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The Cleave Trilogy #1
Eclipse
Alexander Cleave ha vivido siempre con la sensación de ser mirado y tal vez por eso decidió ser actor. Ha tenido éxito, y las miradas se han convertido en admiración; él mismo se describe, y no se equivoca, como el Hamlet perfecto: pelo rubio y lacio, helados ojos azules y una bien dibujada mandíbula, delicada, pero también refinadamente brutal y, a los cincuenta años, aún es razonablemente guapo. Hasta que un día se queda mudo en el escenario, huye y se retira a la casa de su infancia; su mujer lo acompañará los primeros días, pero luego se quedará solo. No es una separación, pero hay muchas cosas que no funcionan en su vida y Alexander cree que esta vuelta a los inicios acaso le permita comprender. La casa ha estado largo tiempo deshabitada y Alexander comienza a percibir presencias extrañas, fantasmas tenues, pero también las huellas de seres mucho más terrenales. Porque Quirque, el cuidador de la casa, y Lily, su hija adolescente, viven allí clandestinamente. Y también una joven mujer con un niño, entrevista apenas, y que quizá no sea un fantasma del pasado, sino del porvenir.
224 pages, Hardcover
First published October 1, 2000
84 people are currently reading
2990 people want to read
About the author
John Banville
128 books2,366 followersWilliam John Banville is an Irish novelist, short story writer, adapter of dramas and screenwriter. Though he has been described as "the heir to Proust, via Nabokov", Banville himself maintains that W.B. Yeats and Henry James are the two real influences on his work.
Banville has won the 1976 James Tait Black Memorial Prize, the 2003 International Nonino Prize, the 2005 Booker Prize, the 2011 Franz Kafka Prize, the 2013 Austrian State Prize for European Literature and the 2014 Prince of Asturias Award for Literature. He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 2007. Italy made him a Cavaliere of the Ordine della Stella d'Italia (essentially a knighthood) in 2017. He is a former member of Aosdána, having voluntarily relinquished the financial stipend in 2001 to another, more impoverished, writer.
Banville was born and grew up in Wexford town in south-east Ireland. He published his first novel, Nightspawn, in 1971. A second, Birchwood, followed two years later. "The Revolutions Trilogy", published between 1976 and 1982, comprises three works, each named in reference to a renowned scientist: Doctor Copernicus, Kepler and The Newton Letter. His next work, Mefisto, had a mathematical theme. His 1989 novel The Book of Evidence, shortlisted for the Booker Prize and winner of that year's Guinness Peat Aviation award, heralded a second trilogy, three works which deal in common with the work of art. "The Frames Trilogy" is completed by Ghosts and Athena, both published during the 1990s. Banville's thirteenth novel, The Sea, won the Booker Prize in 2005. In addition, he publishes crime novels as Benjamin Black — most of these feature the character of Quirke, an Irish pathologist based in Dublin.
Banville is considered a contender for the Nobel Prize in Literature. He lives in Dublin.
Banville has won the 1976 James Tait Black Memorial Prize, the 2003 International Nonino Prize, the 2005 Booker Prize, the 2011 Franz Kafka Prize, the 2013 Austrian State Prize for European Literature and the 2014 Prince of Asturias Award for Literature. He was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 2007. Italy made him a Cavaliere of the Ordine della Stella d'Italia (essentially a knighthood) in 2017. He is a former member of Aosdána, having voluntarily relinquished the financial stipend in 2001 to another, more impoverished, writer.
Banville was born and grew up in Wexford town in south-east Ireland. He published his first novel, Nightspawn, in 1971. A second, Birchwood, followed two years later. "The Revolutions Trilogy", published between 1976 and 1982, comprises three works, each named in reference to a renowned scientist: Doctor Copernicus, Kepler and The Newton Letter. His next work, Mefisto, had a mathematical theme. His 1989 novel The Book of Evidence, shortlisted for the Booker Prize and winner of that year's Guinness Peat Aviation award, heralded a second trilogy, three works which deal in common with the work of art. "The Frames Trilogy" is completed by Ghosts and Athena, both published during the 1990s. Banville's thirteenth novel, The Sea, won the Booker Prize in 2005. In addition, he publishes crime novels as Benjamin Black — most of these feature the character of Quirke, an Irish pathologist based in Dublin.
Banville is considered a contender for the Nobel Prize in Literature. He lives in Dublin.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 194 reviews
March 27, 2022
John Banville is a marvelous raconteur and he mesmerized me with his language right from the first sentence.
And nonetheless Eclipse is very nostalgic… It is an elegy of the irreversibility of the past… The memory full of bygone shadows and bitterness of disappointments… The fear of the future…
But the future arrives anyway, even if uninvited…
A spasm of sweetish sadness made my mind droop; I thought perhaps Lydia was right, perhaps I am a sentimentalist. I brooded on words. Sentimentality: unearned emotion. Nostalgia: longing for what never was.
And nonetheless Eclipse is very nostalgic… It is an elegy of the irreversibility of the past… The memory full of bygone shadows and bitterness of disappointments… The fear of the future…
What can I do now but stand on this crumbling promontory and watch the past as it dwindles? When I look ahead, I see nothing except empty morning, and no day, only dusk thickening into night, and, far off, something that is not to be made out, something vague, patient, biding. Is that the future, trying to speak to me here, among these shadows of the past? I do not want to hear what it might have to say.
But the future arrives anyway, even if uninvited…
July 21, 2018
Retreat
“At the core of it all there is an absence.”
When empty, broken, and destroyed, where does one go for solitary reflection? For a few hours, I head to the forest, step confidently off the path, and lose myself among the trees. No wolves round here, so I may wear my blood-red coat. But to live alone for a period, I would seek an uninhabited version of my grandparents’ farmhouse: rooms, corridors, and cupboards sheltering deep memories and aromas from a distant age; fur and pawprints of the only dog I ever loved; hidden nooks crammed with curious mementos and friendly phantoms; a fragrant fruitful garden tapping at the leaded windows, and sunlight twinkling through the sheltering shade of the giant cedar, as it sings in the breeze. But would that heal, or hurt?
“When I fled the peopled world I had no one except myself to keep me from coming to grief. And it was to grief that I came.”
After the crisis of corpsing on stage, Alex Cleave retreats to his abandoned childhood home. He leaves his wife Lydia behind, and is out of contact with their troubled adult daughter Cass. As a child, he was familiar with the “alien presences” of lodgers, and once saw his father’s ghost. Returning, he finds there are phantoms still: real, imagined, or both.
Haunted by memories and premonitions, he devotes himself to indulgent introspection, “A way of being alive without living”, until “I catch myself, red-handed, in the act of living; alone, without an audience.” One of many contrasts and contradictions.
Poetic Incongruity
Almost every page is studded with highly-polished gems that distract from unsettling suspicions. There is something ghostly and intangible about the startling, but carefully chosen words, and about the images and ideas they simultaneously conjure and conceal. Read Banville for the language (the plot is sparse and uncertain).
“ In the corners of the room brownish shadows thronged. ”
The rhythm is perfect, and several of the words carry so much unexpected meaning they’re irreplaceable.
Just as people take on ghostly forms, so light takes on corporeal form.
“ Around us the shocked shadows congregated... On the lino... a sunburst streamed and shivered. ”
In the examples below (spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets), there is at least one ordinary word that gains heft by incongruity
Banville even makes the “desolating rapture” of masturbating to “antique smut” transcendent and almost beautiful.
Voices, Phantoms, and an Unreliable Narrator
Amid a mix of inadvertent and deliberate dishonesty, truth is hinted at, whether Alex realises or not.
When he first met Lydia, he “was not entirely what I pretended to be”. Alex is always a performer; he toys with truth and dodgy memories, “unknown, even to myself”..
When Cass was born, he saw “a host of shadowy ancestors, all of them jostling together”. As a child, she started hearing voices - an inverse of Alex being an actor, something he silently accuses her of being. Seeing phantoms helps him empathise with her “uncertainty as to what is real”, but it makes his account more questionable.
Fathers and Daughters, Mothers and Sons
Alex is an outsider in his own town, in his own family. Like an anthropologist or a vivisectionist, he stalks, observes, and collects strays and “anomalies”. Phantoms are more enticing than his living, breathing family.
He is a lifelong “devotee of the goddess… in various forms” starting with his misunderstood mother. The allure of an older woman is a major theme of his teenage years, told in Ancient Light (my review HERE), and there are strong Oedipal overtones in his marriage.
But Alex was always committed to Cass and her needs - at least in his telling. Lydia sees it differently: jealousy, or something else? Certainly there is always the hint of tragedy to come that reminded me slightly of Emperor Augustus and Julia (see my review of Augustus) and Stoner and Grace (see my review of Stoner).
There is another father and daughter here, initially in the shadows: Quirke the caretaker, and teenage Lily. They have a curious and rather detached relationship. Alex’s arrival disturbs that dynamic, and distorts the lens through which he views his estrangement from Cass. His interest in Lily is overtly paternal. But unspoken spectres hover.
Solar Eclipse
The certainty of an eclipse is that the sun so suddenly extinguished will reappear just as abruptly. But despite the many and glorious mentions of light, this book is shaded by the fearful expectation of darkness, foreshadowing the title of the next book, Shroud.
Near the end, Alex experiences the partial (and cloudy) solar eclipse of 1999: “Peculiar light, insipid and shrouded, like the light in a dream.” I visited Cornwall then, where it was total. Despite the clouds, there was an instant unleashing of visceral, elemental, primordial power that made me eager to experience another, better eclipse.
Quotes about Light
Light is a leitmotif, just as in Ancient Light (and maybe in Shroud, tbc), but where there is light, there are also shadows. Smells, usually unpleasant, are frequently and vividly mentioned, as in The Sea. But sound (except for a wonderful passage about manic seagulls), taste, and touch are secondary.
Spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets.
Alex’s Aphorisms
Spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets.
Miscellaneous Quotes
Spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets.
Notes
Spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets.
The Cleave Trilogy
The ancient light of the past illuminates the present and future.
The publication order of the Alex and Cass Cleave father/daughter trilogy is Eclipse, then Shroud, and finally, Ancient Light.
However, there’s no need to read them in sequence, as they all have a current storyline intertwined with reflections of earlier events. (My reading order was 3, 1, 2.) The middle one is more about Cass, and the other two focus on Alex.
Hidden for brevity.
Oedipus, meet Humbert.
“At the core of it all there is an absence.”
When empty, broken, and destroyed, where does one go for solitary reflection? For a few hours, I head to the forest, step confidently off the path, and lose myself among the trees. No wolves round here, so I may wear my blood-red coat. But to live alone for a period, I would seek an uninhabited version of my grandparents’ farmhouse: rooms, corridors, and cupboards sheltering deep memories and aromas from a distant age; fur and pawprints of the only dog I ever loved; hidden nooks crammed with curious mementos and friendly phantoms; a fragrant fruitful garden tapping at the leaded windows, and sunlight twinkling through the sheltering shade of the giant cedar, as it sings in the breeze. But would that heal, or hurt?
“When I fled the peopled world I had no one except myself to keep me from coming to grief. And it was to grief that I came.”
After the crisis of corpsing on stage, Alex Cleave retreats to his abandoned childhood home. He leaves his wife Lydia behind, and is out of contact with their troubled adult daughter Cass. As a child, he was familiar with the “alien presences” of lodgers, and once saw his father’s ghost. Returning, he finds there are phantoms still: real, imagined, or both.
Haunted by memories and premonitions, he devotes himself to indulgent introspection, “A way of being alive without living”, until “I catch myself, red-handed, in the act of living; alone, without an audience.” One of many contrasts and contradictions.
Poetic Incongruity
Almost every page is studded with highly-polished gems that distract from unsettling suspicions. There is something ghostly and intangible about the startling, but carefully chosen words, and about the images and ideas they simultaneously conjure and conceal. Read Banville for the language (the plot is sparse and uncertain).
“ In the corners of the room brownish shadows thronged. ”
The rhythm is perfect, and several of the words carry so much unexpected meaning they’re irreplaceable.
Just as people take on ghostly forms, so light takes on corporeal form.
“ Around us the shocked shadows congregated... On the lino... a sunburst streamed and shivered. ”
In the examples below (spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets), there is at least one ordinary word that gains heft by incongruity
Banville even makes the “desolating rapture” of masturbating to “antique smut” transcendent and almost beautiful.
Voices, Phantoms, and an Unreliable Narrator
Amid a mix of inadvertent and deliberate dishonesty, truth is hinted at, whether Alex realises or not.
When he first met Lydia, he “was not entirely what I pretended to be”. Alex is always a performer; he toys with truth and dodgy memories, “unknown, even to myself”..
When Cass was born, he saw “a host of shadowy ancestors, all of them jostling together”. As a child, she started hearing voices - an inverse of Alex being an actor, something he silently accuses her of being. Seeing phantoms helps him empathise with her “uncertainty as to what is real”, but it makes his account more questionable.
Fathers and Daughters, Mothers and Sons
Alex is an outsider in his own town, in his own family. Like an anthropologist or a vivisectionist, he stalks, observes, and collects strays and “anomalies”. Phantoms are more enticing than his living, breathing family.
He is a lifelong “devotee of the goddess… in various forms” starting with his misunderstood mother. The allure of an older woman is a major theme of his teenage years, told in Ancient Light (my review HERE), and there are strong Oedipal overtones in his marriage.
But Alex was always committed to Cass and her needs - at least in his telling. Lydia sees it differently: jealousy, or something else? Certainly there is always the hint of tragedy to come that reminded me slightly of Emperor Augustus and Julia (see my review of Augustus) and Stoner and Grace (see my review of Stoner).
There is another father and daughter here, initially in the shadows: Quirke the caretaker, and teenage Lily. They have a curious and rather detached relationship. Alex’s arrival disturbs that dynamic, and distorts the lens through which he views his estrangement from Cass. His interest in Lily is overtly paternal. But unspoken spectres hover.
Solar Eclipse
The certainty of an eclipse is that the sun so suddenly extinguished will reappear just as abruptly. But despite the many and glorious mentions of light, this book is shaded by the fearful expectation of darkness, foreshadowing the title of the next book, Shroud.
Near the end, Alex experiences the partial (and cloudy) solar eclipse of 1999: “Peculiar light, insipid and shrouded, like the light in a dream.” I visited Cornwall then, where it was total. Despite the clouds, there was an instant unleashing of visceral, elemental, primordial power that made me eager to experience another, better eclipse.
Quotes about Light
Light is a leitmotif, just as in Ancient Light (and maybe in Shroud, tbc), but where there is light, there are also shadows. Smells, usually unpleasant, are frequently and vividly mentioned, as in The Sea. But sound (except for a wonderful passage about manic seagulls), taste, and touch are secondary.
Spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets.
Alex’s Aphorisms
Spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets.
Miscellaneous Quotes
Spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets.
Notes
Spoilered for brevity, not plot secrets.
The Cleave Trilogy
The ancient light of the past illuminates the present and future.
The publication order of the Alex and Cass Cleave father/daughter trilogy is Eclipse, then Shroud, and finally, Ancient Light.
However, there’s no need to read them in sequence, as they all have a current storyline intertwined with reflections of earlier events. (My reading order was 3, 1, 2.) The middle one is more about Cass, and the other two focus on Alex.
Hidden for brevity.
Oedipus, meet Humbert.
April 22, 2020
Interrupting the Voice in Your Head
Self-improvement isn’t just an industry, it’s an ethos, arguably the most central in modern society. We owe it to ourselves as well as to society to realise our potential, to develop our talents, to discover our true selves. What could be more self-evident? But self-improvement requires, at some point or another, self-diagnosis. And therein lies a problem that is the subject of John Banville’s Eclipse.
Self-improvement is founded on an implicit and verifiable principle: There is no man without his other. The other is there even when one is entirely alone, especially when one is alone. There are always two selves involved, one who acts, thinks, feels and the other who reflects on acting, thinking, feeling. It’s called consciousness and it is an abiding enigma of being human. It also undermines the very principle of its own existence, and with that the prospects for self-improvement. The point of John Banville’s Eclipse is that neither one of the selves, the acting or the reflecting, knows the other very well. Alex, the protagonist is well aware of the problem. “I was an unknown”, he confesses,” unknown even to myself.”
And that situation isn’t helped at all by trying to mould, shape, fix, improve or otherwise transform one or other of the parts of oneself. Alex has spent most of his life as an actor in self-improvement of one type or another - diction, performance, carriage, dance. The result of course is that he has learned how to act, a worthwhile skill in itself but not if one thinks it makes a better person: “The self-made man has no solid ground to stand on,” he has come to realise. He suffers from "...an insupportable excess of self...a malady of selfness." How then to unravel oneself, this most profound of mysteries, if the mystery itself arises and is compounded from trying to manipulate, heal, improve or otherwise modify oneself?
This is where the idea of grace comes from: if either of the two parts of a person is going to change, that change will be initiated from somewhere or someone else - God perhaps, or another human being like a therapist or an unwanted houseguest, or an event as prosaic as children singing. Or, as most notably in Eclipse, an unexplained apparition, sometimes called a ghost.
Whatever it is and wherever it comes from, a ghost interrupts the conversation between self and self. Alex is at first confused about this ephemeral source of help: “So if the purpose of the appearance of this ghost is to dislocate me and keep me thrown off balance, am I indeed projecting it out of my own fancy, or does it come from some outside source? Both, somehow, it seems…” But he eventually understands the new rules of the game; something is real about the ghostly: “…they are not in my head, they are outside.” Ghosts, as Dickens knew, stop the flow of reality so that “The actual has taken on a tense tumbling quality.”
Eclipse for me has echoes of the Oxford Inklings, particularly of the lesser known Charles Williams. Wiliams's novels The Place of the Lion and The Greater Trumps employ similar devices and tropes to Banville to the same end: enlightenment, insight, authentic consciousness. Banville is a much better writer of English prose than Williams ever was. Nowhere in Williams will you find anything like the lovely, lilting, laconic Irishisms such as "The day is damp and fresh as a peeled stick." Nevertheless, the alternative ethos to self-improvement, namely self-abandonment, is something they largely share, and something needed in a world dominated by Trumpian self-will masquerading as morality.
Self-improvement isn’t just an industry, it’s an ethos, arguably the most central in modern society. We owe it to ourselves as well as to society to realise our potential, to develop our talents, to discover our true selves. What could be more self-evident? But self-improvement requires, at some point or another, self-diagnosis. And therein lies a problem that is the subject of John Banville’s Eclipse.
Self-improvement is founded on an implicit and verifiable principle: There is no man without his other. The other is there even when one is entirely alone, especially when one is alone. There are always two selves involved, one who acts, thinks, feels and the other who reflects on acting, thinking, feeling. It’s called consciousness and it is an abiding enigma of being human. It also undermines the very principle of its own existence, and with that the prospects for self-improvement. The point of John Banville’s Eclipse is that neither one of the selves, the acting or the reflecting, knows the other very well. Alex, the protagonist is well aware of the problem. “I was an unknown”, he confesses,” unknown even to myself.”
And that situation isn’t helped at all by trying to mould, shape, fix, improve or otherwise transform one or other of the parts of oneself. Alex has spent most of his life as an actor in self-improvement of one type or another - diction, performance, carriage, dance. The result of course is that he has learned how to act, a worthwhile skill in itself but not if one thinks it makes a better person: “The self-made man has no solid ground to stand on,” he has come to realise. He suffers from "...an insupportable excess of self...a malady of selfness." How then to unravel oneself, this most profound of mysteries, if the mystery itself arises and is compounded from trying to manipulate, heal, improve or otherwise modify oneself?
This is where the idea of grace comes from: if either of the two parts of a person is going to change, that change will be initiated from somewhere or someone else - God perhaps, or another human being like a therapist or an unwanted houseguest, or an event as prosaic as children singing. Or, as most notably in Eclipse, an unexplained apparition, sometimes called a ghost.
Whatever it is and wherever it comes from, a ghost interrupts the conversation between self and self. Alex is at first confused about this ephemeral source of help: “So if the purpose of the appearance of this ghost is to dislocate me and keep me thrown off balance, am I indeed projecting it out of my own fancy, or does it come from some outside source? Both, somehow, it seems…” But he eventually understands the new rules of the game; something is real about the ghostly: “…they are not in my head, they are outside.” Ghosts, as Dickens knew, stop the flow of reality so that “The actual has taken on a tense tumbling quality.”
Eclipse for me has echoes of the Oxford Inklings, particularly of the lesser known Charles Williams. Wiliams's novels The Place of the Lion and The Greater Trumps employ similar devices and tropes to Banville to the same end: enlightenment, insight, authentic consciousness. Banville is a much better writer of English prose than Williams ever was. Nowhere in Williams will you find anything like the lovely, lilting, laconic Irishisms such as "The day is damp and fresh as a peeled stick." Nevertheless, the alternative ethos to self-improvement, namely self-abandonment, is something they largely share, and something needed in a world dominated by Trumpian self-will masquerading as morality.
October 22, 2017
Alexander Cleave, outworn actor whose glory days are gone, sets the elegiac tone of his first person narrative as part of the setting of a performance ill-omened from the start. There is little in terms of plot line in this introspective journey into the mind of a tormented character that assimilates the structure of a Shakespearean tragedy. Like a deft snake charmer, Banville reconstructs the inner purgatory of a man in five acts, leaving no space for cathartic redemption or hopeful light at the end of the tunel.
Something has died inside Alex. Fictional life on the stage, which had been truer than reality in the past, doesn’t fill the gaping void inside him any longer. Haunted by memories and dragged down by the rarified relationship with his wife and his mentally unstable daughter Cassandra, the apple of his eye, Alex struggles against a growing sense of disembodiment as he gropes in the darkness of his subconscious, searching for the secret well of grief from which springs of sorrow benum him into a detached stupor. In a desperate attempt to shake off the impending sense of doom that plagues him, the actor retires to the abandoned seaside house of his childhood, which has fallen into disrepair over the years, expecting to reconnect with the missing part of himself.
Once more, it’s in waves of detailed images that Banville stirs the waters of his swelling, unreliable narrative. Grey ash on a carpet, the glowing stub of an unfinished cigarette, a bloodstain, red like passion, on a gauzy dress, white like the pallor of a corpse drowned in a foreign sea, grimacing clowns in a morbid circus, doors ajar in mute stillness and disquieting sensation of being observed, stalked, of life being usurped by ghosts blind to the past but prescient of a stillborn future.
Straddling the classic gothic and the psychological thriller, Banville presents the veritable protagonists of his tale of woe. Loneliness, identity and erratic memory merge the currents of present and past, fiction and fact, prose and poetry in an ongoing contradiction between thematic lines and stylistic deployment. The exquisiteness of Banville’s writing, full of light and suggestive natural imagery that stimulates all the senses, doesn’t match the gloomy background of a scene never static but ceaselessly fluctuating between unbearable beauty and sordidness that attracts and repels the reader at once.
Banville is a sensualist, a linguistic sybarite, a sorcerer of the word, he probes and taunts and smirks with delectable artistry, making the reader fall prey to the ballast of his deeply charged lyrical overture. There is no escape for those who bask in texture, cadence and impeccable sentence structure when submerged into Banville’s works, to sink into the writer’s murky waters means to drown in agonizing rapture.
Amidst the climatic display of flawlessly developed metaphors that go full circle, I can’t help but wonder about the trait that distinguishes Banville from other writers. There is something of the foreigner in his use of English, maybe something to do with his Irish heritage that places him as a Pilgrim in his own language, a native of his own style, an insurgent of standardized limits.
The result of what appears a fragmentary chronicle on the surface is an understated, maybe also predictable, requiem that shakes the reader like an authentic classic.
And Alexander’s last invocation of his lost muse, his Miranda his Perdita, his Marina, achieves the quality of the divine in its cold, remote aloofness like the dead light of stars that brighten the darkest night without giving off any warmth nor any hint of exoneration.
Words are the only artifacts left to hold on to after the curtain falls and the actors have abandoned the stage, and memory becomes the only means to remember their faint echo, their fading scent of sweat, tears and remorse.
“I brooded on words. Sentimentality: unearned emotion. Nostalgia: longing for what never was.”
Something has died inside Alex. Fictional life on the stage, which had been truer than reality in the past, doesn’t fill the gaping void inside him any longer. Haunted by memories and dragged down by the rarified relationship with his wife and his mentally unstable daughter Cassandra, the apple of his eye, Alex struggles against a growing sense of disembodiment as he gropes in the darkness of his subconscious, searching for the secret well of grief from which springs of sorrow benum him into a detached stupor. In a desperate attempt to shake off the impending sense of doom that plagues him, the actor retires to the abandoned seaside house of his childhood, which has fallen into disrepair over the years, expecting to reconnect with the missing part of himself.
Once more, it’s in waves of detailed images that Banville stirs the waters of his swelling, unreliable narrative. Grey ash on a carpet, the glowing stub of an unfinished cigarette, a bloodstain, red like passion, on a gauzy dress, white like the pallor of a corpse drowned in a foreign sea, grimacing clowns in a morbid circus, doors ajar in mute stillness and disquieting sensation of being observed, stalked, of life being usurped by ghosts blind to the past but prescient of a stillborn future.
Straddling the classic gothic and the psychological thriller, Banville presents the veritable protagonists of his tale of woe. Loneliness, identity and erratic memory merge the currents of present and past, fiction and fact, prose and poetry in an ongoing contradiction between thematic lines and stylistic deployment. The exquisiteness of Banville’s writing, full of light and suggestive natural imagery that stimulates all the senses, doesn’t match the gloomy background of a scene never static but ceaselessly fluctuating between unbearable beauty and sordidness that attracts and repels the reader at once.
Banville is a sensualist, a linguistic sybarite, a sorcerer of the word, he probes and taunts and smirks with delectable artistry, making the reader fall prey to the ballast of his deeply charged lyrical overture. There is no escape for those who bask in texture, cadence and impeccable sentence structure when submerged into Banville’s works, to sink into the writer’s murky waters means to drown in agonizing rapture.
Amidst the climatic display of flawlessly developed metaphors that go full circle, I can’t help but wonder about the trait that distinguishes Banville from other writers. There is something of the foreigner in his use of English, maybe something to do with his Irish heritage that places him as a Pilgrim in his own language, a native of his own style, an insurgent of standardized limits.
The result of what appears a fragmentary chronicle on the surface is an understated, maybe also predictable, requiem that shakes the reader like an authentic classic.
And Alexander’s last invocation of his lost muse, his Miranda his Perdita, his Marina, achieves the quality of the divine in its cold, remote aloofness like the dead light of stars that brighten the darkest night without giving off any warmth nor any hint of exoneration.
Words are the only artifacts left to hold on to after the curtain falls and the actors have abandoned the stage, and memory becomes the only means to remember their faint echo, their fading scent of sweat, tears and remorse.
“I brooded on words. Sentimentality: unearned emotion. Nostalgia: longing for what never was.”
November 17, 2019
“..οι ερωτευμένοι παντρεύτηκαν και τώρα γερνάνε πλάι σε ανθρώπους ξένους
τ' απογέματα σηκώνεται καμιά φορά αγέρας, χτυπούν σα�� τύψεις τα παραθυρόφυλλα - για ποιο ωραίο σφάλμα άραγε;
κι η παιδικότητα: ένα ουράνιο σχόλιο στο αίνιγμα να υπάρχουμε.
Κι όταν κάποτε φύγω δε θα πάρω μαζί μου παρά λίγο βιολετί απ' το δειλινό κι έν' άστρο από κάποιο παραμύθι”.
Σε αυτό το σπαρακτικά όμορφο και συνειδητοποιημένο βιβλίο του Μπάνβιλ, θολώνεται με υγρασία και μούχλα απο δάκρυα, θαλασσινό αγέρα και καπνούς καμμένων βιβλίων ζωής, η εσωτερική και εξωτερική ύπαρξη ενός ανθρώπου.
Κάθε ανθρώπου.
Όλων των ανθρώπων ή έστω μερικών,
θαραλλέων πολύ και άτολμων συνάμα,
που καταφέρνουν να είναι ζωντανοί χωρίς να ζουν.
Να ερωτεύονται τον θάνατο.
Να βασανίζονται απο παραλυτικές απορίες συσσώρευσης απίστευτου βάρους επιβίωσης,
μέσα απο πλήρη συνειδησιακή υποστήριξη,
μα τώρα,
αυτό το βάρος αβάσταχτο πλέον,
τους εμποδίζει να βρουν την οισία του εαυτού τους,
τώρα πια, αυτή, κρύφτηκε για πάντα, ανάμεσα στα πεταμένα προσωπεία, που τους έδωσαν προοπτική δράσης στη γέννηση και αγαλλίασης στα βαθιά γεράματα.
Είναι οι συντετριμμένοι,
αυτοί μονάχα πονούν όταν στην φωτογραφία του λατρεμένου τους προσώπου πέσει μια σταγόνα βροχής. Σε αυτούς τραγουδάει αποτρόπαια η μοίρα του σύμπαντος.
Είναι άδικη και φθονερή, με τα καταραμένα ιδιαίτερα χαρίσματα που έχει, κάνει χλωμό και αβαρές,
το φως της αρχέγονης αγάπης ανάμεσα σε γονείς και στα πλάσματα που βγήκαν απο τα σπλάχνα τους σημαδεμένα με ολική έκλειψη.
Σε αυτούς παραισθησιακά αλλά και απολύτως συνειδητά,
όταν σκουραίνει η μέρα γίνεται μια μελανιά,
χρωματίζει τις στιγμές τους
και υψώνει σημαία μεσίστια από τον ρεαλισμό. Προμηνύει μόνο πόνο, επαναλαμβανόμενο, εμμονικό και ηδονικό.
Σε όσους μέσα στη σύγχυση και την ανεξήγητη δυσαρέσκεια αναρωτιούνται διαρκώς,
πότε ακριβώς ήρθε η στιγμή της καταστροφικής απροσεξίας,
τότε που έριξαν κάτω το επιχρυσωμένο ,
με το άγνωστο,
ποτήρι της ζωής τους και το άφησαν να σπάσει.
Το μυθιστόρημα αυτό είναι περισσότερο ένα μνημείο, μια στοιχειωμένη ιστορία για κάθε ανθρώπινο πλάσμα που αναζητά τον εαυτό του.
Που ζητάει ραντεβού κάπου ανάμεσα σε φαντασία και πραγματικότητα με την παιδική του ηλικία
και τον τρόμο που ίσως έρχεται απο το μέλλον,
εκεί όπου ψάχνει τα ίχνη του, ξοδεύοντας χρόνο
και δραπετεύοντας απο την ομηρία της ατομικά προσιορισμένης θεσμικά ταυτότητας.
Αν όλα αυτά ακούγονται ασαφή, θαμπά και αφηρημένα, είναι, κατά κάποιον τρόπο.
Υπάρχει ελάχιστη πλοκή με την παραδοσιακή έννοια και όλα τα γεγονότα που συνέβησαν ή συμβαίνουν φιλτράρονται μέσα απο το σακατεμένο μυαλό του πρωταγωνιστή. Ο οποίος αν και έχει πλήρη αυτοσυνείδηση δεν έχει ούτε ρανίδα αυτογνωσίας.
Όταν αποσαφηνίζεται η ιστορία της κόρης του ο ήρωας μας επιδεινώνεται απο κάθε άποψη.
Η στάση του εξ αρχής διατηρεί μια απόσταση απο τα τεκταινόμενα και τελικά μας πείθει με αριστουργηματικό τρόπο πως το σημείο καμπής του βιβλίου δεν είναι καποιο γεγονός που θα μπορούσε να ασκήσει οποιαδήποτε ελεγχόμενη δράση.
Είναι μια ουράνια σύζευξη, μια ηλιακή έκλειψη, μια σύνδεση του σκοταδιού με το φως, της σκιάς με την ουσία, της απόστασης με την απόλυτη σύνδεση.
Ο συμβιβασμός που προσπαθεί να κάνει τον πρωταγωνιστή μας να δεχτεί την ζωή,
οι μοναδικές ιδέες και οι υπερβατικές παρατηρήσεις γίνονται κοινά χαρακτηριστικά όλων μας.
Ποιος αλήθεια ξέρει τι ακριβώς χρειάζεται για να αντέξει η ύπαρξη μας απέναντι σε μια σύντμηση!!
🌒🌖🌗🌘🌑💥🤎
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς ασπασμούς.
τ' απογέματα σηκώνεται καμιά φορά αγέρας, χτυπούν σα�� τύψεις τα παραθυρόφυλλα - για ποιο ωραίο σφάλμα άραγε;
κι η παιδικότητα: ένα ουράνιο σχόλιο στο αίνιγμα να υπάρχουμε.
Κι όταν κάποτε φύγω δε θα πάρω μαζί μου παρά λίγο βιολετί απ' το δειλινό κι έν' άστρο από κάποιο παραμύθι”.
Σε αυτό το σπαρακτικά όμορφο και συνειδητοποιημένο βιβλίο του Μπάνβιλ, θολώνεται με υγρασία και μούχλα απο δάκρυα, θαλασσινό αγέρα και καπνούς καμμένων βιβλίων ζωής, η εσωτερική και εξωτερική ύπαρξη ενός ανθρώπου.
Κάθε ανθρώπου.
Όλων των ανθρώπων ή έστω μερικών,
θαραλλέων πολύ και άτολμων συνάμα,
που καταφέρνουν να είναι ζωντανοί χωρίς να ζουν.
Να ερωτεύονται τον θάνατο.
Να βασανίζονται απο παραλυτικές απορίες συσσώρευσης απίστευτου βάρους επιβίωσης,
μέσα απο πλήρη συνειδησιακή υποστήριξη,
μα τώρα,
αυτό το βάρος αβάσταχτο πλέον,
τους εμποδίζει να βρουν την οισία του εαυτού τους,
τώρα πια, αυτή, κρύφτηκε για πάντα, ανάμεσα στα πεταμένα προσωπεία, που τους έδωσαν προοπτική δράσης στη γέννηση και αγαλλίασης στα βαθιά γεράματα.
Είναι οι συντετριμμένοι,
αυτοί μονάχα πονούν όταν στην φωτογραφία του λατρεμένου τους προσώπου πέσει μια σταγόνα βροχής. Σε αυτούς τραγουδάει αποτρόπαια η μοίρα του σύμπαντος.
Είναι άδικη και φθονερή, με τα καταραμένα ιδιαίτερα χαρίσματα που έχει, κάνει χλωμό και αβαρές,
το φως της αρχέγονης αγάπης ανάμεσα σε γονείς και στα πλάσματα που βγήκαν απο τα σπλάχνα τους σημαδεμένα με ολική έκλειψη.
Σε αυτούς παραισθησιακά αλλά και απολύτως συνειδητά,
όταν σκουραίνει η μέρα γίνεται μια μελανιά,
χρωματίζει τις στιγμές τους
και υψώνει σημαία μεσίστια από τον ρεαλισμό. Προμηνύει μόνο πόνο, επαναλαμβανόμενο, εμμονικό και ηδονικό.
Σε όσους μέσα στη σύγχυση και την ανεξήγητη δυσαρέσκεια αναρωτιούνται διαρκώς,
πότε ακριβώς ήρθε η στιγμή της καταστροφικής απροσεξίας,
τότε που έριξαν κάτω το επιχρυσωμένο ,
με το άγνωστο,
ποτήρι της ζωής τους και το άφησαν να σπάσει.
Το μυθιστόρημα αυτό είναι περισσότερο ένα μνημείο, μια στοιχειωμένη ιστορία για κάθε ανθρώπινο πλάσμα που αναζητά τον εαυτό του.
Που ζητάει ραντεβού κάπου ανάμεσα σε φαντασία και πραγματικότητα με την παιδική του ηλικία
και τον τρόμο που ίσως έρχεται απο το μέλλον,
εκεί όπου ψάχνει τα ίχνη του, ξοδεύοντας χρόνο
και δραπετεύοντας απο την ομηρία της ατομικά προσιορισμένης θεσμικά ταυτότητας.
Αν όλα αυτά ακούγονται ασαφή, θαμπά και αφηρημένα, είναι, κατά κάποιον τρόπο.
Υπάρχει ελάχιστη πλοκή με την παραδοσιακή έννοια και όλα τα γεγονότα που συνέβησαν ή συμβαίνουν φιλτράρονται μέσα απο το σακατεμένο μυαλό του πρωταγωνιστή. Ο οποίος αν και έχει πλήρη αυτοσυνείδηση δεν έχει ούτε ρανίδα αυτογνωσίας.
Όταν αποσαφηνίζεται η ιστορία της κόρης του ο ήρωας μας επιδεινώνεται απο κάθε άποψη.
Η στάση του εξ αρχής διατηρεί μια απόσταση απο τα τεκταινόμενα και τελικά μας πείθει με αριστουργηματικό τρόπο πως το σημείο καμπής του βιβλίου δεν είναι καποιο γεγονός που θα μπορούσε να ασκήσει οποιαδήποτε ελεγχόμενη δράση.
Είναι μια ουράνια σύζευξη, μια ηλιακή έκλειψη, μια σύνδεση του σκοταδιού με το φως, της σκιάς με την ουσία, της απόστασης με την απόλυτη σύνδεση.
Ο συμβιβασμός που προσπαθεί να κάνει τον πρωταγωνιστή μας να δεχτεί την ζωή,
οι μοναδικές ιδέες και οι υπερβατικές παρατηρήσεις γίνονται κοινά χαρακτηριστικά όλων μας.
Ποιος αλήθεια ξέρει τι ακριβώς χρειάζεται για να αντέξει η ύπαρξη μας απέναντι σε μια σύντμηση!!
🌒🌖🌗🌘🌑💥🤎
Καλή ανάγνωση.
Πολλούς ασπασμούς.
July 5, 2025
Haunting Introspection
'Eclipse', the first part of the Cleave trilogy, is hard to define. The novel combines the melancholic and poetic beauty of the text, the introspective mood of the narrator with the overall brooding atmosphere and gentle irony.
The protagonist, going through an identity crisis, retreats to his childhood home in search of meaning. He reflects on his life, relationships, failures and the fragility of reality. However, instead of solace, he finds the ghosts from the past (or the future?) in the old house. Or are they the evil foreboding of the grief he is about to be stricken with?
'Before, what I contained was the blastomere of myself, the coiled hot core of all I was and might be. Now, that essential self has been pushed to the side with savage insoucience, and I am as a house walked up and down in by an irresistibly proprietorial stranger. I am all inwardness, gazing out in ever intensifying perplexity upon a world in which nothing is exactly plausible, nothing is exactly what it is.'
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'The past beats inside me like a second heart.'
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'Everything we see is a ghost of what it was.'
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'People do not vanish, they seep away, like shadows in the sun.'
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'We are all echoes, all of us, of something that was once real.'
---------------------------------------------------------------------
'There is nothing more real than the mask.'
'Eclipse', the first part of the Cleave trilogy, is hard to define. The novel combines the melancholic and poetic beauty of the text, the introspective mood of the narrator with the overall brooding atmosphere and gentle irony.
The protagonist, going through an identity crisis, retreats to his childhood home in search of meaning. He reflects on his life, relationships, failures and the fragility of reality. However, instead of solace, he finds the ghosts from the past (or the future?) in the old house. Or are they the evil foreboding of the grief he is about to be stricken with?
'Before, what I contained was the blastomere of myself, the coiled hot core of all I was and might be. Now, that essential self has been pushed to the side with savage insoucience, and I am as a house walked up and down in by an irresistibly proprietorial stranger. I am all inwardness, gazing out in ever intensifying perplexity upon a world in which nothing is exactly plausible, nothing is exactly what it is.'
---------------------------------------------------------------------
'The past beats inside me like a second heart.'
---------------------------------------------------------------------
'Everything we see is a ghost of what it was.'
---------------------------------------------------------------------
'People do not vanish, they seep away, like shadows in the sun.'
---------------------------------------------------------------------
'We are all echoes, all of us, of something that was once real.'
---------------------------------------------------------------------
'There is nothing more real than the mask.'
January 11, 2023
En el límite de los claroscuros está lo que vemos y lo que no vemos, lo que presentimos. Sin luz y sin sombra no hay mirada, es necesario el contraste. En ese espacio se mueve Alex cuando vuelve a la casona de su infancia, en el límite entre la luz y la sombra, entre pasado y futuro, entre lo real y lo imaginario.
En la soledad, Alex reflexiona sobre su pasado, el final de su carrera, la relación con su hija Cass -una joven que padece ataques y obsesiones- y empieza a ver apariciones:
“…me volví bruscamente y vi algo en la puerta, no una presencia, sino una intensa ausencia”.
Se desconcierta, se hace preguntas:
“…si el propósito de la aparición es confundirme y trastornarme, ¿es una proyección de mi propia fantasía, o procede de alguna fuente exterior? Al parecer ambas cosas, aunque no entiendo cómo es posible”.
Todas sus preguntas y dudas giran sobre los mismos temas, es un libro lento, con mucho cuidado de los detalles y del lenguaje, que hará al lector sentirse como los fantasmas y como el protagonista “una sombra entre sombras insustanciales”.
En la soledad, Alex reflexiona sobre su pasado, el final de su carrera, la relación con su hija Cass -una joven que padece ataques y obsesiones- y empieza a ver apariciones:
“…me volví bruscamente y vi algo en la puerta, no una presencia, sino una intensa ausencia”.
Se desconcierta, se hace preguntas:
“…si el propósito de la aparición es confundirme y trastornarme, ¿es una proyección de mi propia fantasía, o procede de alguna fuente exterior? Al parecer ambas cosas, aunque no entiendo cómo es posible”.
Todas sus preguntas y dudas giran sobre los mismos temas, es un libro lento, con mucho cuidado de los detalles y del lenguaje, que hará al lector sentirse como los fantasmas y como el protagonista “una sombra entre sombras insustanciales”.
August 22, 2023
CRITIQUE:
Cleaved to a Cloven Actor
The first volume of John Banville's Cleave Trilogy introduces us to Alex Cleave, a semi-retired, fifty year old theatre actor.
He's married to Lydia and, together, they have one 22 (or 23?) year old daughter, Cass.
On Aspects of Cleavage
It's not for no reason that Banville called his protagonist and narrator, Cleave.
The word "cleave" has two opposite meanings:
* to cleave is to split, or sever, something apart, or into two pieces (e.g., cleavage or cloven); and
* to cleave to is to stick to, or stay close to, somebody (e.g., children might cleave to their parents).
In the Name of the Cleaves
This surname suggests that we might witness cracks or fractures in Cleave's identity (or in the identity of the Cleave family).
It might also be the secret of Cleave's acting career and personal life:
Single Estrangement
At the heart of the novel is the fact that Cleave and Cass are estranged (it's one of three levels of estrangement in the novel):
It's arguable that Cass is as egocentric as her father. Hence, they're unable to break down the barriers between each other and form an affectionate and supportive relationship:
Double Estrangement
Cleave is not just estranged from his daughter, he's estranged from his wife.
As so often happens in domestic or family conflicts, Cass plays one parent off against the other, thus damaging the relationship between her parents. Both parents end up plagued by anticipatory guilt about the possible future impact on Cass.
Treble Estrangement
The third level of estrangement is Cleave's estrangement from himself. He ends up alienated from himself and, as a result, the whole world outside. He loses touch with reality, and ends up seeing ghosts around the family beach house to which he has retreated.
On Not Spoiling Cass
Regrettably, it's not possible to discuss the three forms of estrangement or Cass' fate in any more detail without revealing spoilers.
The pleasure of deeper comprehension than I can offer you awaits your own reading of the novel. It's definitely worth it.
SOUNDTRACK:
Cleaved to a Cloven Actor
The first volume of John Banville's Cleave Trilogy introduces us to Alex Cleave, a semi-retired, fifty year old theatre actor.
He's married to Lydia and, together, they have one 22 (or 23?) year old daughter, Cass.
On Aspects of Cleavage
It's not for no reason that Banville called his protagonist and narrator, Cleave.
The word "cleave" has two opposite meanings:
* to cleave is to split, or sever, something apart, or into two pieces (e.g., cleavage or cloven); and
* to cleave to is to stick to, or stay close to, somebody (e.g., children might cleave to their parents).
In the Name of the Cleaves
This surname suggests that we might witness cracks or fractures in Cleave's identity (or in the identity of the Cleave family).
It might also be the secret of Cleave's acting career and personal life:
"I clearly recall the day I first became truly aware of myself, I mean of myself as something that everything else was not...
"A myriad voices struggled within me for expression. I seemed to myself a multitude...
"Acting was inevitable. From earliest days life for me was a perpetual state of being watched. Even when alone I carried myself with covert circumspection, keeping up a front, putting on a performance. This is the actor's hubris, to imagine the world possessed of a single, avid eye fixed solely and always on him. And he, of course, acting, thinks himself the only real one, the most substantial shadow in a world of shades..."
Single Estrangement
At the heart of the novel is the fact that Cleave and Cass are estranged (it's one of three levels of estrangement in the novel):
"She exasperates me, I confess it. I do not trust her...
"At times she has a look, a fleeting, sidelong, faintly smiling look, in which I seem to glimpse a wholly other she, cold and sly and secretly laughing. With such ingenuity does she connect the workings of the world to her own fate. Everything that happens, she is convinced, carries a specific and personal reference to her. There is nothing, not a turn in the weather, or a chance word spoken in the street, that does not covertly pass on to her some profound message of warning or encouragement."
It's arguable that Cass is as egocentric as her father. Hence, they're unable to break down the barriers between each other and form an affectionate and supportive relationship:
"What in my mother was distraction turned out in Cass to be an absence, a lostness. Thus the march of the generations works its dark magic, making its elaborations, its complications, turning a trait into an affliction...
"Whole days my girl would keep to her bed, ignoring all entreaties, all reproaches..."
Double Estrangement
Cleave is not just estranged from his daughter, he's estranged from his wife.
As so often happens in domestic or family conflicts, Cass plays one parent off against the other, thus damaging the relationship between her parents. Both parents end up plagued by anticipatory guilt about the possible future impact on Cass.
Treble Estrangement
The third level of estrangement is Cleave's estrangement from himself. He ends up alienated from himself and, as a result, the whole world outside. He loses touch with reality, and ends up seeing ghosts around the family beach house to which he has retreated.
On Not Spoiling Cass
Regrettably, it's not possible to discuss the three forms of estrangement or Cass' fate in any more detail without revealing spoilers.
The pleasure of deeper comprehension than I can offer you awaits your own reading of the novel. It's definitely worth it.
SOUNDTRACK:
November 15, 2017
My heart. My nerves.
It is late, the light is going. My mind aches from so much futile remembering. What does it hope to signify, this chapter of family accidents? What is it I hope to retrieve? What is it I am trying to avoid? I see what was my life adrift behind me, going smaller and smaller with distance, like a city on an ice floe caught in a current, its twinkling lights, its palaces and spires and slums, all miraculously intact, all hopelessly beyond reach. Was it I who took an axe to the ice? What can I do now but stand on this crumbling promontory and watch the past as it dwindles? When I look ahead, I see nothing except empty morning, and no day, only dusk thickening into night, and, far off, something that is not to be made out, something vague, patient, binding. Is that the future, trying to speak to me here, among the shadows of the past? I do not want to hear what it might have to say.
It is late, the light is going. My mind aches from so much futile remembering. What does it hope to signify, this chapter of family accidents? What is it I hope to retrieve? What is it I am trying to avoid? I see what was my life adrift behind me, going smaller and smaller with distance, like a city on an ice floe caught in a current, its twinkling lights, its palaces and spires and slums, all miraculously intact, all hopelessly beyond reach. Was it I who took an axe to the ice? What can I do now but stand on this crumbling promontory and watch the past as it dwindles? When I look ahead, I see nothing except empty morning, and no day, only dusk thickening into night, and, far off, something that is not to be made out, something vague, patient, binding. Is that the future, trying to speak to me here, among the shadows of the past? I do not want to hear what it might have to say.
February 14, 2018
Banville writes magnificent prose. It is dense rather than lean. It is filled with visual detail.
I have not described the writing as beautiful. Why? Because he captures the beautiful as well as the sordid and ugly. The sordid and ugly will make you squirm.
Think prose poetry and absence of plot. That is what is delivered until almost the very end. Without the ending, I would have been left hopelessly confused.
The story is about Alexander Cleave. He is fifty, an actor and he has collapsed on stage. He retreats to his childhood home, to collect himself, to figure out who he is. Acting has been more than just his profession; acting also describes how he relates to others. Now, back in his home, he falls into retrospection. The reader is delivered a monolog; Alex relates jumbled memories from his past mixed with events that occur in the present. He is searching to find himself. More precisely, he dares for the first time in his life to think about the past rather than running from it. He is very much thinking about his daughter, Cass.
We are given Alex’s thoughts. We must determine what is correct and what isn’t.
As I read this, I was frustrated. Why? Not due to lack of plot but because I was confused….and sometimes, I must admit, repulsed. The writing may be great, but the confusion drove me nuts. Alexander is not a man to admire; he is exceedingly narcissistic. More importantly, the author has not succeeded in making me want to know more about Alex! I had difficulty putting myself in his shoes. It is for these reasons I have given the book two stars, despite its praiseworthy prose.
I listened to the audiobook narrated by Bill Wallis. He wonderfully captures Alexander’s voice. The narration I have given four stars. Really well done!
Eclipse is one off the three books composing the Cleave Trilogy. The books can be read in any order. Both Eclipse and Ancient Light are about Alexander Cleave. Shroud is about Alex's daughter Cass.
The bottom line is that I do not want to read Ancient Light, although I have already purchased it. With this in mind, I cannot give Eclipse more than two stars.
The books I have read by John Banville:
The Blue Guitar 5 stars
The Sea 3 stars
Eclipse 2 stars
I have not described the writing as beautiful. Why? Because he captures the beautiful as well as the sordid and ugly. The sordid and ugly will make you squirm.
Think prose poetry and absence of plot. That is what is delivered until almost the very end. Without the ending, I would have been left hopelessly confused.
The story is about Alexander Cleave. He is fifty, an actor and he has collapsed on stage. He retreats to his childhood home, to collect himself, to figure out who he is. Acting has been more than just his profession; acting also describes how he relates to others. Now, back in his home, he falls into retrospection. The reader is delivered a monolog; Alex relates jumbled memories from his past mixed with events that occur in the present. He is searching to find himself. More precisely, he dares for the first time in his life to think about the past rather than running from it. He is very much thinking about his daughter, Cass.
We are given Alex’s thoughts. We must determine what is correct and what isn’t.
As I read this, I was frustrated. Why? Not due to lack of plot but because I was confused….and sometimes, I must admit, repulsed. The writing may be great, but the confusion drove me nuts. Alexander is not a man to admire; he is exceedingly narcissistic. More importantly, the author has not succeeded in making me want to know more about Alex! I had difficulty putting myself in his shoes. It is for these reasons I have given the book two stars, despite its praiseworthy prose.
I listened to the audiobook narrated by Bill Wallis. He wonderfully captures Alexander’s voice. The narration I have given four stars. Really well done!
Eclipse is one off the three books composing the Cleave Trilogy. The books can be read in any order. Both Eclipse and Ancient Light are about Alexander Cleave. Shroud is about Alex's daughter Cass.
The bottom line is that I do not want to read Ancient Light, although I have already purchased it. With this in mind, I cannot give Eclipse more than two stars.
The books I have read by John Banville:
The Blue Guitar 5 stars
The Sea 3 stars
Eclipse 2 stars
May 9, 2021
E há em mim qualquer coisa que verga, verga e ressalta em seguida com um esforço cansado. O que é a felicidade senão uma forma requintada de dor?
Este livro praticamente não tem enredo. Porque não precisa dele para ser sublime. Porque quando se tem o domínio da escrita do irlandês John Banville, basta deitar palavras para o papel, basta escrever páginas e páginas de texto compacto sob a forma de monólogo interior para me deixar num estado de pura reverência.
É inconfundível a feroz tenacidade com que a memória fixa as cenas aparentemente mais insignificantes. Há trechos inteiros da minha vida que desapareceram, como uma falésia tragada pelo mar, ao mesmo tempo que me agarro a certas coisas banais com uma obstinação maravilhada.
Numa profunda crise existencial, matrimonial e profissional, o actor Alex Cleave regressa à casa da sua infância que fora também uma pensão, habitada por espectros mais ou menos incorpóreos.
Se tusso, se faço ressoar as páginas de um livro ao fechá-lo, a casa inteira, à maneira de um piano ferido numa das suas teclas, devolve-me o eco de um acorde metálico prolongado e sombrio. Às vezes, tenho a impressão de que o próprio ar que enche cada divisão da casa se reúne para discutir a meu respeito, a respeito daquilo que faço e dos meus gestos.
"Eclipse" é uma fuga, mas é também um reencontro com o inesperado e o inevitável.
- Julgo – disse eu – sinto, e é uma ideia que não me sai da cabeça, que se passou alguma coisa, uma coisa tremenda, a que eu não prestei a devida atenção, não dei a devida importância, porque não sei o que é.
Lydia permaneceu em silêncio, depois soltou uma espécie de riso (...).
- Talvez seja a tua vida – disse ela, então. – É mais que suficiente como desastre, não te parece?
O eclipse do título materializa-se em vários momentos. É um fenómeno físico e simbólico, uma das muitas manifestações de luz e sombra desta obra.
Este livro praticamente não tem enredo. Porque não precisa dele para ser sublime. Porque quando se tem o domínio da escrita do irlandês John Banville, basta deitar palavras para o papel, basta escrever páginas e páginas de texto compacto sob a forma de monólogo interior para me deixar num estado de pura reverência.
É inconfundível a feroz tenacidade com que a memória fixa as cenas aparentemente mais insignificantes. Há trechos inteiros da minha vida que desapareceram, como uma falésia tragada pelo mar, ao mesmo tempo que me agarro a certas coisas banais com uma obstinação maravilhada.
Numa profunda crise existencial, matrimonial e profissional, o actor Alex Cleave regressa à casa da sua infância que fora também uma pensão, habitada por espectros mais ou menos incorpóreos.
Se tusso, se faço ressoar as páginas de um livro ao fechá-lo, a casa inteira, à maneira de um piano ferido numa das suas teclas, devolve-me o eco de um acorde metálico prolongado e sombrio. Às vezes, tenho a impressão de que o próprio ar que enche cada divisão da casa se reúne para discutir a meu respeito, a respeito daquilo que faço e dos meus gestos.
"Eclipse" é uma fuga, mas é também um reencontro com o inesperado e o inevitável.
- Julgo – disse eu – sinto, e é uma ideia que não me sai da cabeça, que se passou alguma coisa, uma coisa tremenda, a que eu não prestei a devida atenção, não dei a devida importância, porque não sei o que é.
Lydia permaneceu em silêncio, depois soltou uma espécie de riso (...).
- Talvez seja a tua vida – disse ela, então. – É mais que suficiente como desastre, não te parece?
O eclipse do título materializa-se em vários momentos. É um fenómeno físico e simbólico, uma das muitas manifestações de luz e sombra desta obra.
November 9, 2015
Eclipse is the first novel in John Banville's father-and-daughter trilogy involving Alexander and Cass Cleave. (Other novels in the trilogy include Shroud and Ancient Light.) Banville has a talent for luminous writing, as exemplified by Alexander Cleave's description of his estranged and possibly schizophrenic daughter: "Indeed, such was her calm at times that she would seem to be not there at all, to have drifted off, lighter than air. It is a different air in which she moves, a separate medium. For her I think the world is always somewhere other, an unfamiliar place where yet she has always been. This is for me the hardest thing, to think of her out there, standing on some far bleak deserted shore, beyond help, in unmoving light, with an ocean of lostness all before her and the siren voices singing in her head." Banville has a beautiful way with words, and his writing in Eclipse is sublime.
June 23, 2018
La crítica es unánime: "...resplandor nabokoviano...aspereza beckettiana...Banville tiene muy pocos rivales...el escritor en lengua inglesa más inteligente, el estilista más elegante..." También es admirado por otros escritores: "...Banville es grande porque desciende al fondo más oscuro de la existencia..." (Claudio Magris); "Es un maestro, y su prosa es un deleite incesante." (Martin Amis)... Y así podría seguir y seguir, los halagos para Banville no tienen fin.
No cabe ninguna duda, John Banville escribe bien. Su prosa es de admirar, sobre todo en las descripciones. En pocas palabras es capaz de hacerte ver (de explicar) imágenes que siempre has tenido ante tus ojos pero que pocas veces te has parado a pensar en ellas. (Ahora me viene a la cabeza la pequeña descripción sobre un recuerdo que tiene el protagonista cuando era niño; se trata de esas luces que se reflejan en el techo, producto de los coches que pasan por la carretera, resplandores que lo atraviesan (el techo) y que avivan la imaginación mientras estás tumbado en la cama; lo que a mí me cuesta horrores describir, Banville lo logra de la manera más bella y perfecta.)
La historia. Alex Cleave es un actor de éxito, que a sus cincuenta años le sucede algo inexplicable en el escenario y entonces decide retirarse a su antigua casa, la casa de su niñez. Lydia, su mujer, lo acompaña al principio. Aunque intenta comprender las motivaciones de su marido, termina por ceder a sus deseos y lo deja solo en la casa. Aquí, Alex tendrá que convivir con unos huéspedes inesperados, unos de carne y hueso, y otros fantasmales. ¿Pero son fantasmas del pasado o del porvenir? La novela, narrada en primera persona por Alex, transcurre entre recuerdos, pasados y presentes, en los que su hija Cass tiene un papel preponderante.
No es un libro fácil de leer, en el sentido que no es de los que se leen de un tirón, al menos a mí así me lo ha parecido. Pero la prosa de Banville y lo que te cuenta, te arrastran hasta el final. Además, el autor se guarda algunos golpes de efecto que dan un giro inesperado a la historia. Lo que no me ha gustado tanto del libro, y parece que es una seña de identidad de Banville, es que no llegas a implicarte con los personajes, están perfilados de una manera demasiado fría. Pero, aun así, merece la pena, por las palabras y por ciertas imágenes que han quedado grabadas en mi mente.
No cabe ninguna duda, John Banville escribe bien. Su prosa es de admirar, sobre todo en las descripciones. En pocas palabras es capaz de hacerte ver (de explicar) imágenes que siempre has tenido ante tus ojos pero que pocas veces te has parado a pensar en ellas. (Ahora me viene a la cabeza la pequeña descripción sobre un recuerdo que tiene el protagonista cuando era niño; se trata de esas luces que se reflejan en el techo, producto de los coches que pasan por la carretera, resplandores que lo atraviesan (el techo) y que avivan la imaginación mientras estás tumbado en la cama; lo que a mí me cuesta horrores describir, Banville lo logra de la manera más bella y perfecta.)
La historia. Alex Cleave es un actor de éxito, que a sus cincuenta años le sucede algo inexplicable en el escenario y entonces decide retirarse a su antigua casa, la casa de su niñez. Lydia, su mujer, lo acompaña al principio. Aunque intenta comprender las motivaciones de su marido, termina por ceder a sus deseos y lo deja solo en la casa. Aquí, Alex tendrá que convivir con unos huéspedes inesperados, unos de carne y hueso, y otros fantasmales. ¿Pero son fantasmas del pasado o del porvenir? La novela, narrada en primera persona por Alex, transcurre entre recuerdos, pasados y presentes, en los que su hija Cass tiene un papel preponderante.
No es un libro fácil de leer, en el sentido que no es de los que se leen de un tirón, al menos a mí así me lo ha parecido. Pero la prosa de Banville y lo que te cuenta, te arrastran hasta el final. Además, el autor se guarda algunos golpes de efecto que dan un giro inesperado a la historia. Lo que no me ha gustado tanto del libro, y parece que es una seña de identidad de Banville, es que no llegas a implicarte con los personajes, están perfilados de una manera demasiado fría. Pero, aun así, merece la pena, por las palabras y por ciertas imágenes que han quedado grabadas en mi mente.
November 3, 2023
4,5 ⭐
El narrador, Alexander Cleave, está en medio de una crisis. Percibe que algo no está bien en su vida. Siente que el nudo central de su problema está en que toda su vida se ha ocupado más de representar que de ser, o de vivir, lo cual cuaja perfectamente con su profesión de actor (aunque el problema lo preceda).
"A veces me parece que es en esos intervalos de vacío, sin que fuera consciente de ello, cuando he vivido de forma más real y auténtica."
Hay al menos un aspecto de su vida que muestra otra cosa: la profunda conexión emocional con su hija, que desde niña ha sido una persona problemática.
En su búsqueda pretende aislarse en la que fue la casa de su infancia, aunque las circunstancias que van ocurriendo lo terminan haciendo muy diferente a la situación idílica que había imaginado, no necesariamente para mal.
Y surgen dudas sobre la sinceridad y la factibilidad de encontrar ese “verdadero yo”, si es que existe tal cosa; o es que siempre será quien es, alguien centrado en sí mismo, que se acerca a la realidad como si fuera un objeto de estudio.
"Estoy convencido de que puedo aprender cosas de los afligidos, pues ellos traen noticias de otra parte, de un mundo en el que los cielos son distintos, donde deambulan criaturas diferentes, y donde las leyes no son las nuestras, un mundo que conocería de inmediato si se me permitiera verlo."
Pero la realidad existe, independientemente de las distancias que se pretenda poner con ella. Y a veces golpea, y permite ser como ninguna otra técnica.
La obra muestra una gran capacidad de observación e introspección, así como una gran imaginación. La narración se desarrolla con maestría artesanal, pudiendo intercalar de manera natural el presente con los recuerdos, contribuyendo a una construcción de gran calidad, y con un final magnífico.
Una novela excelente.
El narrador, Alexander Cleave, está en medio de una crisis. Percibe que algo no está bien en su vida. Siente que el nudo central de su problema está en que toda su vida se ha ocupado más de representar que de ser, o de vivir, lo cual cuaja perfectamente con su profesión de actor (aunque el problema lo preceda).
"A veces me parece que es en esos intervalos de vacío, sin que fuera consciente de ello, cuando he vivido de forma más real y auténtica."
Hay al menos un aspecto de su vida que muestra otra cosa: la profunda conexión emocional con su hija, que desde niña ha sido una persona problemática.
En su búsqueda pretende aislarse en la que fue la casa de su infancia, aunque las circunstancias que van ocurriendo lo terminan haciendo muy diferente a la situación idílica que había imaginado, no necesariamente para mal.
Y surgen dudas sobre la sinceridad y la factibilidad de encontrar ese “verdadero yo”, si es que existe tal cosa; o es que siempre será quien es, alguien centrado en sí mismo, que se acerca a la realidad como si fuera un objeto de estudio.
"Estoy convencido de que puedo aprender cosas de los afligidos, pues ellos traen noticias de otra parte, de un mundo en el que los cielos son distintos, donde deambulan criaturas diferentes, y donde las leyes no son las nuestras, un mundo que conocería de inmediato si se me permitiera verlo."
Pero la realidad existe, independientemente de las distancias que se pretenda poner con ella. Y a veces golpea, y permite ser como ninguna otra técnica.
La obra muestra una gran capacidad de observación e introspección, así como una gran imaginación. La narración se desarrolla con maestría artesanal, pudiendo intercalar de manera natural el presente con los recuerdos, contribuyendo a una construcción de gran calidad, y con un final magnífico.
Una novela excelente.
August 19, 2025
Hubo un verano en que me convencí de que la casa de mis abuelos estaba embrujada. No había fantasmas, por supuesto, pero el eco de las habitaciones vacías me parecía más vivo que yo. Al leer Eclipse de John Banville, me ha vuelto esa misma sensación: el escalofrío de estar en un lugar familiar convertido en extraño, como si las paredes recordaran mejor que uno mismo quién fue allí.
Porque, ¿y si un día descubres que eres un fantasma en tu propia vida, que las habitaciones hablan más con tu ausencia que con tu presencia? Esa es la sensación que transita por Eclipse, la primera entrega de la llamada Trilogía de Cleave de John Banville: un libro que se siente como una casa abandonada, con los muebles cubiertos de polvo y donde los recuerdos todavía susurran en cada rincón.
La excusa narrativa es mínima: un actor famoso, tras un episodio de colapso escénico nunca del todo explicado —porque esa es la clave de la novela, las cosas no se explican sino que se sugieren—, decide retirarse del mundo y refugiarse en la casa de su infancia. Pero Banville no es Ibsen y aquí no hay drama familiar al uso; lo suyo está más cerca de Beckett, con esos personajes que siguen hablando aunque ya no tengan escenario. Y el retiro se convierte pronto en un desmoronamiento: la identidad del narrador se resquebraja como un decorado de cartón, y lo que queda es un hombre que no sabe si todavía actúa o si, al fin, se ha vuelto el espectro de sí mismo. El resultado no es tanto una historia como una demolición del yo: la identidad convertida en decorado vacío, un eco que no sabes si viene de dentro o de fuera.
Quienes ya lo conocen saben que Banville tiene la mala costumbre de escribir como si quisiera arruinarte el día. Y aquí lo hace con una elegancia casi insultante, porque no puedes dejar de leerlo: esas frases que no avanzan, sino que te rodean, como una hipnosis lenta. Es esta una prosa que no se deja devorar, exige digestión lenta, como Proust después de haberse tragado a un fantasma. Eclipse no se puede leer con prisa; es un libro que obliga a rendirse a su cadencia. Cada frase es un espejo empañado en el que uno se reconoce de forma deformada. Cada párrafo parece pronunciado en un teatro vacío, con la voz del narrador rebotando contra las paredes, más eco que palabra.
Y, claro, si intentas leerlo rápido, fracasas: Eclipse te fuerza a frenar, a escuchar la cadencia de esa voz. Quien se acerque buscando una trama que se devore, se dará de bruces. Intentar leerlo como si fuera una novela de intriga es como pretender correr en sueños: te quedas atascado. La única manera es dejarse devorar por esa voz, que recuerda a la conciencia desdoblada de Pirandello o a las habitaciones en penumbra de Henry James.
Pero lo fascinante es cómo Banville logra que lo ausente pese más que lo presente. Los personajes aparecen y desaparecen como sombras. Y siempre tienes la sensación de que te están mirando con esa sonrisa torva del que sabe algo que tú ignoras. Es precisamente en este dominio de lo ausente donde Eclipse se acerca a la resonancia de El mar , esa otra gran novela suya donde la memoria se convierte en protagonista. Pero mientras en El mar aún quedaba una melancolía suave, aquí el tono es más inquietante, casi febril: si allí se recordaba lo perdido, aquí, en cambio, domina la sensación de que ni la memoria ni el presente se sostienen. Si El mar era elegía, Eclipse es exorcismo.
Y sí, hay ironía en todo esto. Un actor que huye del escenario para ser “auténtico” y termina interpretándose a sí mismo en soledad. Como si Hamlet hubiera decidido mudarse a una casa de campo y seguir soltando soliloquios, sin cadáveres que lo acompañen pero con la misma desesperación de no poder salirse del papel. Y uno no puede evitar pensar que eso nos pasa también a nosotros: actuamos incluso cuando nadie nos mira, ensayamos una vida que nunca llegamos a estrenar.
Eclipse es la primera novela de la Trilogía de Cleave, y se nota que Banville abre aquí un territorio nuevo: el yo diseccionado, el narrador convertido en su propia sombra, la intimidad como escenario. No hace falta haber leído las otras dos para entrar en esta, pero sí percibes que Banville está construyendo algo mayor: una especie de laboratorio narrativo donde la identidad se derrumba a cámara lenta.
Lo que me deja el libro es menos la historia que la sensación. Como cuando sales de un teatro vacío: las butacas parecen recordar mejor que tú lo que pasó en escena. Leer Eclipse es eso, caminar entre ecos, aceptar que debajo de lo que llamamos yo solo hay un hueco que nos devuelve la mirada. Y Banville, con su prosa hipnótica y cruel, tiene la mala educación de recordárnoslo.
Por eso no me deja otra opción que darle las 5 estrellas. No porque sea una novela cómoda, entretenida o amable —no lo es ni por asomo—, sino porque Banville hace exactamente lo que quiere y lo hace con una precisión que te hace llorar de admiración y envidia. Esto no es una novela para devorar entre cafés y ratos libres; es una novela que te obliga a detenerte, a escuchar cada frase, a caminar por un laberinto de espejos y ecos donde el yo se disuelve y los fantasmas cotidianos pesan más que los vivos. Si alguien entra esperando intriga o acción, se llevará un buen chasco. Pero si se deja arrastrar por su cadencia hipnótica, lo que encuentra es de lo mejor que puede ofrecer la prosa contemporánea: cruel, elegante, absorbente, y absolutamente Banville. Un 4 se le quedaría corto —sería como reprocharle ser demasiado Banville— y un 5 en este caso no es tanto un gesto de “perfección objetiva” como un acto de justicia: Eclipse es exactamente lo que quiere ser, y en eso es impecable. Un 5 que no es capricho, sino el reconocimiento a que Eclipse cumple lo que promete, y más.
Porque, ¿y si un día descubres que eres un fantasma en tu propia vida, que las habitaciones hablan más con tu ausencia que con tu presencia? Esa es la sensación que transita por Eclipse, la primera entrega de la llamada Trilogía de Cleave de John Banville: un libro que se siente como una casa abandonada, con los muebles cubiertos de polvo y donde los recuerdos todavía susurran en cada rincón.
La excusa narrativa es mínima: un actor famoso, tras un episodio de colapso escénico nunca del todo explicado —porque esa es la clave de la novela, las cosas no se explican sino que se sugieren—, decide retirarse del mundo y refugiarse en la casa de su infancia. Pero Banville no es Ibsen y aquí no hay drama familiar al uso; lo suyo está más cerca de Beckett, con esos personajes que siguen hablando aunque ya no tengan escenario. Y el retiro se convierte pronto en un desmoronamiento: la identidad del narrador se resquebraja como un decorado de cartón, y lo que queda es un hombre que no sabe si todavía actúa o si, al fin, se ha vuelto el espectro de sí mismo. El resultado no es tanto una historia como una demolición del yo: la identidad convertida en decorado vacío, un eco que no sabes si viene de dentro o de fuera.
Quienes ya lo conocen saben que Banville tiene la mala costumbre de escribir como si quisiera arruinarte el día. Y aquí lo hace con una elegancia casi insultante, porque no puedes dejar de leerlo: esas frases que no avanzan, sino que te rodean, como una hipnosis lenta. Es esta una prosa que no se deja devorar, exige digestión lenta, como Proust después de haberse tragado a un fantasma. Eclipse no se puede leer con prisa; es un libro que obliga a rendirse a su cadencia. Cada frase es un espejo empañado en el que uno se reconoce de forma deformada. Cada párrafo parece pronunciado en un teatro vacío, con la voz del narrador rebotando contra las paredes, más eco que palabra.
Y, claro, si intentas leerlo rápido, fracasas: Eclipse te fuerza a frenar, a escuchar la cadencia de esa voz. Quien se acerque buscando una trama que se devore, se dará de bruces. Intentar leerlo como si fuera una novela de intriga es como pretender correr en sueños: te quedas atascado. La única manera es dejarse devorar por esa voz, que recuerda a la conciencia desdoblada de Pirandello o a las habitaciones en penumbra de Henry James.
Pero lo fascinante es cómo Banville logra que lo ausente pese más que lo presente. Los personajes aparecen y desaparecen como sombras. Y siempre tienes la sensación de que te están mirando con esa sonrisa torva del que sabe algo que tú ignoras. Es precisamente en este dominio de lo ausente donde Eclipse se acerca a la resonancia de El mar , esa otra gran novela suya donde la memoria se convierte en protagonista. Pero mientras en El mar aún quedaba una melancolía suave, aquí el tono es más inquietante, casi febril: si allí se recordaba lo perdido, aquí, en cambio, domina la sensación de que ni la memoria ni el presente se sostienen. Si El mar era elegía, Eclipse es exorcismo.
Y sí, hay ironía en todo esto. Un actor que huye del escenario para ser “auténtico” y termina interpretándose a sí mismo en soledad. Como si Hamlet hubiera decidido mudarse a una casa de campo y seguir soltando soliloquios, sin cadáveres que lo acompañen pero con la misma desesperación de no poder salirse del papel. Y uno no puede evitar pensar que eso nos pasa también a nosotros: actuamos incluso cuando nadie nos mira, ensayamos una vida que nunca llegamos a estrenar.
Eclipse es la primera novela de la Trilogía de Cleave, y se nota que Banville abre aquí un territorio nuevo: el yo diseccionado, el narrador convertido en su propia sombra, la intimidad como escenario. No hace falta haber leído las otras dos para entrar en esta, pero sí percibes que Banville está construyendo algo mayor: una especie de laboratorio narrativo donde la identidad se derrumba a cámara lenta.
Lo que me deja el libro es menos la historia que la sensación. Como cuando sales de un teatro vacío: las butacas parecen recordar mejor que tú lo que pasó en escena. Leer Eclipse es eso, caminar entre ecos, aceptar que debajo de lo que llamamos yo solo hay un hueco que nos devuelve la mirada. Y Banville, con su prosa hipnótica y cruel, tiene la mala educación de recordárnoslo.
Por eso no me deja otra opción que darle las 5 estrellas. No porque sea una novela cómoda, entretenida o amable —no lo es ni por asomo—, sino porque Banville hace exactamente lo que quiere y lo hace con una precisión que te hace llorar de admiración y envidia. Esto no es una novela para devorar entre cafés y ratos libres; es una novela que te obliga a detenerte, a escuchar cada frase, a caminar por un laberinto de espejos y ecos donde el yo se disuelve y los fantasmas cotidianos pesan más que los vivos. Si alguien entra esperando intriga o acción, se llevará un buen chasco. Pero si se deja arrastrar por su cadencia hipnótica, lo que encuentra es de lo mejor que puede ofrecer la prosa contemporánea: cruel, elegante, absorbente, y absolutamente Banville. Un 4 se le quedaría corto —sería como reprocharle ser demasiado Banville— y un 5 en este caso no es tanto un gesto de “perfección objetiva” como un acto de justicia: Eclipse es exactamente lo que quiere ser, y en eso es impecable. Un 5 que no es capricho, sino el reconocimiento a que Eclipse cumple lo que promete, y más.
September 16, 2023
bazı kitaplarda çok garip oluyor. özellikle erkek yazarlarda yaşadığım durum. genazino’dan tutun da dag solstad’a kadar içeriği kırılgan erkeklik olan romanlar bahsettiğim. seviyorum, okuyorum ama içten içe erkek karaktere acayip sinirleniyorum. ama şerefsiz yazarlar öyle güzel yazıyorlar ki adama sinir ola ola okuyorum işte.
bir üçlemenin ilk romanı “güneş tutulması”. bu arada “eclipse” ne güzel sözcük diye düşündüm okurken. orijinal dilindeki o hava maalesef türkçesine geçmiyor aslında. ama yapacak bir şey yok.
alexander cleave, orta yaşlarına gelmiş bir oyuncu. son olarak sahnede bir kriz (muhtemelen panik atak) geçirip, manşetlere çıkarak işini bırakıyor. tam orta yaş bunalımı gibi bir haller işte. sonra çocukluk evine görüyor bir şekilde, daha doğrusu bir gece bir bakıyo arabayla oralara gitmiş ve yalnız kalmak için çocukluk evine ve anılarına dönüyor.
karısı nerde, kızı nerde, hiiiiç… hatta sinirlenen karısını yargılıyor utanmadan. karısı lydia’nın maşallahı var ama bam bam geçiriyor lafları. bu çekip gitme ihtiyacı hep zaten erkeklerde oluyor. biz bir yere gidemiyoruz anasını satayım.
neyse pek bir olay yok, alex çocukluğundan beri hayaletlerle haşır neşir ve evde yine onlarla yaşadığını düşünüyor. romanın asıl başarısı günümüzle geçmiş arasında alex’in nefis salınımları. o kadar incelikle yapılıyor ki, sanki böyle paten üzerinde geçmişe kayıp sonra 180 derece dönüp bugüne geliyoruz. niye kaymak dedim? çünkü mükemmel bir dil. şiirsel ki ben pek sevmem yine de hayran kaldım ve benzetmeleri, imgeleri insanda çok şey uyandırıyor. bu arada suat ertüzün harika çevirmiş. türkçede unuttuğumuz öyle ince, detaylı sözcükler kullanmış ki bayıldım.
alex ve lydia’nın belki de kaçmaya çalıştıları şey problemli kızları cass. alex düşüncelerinde mutlaka cass’a uğruyor çünkü onun hakkında hep tedirgin. romandaki diğer baba-kız figürü, yunan mitolojisinden benzetmeler, incil göndermeleri gerçekten çok yerli yerinde bir ikili yaratmış.
netekim sirk gecesiyle climax’e yükselen roman bam diye bizi yerimize oturtuyor. beklediğimiz bir şey. ama anlatım yine hayranlık verici.
evet, adamlara ve kaçıp gitmelerine sinir olsam da güzel yazılmış romana lafım yok. bu kitabı bana ulaştıran editör mert tanaydın’a tekrar teşekkür ederim. ne seveceğimi biliyormuş.
bir üçlemenin ilk romanı “güneş tutulması”. bu arada “eclipse” ne güzel sözcük diye düşündüm okurken. orijinal dilindeki o hava maalesef türkçesine geçmiyor aslında. ama yapacak bir şey yok.
alexander cleave, orta yaşlarına gelmiş bir oyuncu. son olarak sahnede bir kriz (muhtemelen panik atak) geçirip, manşetlere çıkarak işini bırakıyor. tam orta yaş bunalımı gibi bir haller işte. sonra çocukluk evine görüyor bir şekilde, daha doğrusu bir gece bir bakıyo arabayla oralara gitmiş ve yalnız kalmak için çocukluk evine ve anılarına dönüyor.
karısı nerde, kızı nerde, hiiiiç… hatta sinirlenen karısını yargılıyor utanmadan. karısı lydia’nın maşallahı var ama bam bam geçiriyor lafları. bu çekip gitme ihtiyacı hep zaten erkeklerde oluyor. biz bir yere gidemiyoruz anasını satayım.
neyse pek bir olay yok, alex çocukluğundan beri hayaletlerle haşır neşir ve evde yine onlarla yaşadığını düşünüyor. romanın asıl başarısı günümüzle geçmiş arasında alex’in nefis salınımları. o kadar incelikle yapılıyor ki, sanki böyle paten üzerinde geçmişe kayıp sonra 180 derece dönüp bugüne geliyoruz. niye kaymak dedim? çünkü mükemmel bir dil. şiirsel ki ben pek sevmem yine de hayran kaldım ve benzetmeleri, imgeleri insanda çok şey uyandırıyor. bu arada suat ertüzün harika çevirmiş. türkçede unuttuğumuz öyle ince, detaylı sözcükler kullanmış ki bayıldım.
alex ve lydia’nın belki de kaçmaya çalıştıları şey problemli kızları cass. alex düşüncelerinde mutlaka cass’a uğruyor çünkü onun hakkında hep tedirgin. romandaki diğer baba-kız figürü, yunan mitolojisinden benzetmeler, incil göndermeleri gerçekten çok yerli yerinde bir ikili yaratmış.
netekim sirk gecesiyle climax’e yükselen roman bam diye bizi yerimize oturtuyor. beklediğimiz bir şey. ama anlatım yine hayranlık verici.
evet, adamlara ve kaçıp gitmelerine sinir olsam da güzel yazılmış romana lafım yok. bu kitabı bana ulaştıran editör mert tanaydın’a tekrar teşekkür ederim. ne seveceğimi biliyormuş.
July 14, 2017
"Se pudesse encarnar e tirar agora do meu seio
aquilo que nele é mais profundo, se pudesse cingir
com palavras estes meus pensamentos, e assim exprimir
alma, coração, e espírito, paixões e todos os sentimentos,
ah, tudo o que poderia desejar, e desejo,
sofro, conheço e sinto, sem que morra, numa só palavra
– e que essa palavra fosse “Relâmpago!” – eu a diria;
mas não, vivo e morro voltando para o silêncio apenas,
com sufocadas vozes que guardo como uma espada…"
— George Byron
THE CLEAVE TRILOGY - Livro I
Eclipse
(Carlo Maria Mariani, Eclipse)
Personagens principais
Alex Cleave
Catherine Cleave (filha de Alex e Lydia)
Lydia (mulher de Alex)
Pequeno resumo
Alex Cleave é um actor de teatro, de meia idade, cuja carreira termina durante uma representação em que perde a memória. Retira-se para a velha casa de seus pais (já falecidos) onde luta com os seus fantasmas - que tomam a forma de recordações do passado - ; e com as premonições do futuro, geradas pelos seus medos. A filha, Catherine, está sempre presente no seu pensamento, como uma preocupação permanente, pois é uma jovem que, desde a infância, sofre de uma doença mental, que oscila entre a depressão e a loucura.
aquilo que nele é mais profundo, se pudesse cingir
com palavras estes meus pensamentos, e assim exprimir
alma, coração, e espírito, paixões e todos os sentimentos,
ah, tudo o que poderia desejar, e desejo,
sofro, conheço e sinto, sem que morra, numa só palavra
– e que essa palavra fosse “Relâmpago!” – eu a diria;
mas não, vivo e morro voltando para o silêncio apenas,
com sufocadas vozes que guardo como uma espada…"
— George Byron
THE CLEAVE TRILOGY - Livro I
Eclipse
(Carlo Maria Mariani, Eclipse)
Personagens principais
Alex Cleave
Catherine Cleave (filha de Alex e Lydia)
Lydia (mulher de Alex)
Pequeno resumo
Alex Cleave é um actor de teatro, de meia idade, cuja carreira termina durante uma representação em que perde a memória. Retira-se para a velha casa de seus pais (já falecidos) onde luta com os seus fantasmas - que tomam a forma de recordações do passado - ; e com as premonições do futuro, geradas pelos seus medos. A filha, Catherine, está sempre presente no seu pensamento, como uma preocupação permanente, pois é uma jovem que, desde a infância, sofre de uma doença mental, que oscila entre a depressão e a loucura.
"As coisas podem correr mal. Minha Marina, minha Miranda, oh, minha Perdita."
April 2, 2017
Spurred on by a review of Banville's Shroud by my Greek Goodreads friend, I picked up Eclipse. This is the first of the informal trilogy that includes Ancient Light (the third book) which I read recently and thoroughly enjoyed. I have also read The Sea and to no surprize, I enjoyed Eclipse as well.
Banville is an elegant, poignant and heart-breaking writer. Different than Julian Barnes but in the same league. He captures simple things, a moment, a glance, an ancient light (yes he used this term to decribe the Irish light filling the place), a passing person. His descriptions of the everyday are very powerful. He writes with an artist's eye, and brings them to life in his poetic writing style. I realized that half way through this book, not much had happened and yet so much had happened.
This is the story of Alexander Cleave, an actor who is having a crisis and returns to his mother's home where he begins to see ghosts. What continues on (and sadly I knew from reading Ancient Light) is heart wrenching and powerful but oh so intensely enjoyable to read. This is English lit at its finest.
next, Shroud (the middle book).
Banville is an elegant, poignant and heart-breaking writer. Different than Julian Barnes but in the same league. He captures simple things, a moment, a glance, an ancient light (yes he used this term to decribe the Irish light filling the place), a passing person. His descriptions of the everyday are very powerful. He writes with an artist's eye, and brings them to life in his poetic writing style. I realized that half way through this book, not much had happened and yet so much had happened.
This is the story of Alexander Cleave, an actor who is having a crisis and returns to his mother's home where he begins to see ghosts. What continues on (and sadly I knew from reading Ancient Light) is heart wrenching and powerful but oh so intensely enjoyable to read. This is English lit at its finest.
next, Shroud (the middle book).
September 19, 2020
A disappointment. Lots of beautiful sentences saying very little.
April 29, 2023
Que escrita maravilhosa.
June 1, 2021
I'm going to paraphrase Jack Kerouac, who once said that there are writers of talent and those of genius, born to write a certain work that no one else could. Although Banville is often compared to Nabokov, I believe he belongs to the latter group, geniuses or perhaps rather artists who do not care excessively about the norms and expectations of the audience but stick to their path.
"Eclipse" is a pure example of genius at work, starting with the very structure that seems nonexistent at first because Banville's hero of this novel, Alexander Cleave leads readers with his lyrical and often monotonous narrative through the past and present, jumps from the subject to the subject without some visible order, but it is only towards the end that the grandiosity of "Eclipse" is understood.
Cleave is a fallen actor, figuratively and literally. One of those who is too in love with themselves, their egotism does not allow them to think about other people. After falling on stage in the middle of the show, Cleave returns to his parent's home, an old abandoned house he hasn't visited in a long time. There, in this place full of memories, he begins his questioning and conflict with the ghosts that torture him because there is a stage he is not even aware of. By running away from people, his roles as husband and father, in which he is worse than in the roles of fictional dramatic characters, he finds a new audience. Alive and dead.
The grandeur of Banville's writing gift makes us want to dissect every sentence and study them to understand how he arranges them, what sorcery he’s using. Some will say that pretentiousness is the main ingredient because it doesn't say anything with its dense, poetic sentences, but wastes time on something that could be put in fifty pages. They're somewhat right because Banville doesn't have a plot, his pace is slow and carefully read, but he's got a lot to say.
Despite its flaws, "Eclipse" is a solid novel worth reading because if you look closely, Banville's genius of assembling characters, their works, and lives is clear, as well as him guiding the thread throughout the story, carefully revealing the details of it along the way.
"Eclipse" is a pure example of genius at work, starting with the very structure that seems nonexistent at first because Banville's hero of this novel, Alexander Cleave leads readers with his lyrical and often monotonous narrative through the past and present, jumps from the subject to the subject without some visible order, but it is only towards the end that the grandiosity of "Eclipse" is understood.
Cleave is a fallen actor, figuratively and literally. One of those who is too in love with themselves, their egotism does not allow them to think about other people. After falling on stage in the middle of the show, Cleave returns to his parent's home, an old abandoned house he hasn't visited in a long time. There, in this place full of memories, he begins his questioning and conflict with the ghosts that torture him because there is a stage he is not even aware of. By running away from people, his roles as husband and father, in which he is worse than in the roles of fictional dramatic characters, he finds a new audience. Alive and dead.
The grandeur of Banville's writing gift makes us want to dissect every sentence and study them to understand how he arranges them, what sorcery he’s using. Some will say that pretentiousness is the main ingredient because it doesn't say anything with its dense, poetic sentences, but wastes time on something that could be put in fifty pages. They're somewhat right because Banville doesn't have a plot, his pace is slow and carefully read, but he's got a lot to say.
Despite its flaws, "Eclipse" is a solid novel worth reading because if you look closely, Banville's genius of assembling characters, their works, and lives is clear, as well as him guiding the thread throughout the story, carefully revealing the details of it along the way.
January 14, 2012
Fairly ornate writing, but to what end? There wasn't one character, or a single mood, emotion, or sentence that gripped me. Or even made me pleased to be reading. Just one of an endless stream of examples of why most contemporary literary fiction is not for me.
February 14, 2024
Well this was a weird one if I do say so myself!
This was published in 2000 but the writing makes it feel as though it was written in a different time period altogether. Banville writes with a highly educated use of the English language, wrapping his pen around lengthy, articulated phrases of an often flowery persuasion! Whether this adds to or detracts from the story, I'm still trying to decide.
The story of an actor who has had a breakdown on stage and runs away to his childhood home, bumbles along with no real structure. He sees apparitions; are they ghosts, hallucinations, whispers of his past? People are squatting in his house; are they real, should they be there, are they malign or benevolent? We hear of a daughter with a troubled past and a distance maintained from her family and we hear of the father/daughter relationship through random reminiscences. This unstructured remembering goes on for chapters and chapters and whilst it is not unpleasant, it feels superfluous at times.
Then BOOM the ending comes right out of nowhere! That's that! This has happened, deal with it! It's quite a shocking ending and unexpected, and because the rest of the story has been so rambling, the harshness of it feels out of place almost.
Although the book is only short (around 200 pages or so), I feel like this took an age to read. It was different and mildly entertaining but felt a little self indulgent at times. So a 3 star review. Not a book I'd return to.
This was published in 2000 but the writing makes it feel as though it was written in a different time period altogether. Banville writes with a highly educated use of the English language, wrapping his pen around lengthy, articulated phrases of an often flowery persuasion! Whether this adds to or detracts from the story, I'm still trying to decide.
The story of an actor who has had a breakdown on stage and runs away to his childhood home, bumbles along with no real structure. He sees apparitions; are they ghosts, hallucinations, whispers of his past? People are squatting in his house; are they real, should they be there, are they malign or benevolent? We hear of a daughter with a troubled past and a distance maintained from her family and we hear of the father/daughter relationship through random reminiscences. This unstructured remembering goes on for chapters and chapters and whilst it is not unpleasant, it feels superfluous at times.
Then BOOM the ending comes right out of nowhere! That's that! This has happened, deal with it! It's quite a shocking ending and unexpected, and because the rest of the story has been so rambling, the harshness of it feels out of place almost.
Although the book is only short (around 200 pages or so), I feel like this took an age to read. It was different and mildly entertaining but felt a little self indulgent at times. So a 3 star review. Not a book I'd return to.
July 6, 2020
"Η έκλειψη"
Μια ενδοσκόπηση ανθρώπινης υπόστασης. Μια προσπάθεια αναζήτησης του ίδιου του εαυτού του ήρωα. Ένα παιχνίδι αυτογνωσίας κ ψυχολογικής συνεδρίας.
Αναζητήσεις και θύμησες που σπαράζουν το μυαλό και την καρδιά.
Λάθη κ επιλογές που οδήγησαν σε λανθασμένα μονοπάτια...
Παιχνίδια του μυαλού...
Επίρριψη ευθυνών...
Ανθρώπινη αποτελμάτωση...
Μια ενδοσκόπηση ανθρώπινης υπόστασης. Μια προσπάθεια αναζήτησης του ίδιου του εαυτού του ήρωα. Ένα παιχνίδι αυτογνωσίας κ ψυχολογικής συνεδρίας.
Αναζητήσεις και θύμησες που σπαράζουν το μυαλό και την καρδιά.
Λάθη κ επιλογές που οδήγησαν σε λανθασμένα μονοπάτια...
Παιχνίδια του μυαλού...
Επίρριψη ευθυνών...
Ανθρώπινη αποτελμάτωση...
May 4, 2021
La cupezza di Banville, quando vuol essere cupo, non sembra incontrare limiti.
Tranne uno: il mio.
Tranne uno: il mio.
July 17, 2010
Beautiful writing with unique images throughout -- the best of the images having to do with feelings and emotions, things you recognize and see in a different way through the author's eyes.
The beginning of the novel is a long set-up to a worthy second half that had me reflecting back to the beginning. But I felt much of it was just too much. Many times I wondered what he was getting at with all the descriptions -- I'm sure something, but it wasn't always clear.
This is my first Banville and I'll certainly try him again, as I know he has written more 'famous' books than this one, and he is a wonderful writer.
The beginning of the novel is a long set-up to a worthy second half that had me reflecting back to the beginning. But I felt much of it was just too much. Many times I wondered what he was getting at with all the descriptions -- I'm sure something, but it wasn't always clear.
This is my first Banville and I'll certainly try him again, as I know he has written more 'famous' books than this one, and he is a wonderful writer.
June 22, 2020
Thought on rereading: On second reading, I'm coming to realize how thematically rich and layered this novel (and his other novels) is.
My original review:
I'm now kind of embarrassed about my previous Banville reviews, where I harped on his similarities to Nabokov and basically characterized him as extremely talented but inherently unoriginal. The more Banville I read the more I appreciate him and realize that, aside from a love of poetic language and fascination with unsavory people, he and Nabokov are nothing alike.
Most of Banville's novels, however, are very much alike (hopefully this is not also an observation I will later regret). There are generally a few events that occur over the course of the 200-300 pages, but I'd hesitate to call their cumulative influence a plot. Plot threads are introduced (or at least hinted at) and then discarded. Dialogue is minimal, and what little of it there is is intercut with long reminiscences by the narrator, so that a question and its reply are often several pages apart. These reminiscences (which make up the bulk of most of his novels) also intercut any action, to the point where they almost seem random or meandering, except they are clearly assembled very purposefully and with great care. There's also always something mysterious and unknowable about his worlds and his characters, as though he were intentionally keeping the reader at a certain distance.
And it might seem like I'm being very critical of Banville, but in fact I love him. His approach is unusual, but it's also very effective. These intertwining reminiscences, combined with his incredibly rich and evocative prose have a hypnotic effect. Hypnotic is really the best word I can find to describe his work. Once I get into it, I become completely mesmerized and drawn into the inner lives of his broken, sad protagonists. It's almost like he intentionally discards all the elements of fiction that the average person would consider most important, as if to declare that none of that is necessary, as if to demonstrate how emotionally rich and satisfying prose and character are, even at the expense of all else.
Anyways, these are all general Banville comments, but they apply perfectly to Eclipse, which is kind of the quintessential (though probably not the best) Banville novel.
My original review:
I'm now kind of embarrassed about my previous Banville reviews, where I harped on his similarities to Nabokov and basically characterized him as extremely talented but inherently unoriginal. The more Banville I read the more I appreciate him and realize that, aside from a love of poetic language and fascination with unsavory people, he and Nabokov are nothing alike.
Most of Banville's novels, however, are very much alike (hopefully this is not also an observation I will later regret). There are generally a few events that occur over the course of the 200-300 pages, but I'd hesitate to call their cumulative influence a plot. Plot threads are introduced (or at least hinted at) and then discarded. Dialogue is minimal, and what little of it there is is intercut with long reminiscences by the narrator, so that a question and its reply are often several pages apart. These reminiscences (which make up the bulk of most of his novels) also intercut any action, to the point where they almost seem random or meandering, except they are clearly assembled very purposefully and with great care. There's also always something mysterious and unknowable about his worlds and his characters, as though he were intentionally keeping the reader at a certain distance.
And it might seem like I'm being very critical of Banville, but in fact I love him. His approach is unusual, but it's also very effective. These intertwining reminiscences, combined with his incredibly rich and evocative prose have a hypnotic effect. Hypnotic is really the best word I can find to describe his work. Once I get into it, I become completely mesmerized and drawn into the inner lives of his broken, sad protagonists. It's almost like he intentionally discards all the elements of fiction that the average person would consider most important, as if to declare that none of that is necessary, as if to demonstrate how emotionally rich and satisfying prose and character are, even at the expense of all else.
Anyways, these are all general Banville comments, but they apply perfectly to Eclipse, which is kind of the quintessential (though probably not the best) Banville novel.
February 25, 2016
..ο Αλεξαντερ Κλιβ, φτασμένος ηθοποιός του θεάτρου, αποφασίζει να εγκαταλείψει επ' αόριστον την σκηνή κ την οικογένεια του κ να καταφύγει στο πατρικό του σπίτι κ να υποδυθεί έναν άλλον κ πιο απαιτητικό ρόλο, την ανάγνωση της θρυμματισμένης του ταυτότητας ..το επώδυνο και γλυκερό ανασκαλεμα του παρελθόντος, η επακόλουθη υπαρξιακή αναζήτηση, η μοιραία καταβύθιση στην Αβυσσο της ψυχής, η καταγραφή ονείρων και η επισήμανση ανείδωτων μορφών, ο αδόκητος θάνατος, η ψυχική διαχείριση της απώλειας, αποτελούν μερικά από τα θέματα με τα όποια καταπιάνεται ο Τζων Μπανβιλ, έχοντας ως σύμμαχο έναν μαγευτικό ποιητικό λόγο και μια επιδέξια χρήση των λέξεων όπου όλα τα υλικά, άυλα αντικείμενα, τα στοιχειά της Φύσης κ οι υπόλοιποι χαρακτήρες του μυθιστορήματος, δείχνουν να παίζουν τέλεια τον δικό τους ρόλο, σε αυτόν τον 'θίασο' της μιας και πραγματικής ζωής όπου ο μεσήλικας Κλιβ τυγχάνει ο μόνος εύθραυστος
December 19, 2016
Well.. There are some authors who have this tremendous ability in using words, who write so good, that make me feel unable, or stupid if you wish, to write a review. Banville is one of them. He is so elegant, so poetic, so sophisticated, so excellent. A real stylist of language. The Greek word for literature is made up of two words, speech(or word) and art. This is John Banville, an artist of writing. This is true literature. Beyond plots, characters and all, you just have to let yourself feel the delight of quality reading, let the words penetrate deep inside your brain. I feel "Eclipse" wasn't the most enjoyable book of the four I have read by him so far, but still, great enough to make me praise him. And when Shedish Academy will finally decide to award someone, having as the absolute criterion the use of language, Banville will be one of the most righteous winners ever. Because he is one of a kind. Over and out.
August 19, 2022
3.5 stars. A beautifully written, character based, sad novel about Alexander Cleave, a fifty year old actor, who one night on stage, freezes. He stops working and goes to live in his childhood home that has not been lived in for years. Whilst in his childhood home he meets the house’s caretaker, Quirk, and a fifteen year old girl, Lily. Alexander reflects on his past. He is married to Lydia and they have a teenage daughter, Cass. Lydia comes to stay with him.
There are lots of very well written, interesting sentences:
‘Inhabiting a place that could not be home, they were like actors compelled to play themselves.’
‘Everything in the room seemed turned away from me in sullen resistance, averting itself from my unwelcome return.’
This book was first published in 2000.
There are lots of very well written, interesting sentences:
‘Inhabiting a place that could not be home, they were like actors compelled to play themselves.’
‘Everything in the room seemed turned away from me in sullen resistance, averting itself from my unwelcome return.’
This book was first published in 2000.
Displaying 1 - 30 of 194 reviews