole, I think it definitely came together as more than the sum of its parts. I would recommend this book to a friend.
September 18, 2020
If smart prose and bleak outlooks are your thing, then enjoy. I did.
April 25, 2021
Whenever you want to feel right beside yourself, go ahead: feel right beside yourself. Somebody's buying that pint.
November 14, 2022
Loved the first two. Anything set on an industrial estate usually gets my vote.
March 11, 2024
Very very very Continental.
April 17, 2022
Fond of the way Doyle parlays a classical existentialist bent toward a uniquely neoliberal nihilism in this very modern collection, but its repeat themes aren't quite expanded enough from tale to tale to sustain the interest through yet another bleak slice of life on the 21st century peripheries. Still, there's much to admire and enjoy here, not least of all a smartly self-conscious exploration of writing as a tightrope-walk creative outlet, ever at risk of a fall into madness.
September 4, 2023
Like having your face stuffed in the dirt.
March 7, 2017
I received this book through Goodreads Giveaways. I’m sorry but I really did not find the worth in reading this book. The author can definitely write well, but in this book it seems like that was all he did. Eloquent sentences without anything to really say.
There were a couple of stories that I started to like, but then they just ended - abruptly. And in other places it seemed that the author was trying to come up with some idea for a story but the story eluded him. And still in other parts, it appeared that when he could not come up with anything to write about, he just threw in some graphic sex.
There were a couple of stories that I started to like, but then they just ended - abruptly. And in other places it seemed that the author was trying to come up with some idea for a story but the story eluded him. And still in other parts, it appeared that when he could not come up with anything to write about, he just threw in some graphic sex.
January 26, 2021
As long as you know what Ulysses is going into this book you will be laughing your arse off. Then either sympathetic or emphatic to a several month illness of the narrator. Then blown away at how the narrator profiles a seemingly great cult author and artist. Then solid dramas between a man and woman with an unsatisfactory end. Then stimulated with many images (Loch ness my favourite). Then female sympathetic (well done). Then reminded of both Here Are the Young Men and Threshold at once. Then brings us more hard to find art [(made up)]. Then pitifully paranoid and therefore hilarious. Then intrigued by a false promise. Then disgraced about men. Then undeserving of its place in this collection. Then diverting of expectations.
Doyle’s writings which are harder to get into are worth sticking with. Doyle doesn’t really need me to tell you this, as he writes with just enough leniency for the oblivious that you get the gist and intrigue anyway.
When he goes off to describe a film, it is strikingly summed up with strong imagery, but no validity that the narrator ever watched such a film. I’m not sure that any of the several authors, he goes into some depth to give a great Doyle-ish sense of, are even real (aside from Nietzsche). I’m actually furious that these books aren’t real. Does Doyle plan on writing them himself, or is he waiting to be struck with a million sales (much deserved), so that he can commission someone to put that hard work in. I have set a goal to turn all big ideas I have into short stories so that, at least, I get the ability to touch on them and perhaps get them out there. I’m guessing that Doyle comes up with these narratives before coming up with the fake author. I’m sure I’ve read, and my father told me he has, about fictional authors. He said it’s clever. I think it’s ingenious. Curses.
Honestly up until all the Outposts this was on par with Threshold maybe stronger. It takes you places. Outposts proves to be the least interesting part of the book, though there may be something to have beyond the surface of those experimental stories I have the strongest inkling that where they lead doesn’t warrant the time to read it and reread again.
On page 115 I was catapulted back to page 3 when I was told that Ireland hates books, now Russia hates books, at first I thought it was ironic, I held back a huge laugh, then hypocritical, I frowned, then intentional, I outburst. Silly, silly, funny. But I suppose this story just has this eminently hilarious worry over it. That f*cking story in the literary journal!
Why can’t these Rob Doyle books sell a million copies, and not Sunday Murder Club’s spontaneous success...
I will certainly attempt to reread this - note to self to read in a custom order, that may rope into Threshold, and makes all the obviously Doyle narrated stories run one after the other, then stories following other characters, finishing with Outposts.
Doyle’s writings which are harder to get into are worth sticking with. Doyle doesn’t really need me to tell you this, as he writes with just enough leniency for the oblivious that you get the gist and intrigue anyway.
When he goes off to describe a film, it is strikingly summed up with strong imagery, but no validity that the narrator ever watched such a film. I’m not sure that any of the several authors, he goes into some depth to give a great Doyle-ish sense of, are even real (aside from Nietzsche). I’m actually furious that these books aren’t real. Does Doyle plan on writing them himself, or is he waiting to be struck with a million sales (much deserved), so that he can commission someone to put that hard work in. I have set a goal to turn all big ideas I have into short stories so that, at least, I get the ability to touch on them and perhaps get them out there. I’m guessing that Doyle comes up with these narratives before coming up with the fake author. I’m sure I’ve read, and my father told me he has, about fictional authors. He said it’s clever. I think it’s ingenious. Curses.
Honestly up until all the Outposts this was on par with Threshold maybe stronger. It takes you places. Outposts proves to be the least interesting part of the book, though there may be something to have beyond the surface of those experimental stories I have the strongest inkling that where they lead doesn’t warrant the time to read it and reread again.
On page 115 I was catapulted back to page 3 when I was told that Ireland hates books, now Russia hates books, at first I thought it was ironic, I held back a huge laugh, then hypocritical, I frowned, then intentional, I outburst. Silly, silly, funny. But I suppose this story just has this eminently hilarious worry over it. That f*cking story in the literary journal!
Why can’t these Rob Doyle books sell a million copies, and not Sunday Murder Club’s spontaneous success...
I will certainly attempt to reread this - note to self to read in a custom order, that may rope into Threshold, and makes all the obviously Doyle narrated stories run one after the other, then stories following other characters, finishing with Outposts.
February 18, 2017
An uneven collection, but opening couple of stories are worth it. Kind of an Irish Gary Schteyngart, perhaps?
March 18, 2017
The stories that left me cold really left me cold but the ones that didn't...were sublime reading. Rob Doyle is the Goldilocks of short story writers. This collection definitely worth a read. Full review to follow when I remember the titles :)
June 20, 2021
Incredible writing, incredible stories. Some of this is experimental fiction, and the themes all lie within the realm of literature, drug-taking and self-harm, so it won't suit some people. I feel sorry for them.
September 11, 2016
Absolutely loved a lot of the short stories in here; deeply intellegent, creative and direct, but struggled to get into some of the others. Pros and cons of experimental story writing!
July 30, 2021
I really struggled to get into some stories and the characters feel bit flat. Cover of book was big put off. I din't like the writing.
Displaying 1 - 28 of 28 reviews