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Constellations: Reflections From Life
I have come to think of all the metal in my body as artificial stars, glistening beneath the skin, a constellation of old and new metal. A map, a tracing of connections and a guide to looking at things from different angles.
How do you tell the story of life that is no one thing? How do you tell the story of a life in a body, as it goes through sickness, health, motherhood? And how do you tell that story when you are not just a woman but a woman in Ireland? In these powerful and daring essays, Sinead Gleeson does that very thing. In doing so she delves into a range of subjects: art, illness, ghosts, grief, and our very ways of seeing. In writing that is in tradition of some of our finest writers such as Olivia Laing, Maggie O'Farrell, and Maggie Nelson, and yet still in her own spirited, warm voice, Gleeson takes us on a journey that is both personal and yet universal in its resonance.
How do you tell the story of life that is no one thing? How do you tell the story of a life in a body, as it goes through sickness, health, motherhood? And how do you tell that story when you are not just a woman but a woman in Ireland? In these powerful and daring essays, Sinead Gleeson does that very thing. In doing so she delves into a range of subjects: art, illness, ghosts, grief, and our very ways of seeing. In writing that is in tradition of some of our finest writers such as Olivia Laing, Maggie O'Farrell, and Maggie Nelson, and yet still in her own spirited, warm voice, Gleeson takes us on a journey that is both personal and yet universal in its resonance.
244 pages, Paperback
First published April 4, 2019
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 310 reviews
April 4, 2020
Do you have a favorite book of short stories or essays? I have read some great ones in the last couple years, and Constellations is being added to the list. I kept this beauty of a book next to my bed and read an essay here or there when I had time or the inclination. I found it hard to put down because I wanted to read one more gem. Constellations is so thoughtful, so robustly full of insight; I’m in awe of it.
From the synopsis: “Sinéad Gleeson’s essays chronicle—in crystalline, tender, powerful prose—life in a body as it goes through sickness, health, motherhood, and love of all kinds.”
In the tradition of some of our finest life writers, Gleeson explores—in her own spirited, generous voice—the fierceness of being alive. She has written “a book [that] every woman should read” (Eimear McBride).
I received a gifted copy. All opinions are my own.
Many of my reviews can also be found on my blog: www.jennifertarheelreader.com and instagram: www.instagram.com/tarheelreader
From the synopsis: “Sinéad Gleeson’s essays chronicle—in crystalline, tender, powerful prose—life in a body as it goes through sickness, health, motherhood, and love of all kinds.”
In the tradition of some of our finest life writers, Gleeson explores—in her own spirited, generous voice—the fierceness of being alive. She has written “a book [that] every woman should read” (Eimear McBride).
I received a gifted copy. All opinions are my own.
Many of my reviews can also be found on my blog: www.jennifertarheelreader.com and instagram: www.instagram.com/tarheelreader
March 22, 2019
This story is written in essays about the female body and what it goes through, especially if it is wracked in pain. Sinead Gleeson had arthritis as a child, it weakened her hip bones and she had to get her hip bone fused together which left her with one leg longer than the other. The title, Constellations is based on the metal work that she had in her body. She then takes us on her journey, struggling with pain and what it had done with her body. She has had to endure surgery, physiotherapy and leukaemia to name just a few. This is a beautifully written book.
I would like to thank NetGalley, Pan Macmillan and the author Sinead Gleeson for my ARC in exchange for an honest review.
I would like to thank NetGalley, Pan Macmillan and the author Sinead Gleeson for my ARC in exchange for an honest review.
June 9, 2019
Sinéad Gleeson has been a prominent and respected arts critic in Ireland for several years. I've often sought out her reviews, and discovered many treasures from her eloquent musings. So it is a joy to finally read her first book, a collection of essays and reflections that showcase her considerable literary talents.
Many of the pieces examine illness in some way, and Gleeson has endured more than her fair share of suffering in this regard. At age 13 she was struck down with monoarticular arthritis in her hips, "the bones ground together, literally turning to dust." It caused her to spend 10 weeks in a body cast and miss months of school. Years later she was diagnosed with leukemia, but she fought a hard battle and won. Despite her body being severely weakened by these conditions, she went on to have two children.
In Blue Hills and Chalk Bones, Gleeson talks about how we all take our bodies for granted, until something unexpectedly goes wrong: "The body is an afterthought... The lungs inflate, muscles contract, and there is no reason to assume they won't keep on doing so. Until one day, something changes: a corporeal blip." Later on she mentions how hard it is to explain sickness to those who are fortunate enough to be in good health: "Illness is an outpost: lunar, Arctic, difficult to reach. The location of an unrelatable experience never fully understood by those lucky enough to avoid it."
Gleeson also describes the impact of the most important people in her life, and these were my favourite passages in the book. Second Mother is all about her beloved Aunt Terry, who struggled with dementia in her later years, and she describes the sadness of seeing her consciousness erode: "Memories became segregated from the part of her that occasionally still note the time, or recognise a famous face in the newspapers we bring. The neural path between her eyes and brain is now choked with weeds." In happier times Gleeson tells the story of how she first got together with her husband S, and I couldn't help feeling envious of their electric connection:
What strikes me above all else is how tenacious and courageous Gleeson is. On that awful night of the leukemia diagnosis, she looked into the eyes of her terrified parents and told them that she wasn't going to die, she was going to write a book. And here it is. Gleeson's body may have been ravaged by illness but that's not what Constellations is about. It's about strength, survival and an unbending will. A most enlightening and life-affirming read.
Many of the pieces examine illness in some way, and Gleeson has endured more than her fair share of suffering in this regard. At age 13 she was struck down with monoarticular arthritis in her hips, "the bones ground together, literally turning to dust." It caused her to spend 10 weeks in a body cast and miss months of school. Years later she was diagnosed with leukemia, but she fought a hard battle and won. Despite her body being severely weakened by these conditions, she went on to have two children.
In Blue Hills and Chalk Bones, Gleeson talks about how we all take our bodies for granted, until something unexpectedly goes wrong: "The body is an afterthought... The lungs inflate, muscles contract, and there is no reason to assume they won't keep on doing so. Until one day, something changes: a corporeal blip." Later on she mentions how hard it is to explain sickness to those who are fortunate enough to be in good health: "Illness is an outpost: lunar, Arctic, difficult to reach. The location of an unrelatable experience never fully understood by those lucky enough to avoid it."
Gleeson also describes the impact of the most important people in her life, and these were my favourite passages in the book. Second Mother is all about her beloved Aunt Terry, who struggled with dementia in her later years, and she describes the sadness of seeing her consciousness erode: "Memories became segregated from the part of her that occasionally still note the time, or recognise a famous face in the newspapers we bring. The neural path between her eyes and brain is now choked with weeds." In happier times Gleeson tells the story of how she first got together with her husband S, and I couldn't help feeling envious of their electric connection:
"We talked all night, all day, unceasingly, unstoppably. Everyone should have one night in their life like that one. The next morning S-and-I were barely a day old but something had changed. I had no grounds for this, other than the possibility contained in all hours-old things. It starts with vigour and bliss, but then suddenly the world looks different."However, this joyful memory is tinged with tragedy, as it is linked to the death of a mutual friend. She writes so perceptively about the sense of loss they both experienced:
"Everyone is dazed. Screaming silently, making endless cups of tea. Grief is bewilderment. Grief is circling rooms and talking to unnamed relatives. Grief is a permanent headache and knotted stomach. Grief is sluggish time, staring at strangers in the street and thinking how can you act like nothing's happened? Grief is being angry that the sun is still shimmering away, smiling in the sky."
What strikes me above all else is how tenacious and courageous Gleeson is. On that awful night of the leukemia diagnosis, she looked into the eyes of her terrified parents and told them that she wasn't going to die, she was going to write a book. And here it is. Gleeson's body may have been ravaged by illness but that's not what Constellations is about. It's about strength, survival and an unbending will. A most enlightening and life-affirming read.
May 5, 2020
4.5/5
September 2, 2019
Perfect for fans of I Am, I Am, I Am by Maggie O’Farrell, this is a set of trenchant autobiographical essays about the experience of being in a female body, especially one that is often wracked by pain. As a child Gleeson had arthritis that weakened her hip bones; a fusion of the bones left her with one leg longer than the other, causing a limp and necessitating the use of a cane, and eventually she had to have a total hip replacement. She ranges from the seemingly trivial to life-and-death matters as she writes about hairstyles, blood types, pregnancy, the abortion debate in Ireland and having a rare type of leukemia. Other topics include the accidental death of an ex-boyfriend – a mutual friend of hers and her husband’s – and her family’s knowledge of ghosts.
In the tradition of Virginia Woolf, Frida Kahlo and Susan Sontag, Gleeson turns pain into art (“making wounds the source of inspiration,” she calls it), particularly in an excellent set of 20 poems based on the McGill Pain Index. Her descriptions of hospital bustle are onomatopoeic verse in their own right: “Trolleytrundle and sirenblare. I’m on lates this week. Whirr-blink of machines. Food trays rattling. Nuuurrsse! The three notes the blood pressure pump sings on completion. Pinging of patient call bells. Squeak of sensible footwear.” Like O’Farrell, Gleeson marvels at all that the body can withstand, but realizes that medical interventions leave permanent marks, physical or emotional. She also remarks on the essential loneliness of illness, and the likelihood of women’s pain not being believed in or acknowledged. This book feels timely and is inventive in how it brings together disparate topics to explore the possibilities and limitations of women’s bodies.
In the tradition of Virginia Woolf, Frida Kahlo and Susan Sontag, Gleeson turns pain into art (“making wounds the source of inspiration,” she calls it), particularly in an excellent set of 20 poems based on the McGill Pain Index. Her descriptions of hospital bustle are onomatopoeic verse in their own right: “Trolleytrundle and sirenblare. I’m on lates this week. Whirr-blink of machines. Food trays rattling. Nuuurrsse! The three notes the blood pressure pump sings on completion. Pinging of patient call bells. Squeak of sensible footwear.” Like O’Farrell, Gleeson marvels at all that the body can withstand, but realizes that medical interventions leave permanent marks, physical or emotional. She also remarks on the essential loneliness of illness, and the likelihood of women’s pain not being believed in or acknowledged. This book feels timely and is inventive in how it brings together disparate topics to explore the possibilities and limitations of women’s bodies.
March 21, 2025
#The Irish Readathon
A patient is not a person. A patient is a medicalised version of the self. A patient is a hospitalised double of the body. To become a patient is an act of transmutation, from well to sick, liberated citizen to confined inpatient.
Diria que sou uma pessoa relativamente saudável que teve talvez o mesmo número de consultas e de exames de uma pessoa comum que chegou à minha idade e não tenho grandes razões de queixa nem ao nível de atendimento nem de tratamento, mas o grau de exposição, de contacto físico e, sobretudo, de impotência/dependência quando se trata, por exemplo, de intervenções cirúrgicas é algo que me incomoda muitíssimo. É também dessa perda de pudor e de autonomia que fala Sinéad Gleeson, que teve o seu primeiro problema de saúde aos 13 anos e, desde então, é uma cliente habitual dos hospitais. Desde a artrite reumatoide que lhe espatifou um quadril logo em adolescente, até leucemia, transfusões de sangue, dois partos e quistos mamários, é longo o seu historial com médicos e restantes profissionais de saúde.
Illness is an outpost: lunar, Arctic, difficult to reach. The location of an unrelatable experience never fully understood by those lucky enough to avoid it. My teenage years were filled with hospitals and appointments, calendars circled with dates for surgery. The arrival of unfamiliar objects under skin. This malfunctioning version of me was a new treasonous place. I did not know it; I did not speak its language. The sick body has its own narrative impulse. A scar is an opening, an invitation to ask: ‘what happened?’ So we tell its story. Or try to. Not with an everyday voice, no, that doesn’t suffice. To escape illness or physical trauma, some turn to other forms of expression.
Gleeson traduz tudo o que lhe aconteceu numa obra sensível e delicada, apesar da brutalidade de algumas descrições, que se lê como um romance e, por vezes, até como um poema em prosa.
I gravitated towards writers and painters. People who told the stories of their illness; who transformed their damaged bodies into art.
Neste conjunto de ensaios, a autora reflecte também sobre o trabalho e a vida de artistas plásticas que tiveram problemas de saúde, incluindo a inevitável Frida Kahlo, a propósito da qual visitou uma exposição com os seus objectos pessoais, no Victoria & Albert Museum em Londres. Muita inveja!
The form of the modern self-portrait has evolved, the months of labour in an oil painting now expedited in a selfie. Would Kahlo have rejected the instant nature of such images? The idea that a photo, taken in one second, cannot represent months of pain. That layers of oil and reworked brush strokes hold something more of the experience.
O pensamento e a experiência de vida de Sinéad Gleeson são indissociáveis da cultura, da religião e das mudanças sociais da Irlanda, pelo que há referências à Igreja, ao folclore, às lavandarias de Madalena e à legalização do aborto, um combate de décadas cujo referendo, somente em 2018, se revelou um retumbante “sim” e sobre o qual escreveu o texto “Twelve Stories of Bodily Autonomy”, pelas 12 mulheres que antes disso partiam para Inglaterra diariamente para poderem interromper a sua gravidez de forma legal e segura.
No matter what or how you write about the female body – from reproduction to sexuality, illness to motherhood – it is politicised. Women are reduced to the physical: to make it easier to disregard them. To decide, rule and legislate for them. But things are changing.
O que também custa a mudar são os dois pesos e duas medidas usadas para avaliar a literatura produzida por homens ou mulheres, como percebeu Sinéad Gleeson como editora de duas antologias de contos de autoria feminina.
Even if they write about love, relationships, families or death, these are deemed lesser, a pocketful of domesticity. Men writing on the same subject are naturally considered the instigators of the great American/Irish/British novel. They are the flag-bearers of the human condition, and no one dares utter the word ‘domestic’ about their work. Don’t we all fall in love? Have families? Die? Fuck? Why the distinction in reverence based on who the teller is?
A patient is not a person. A patient is a medicalised version of the self. A patient is a hospitalised double of the body. To become a patient is an act of transmutation, from well to sick, liberated citizen to confined inpatient.
Diria que sou uma pessoa relativamente saudável que teve talvez o mesmo número de consultas e de exames de uma pessoa comum que chegou à minha idade e não tenho grandes razões de queixa nem ao nível de atendimento nem de tratamento, mas o grau de exposição, de contacto físico e, sobretudo, de impotência/dependência quando se trata, por exemplo, de intervenções cirúrgicas é algo que me incomoda muitíssimo. É também dessa perda de pudor e de autonomia que fala Sinéad Gleeson, que teve o seu primeiro problema de saúde aos 13 anos e, desde então, é uma cliente habitual dos hospitais. Desde a artrite reumatoide que lhe espatifou um quadril logo em adolescente, até leucemia, transfusões de sangue, dois partos e quistos mamários, é longo o seu historial com médicos e restantes profissionais de saúde.
Illness is an outpost: lunar, Arctic, difficult to reach. The location of an unrelatable experience never fully understood by those lucky enough to avoid it. My teenage years were filled with hospitals and appointments, calendars circled with dates for surgery. The arrival of unfamiliar objects under skin. This malfunctioning version of me was a new treasonous place. I did not know it; I did not speak its language. The sick body has its own narrative impulse. A scar is an opening, an invitation to ask: ‘what happened?’ So we tell its story. Or try to. Not with an everyday voice, no, that doesn’t suffice. To escape illness or physical trauma, some turn to other forms of expression.
Gleeson traduz tudo o que lhe aconteceu numa obra sensível e delicada, apesar da brutalidade de algumas descrições, que se lê como um romance e, por vezes, até como um poema em prosa.
I gravitated towards writers and painters. People who told the stories of their illness; who transformed their damaged bodies into art.
Neste conjunto de ensaios, a autora reflecte também sobre o trabalho e a vida de artistas plásticas que tiveram problemas de saúde, incluindo a inevitável Frida Kahlo, a propósito da qual visitou uma exposição com os seus objectos pessoais, no Victoria & Albert Museum em Londres. Muita inveja!
The form of the modern self-portrait has evolved, the months of labour in an oil painting now expedited in a selfie. Would Kahlo have rejected the instant nature of such images? The idea that a photo, taken in one second, cannot represent months of pain. That layers of oil and reworked brush strokes hold something more of the experience.
O pensamento e a experiência de vida de Sinéad Gleeson são indissociáveis da cultura, da religião e das mudanças sociais da Irlanda, pelo que há referências à Igreja, ao folclore, às lavandarias de Madalena e à legalização do aborto, um combate de décadas cujo referendo, somente em 2018, se revelou um retumbante “sim” e sobre o qual escreveu o texto “Twelve Stories of Bodily Autonomy”, pelas 12 mulheres que antes disso partiam para Inglaterra diariamente para poderem interromper a sua gravidez de forma legal e segura.
No matter what or how you write about the female body – from reproduction to sexuality, illness to motherhood – it is politicised. Women are reduced to the physical: to make it easier to disregard them. To decide, rule and legislate for them. But things are changing.
O que também custa a mudar são os dois pesos e duas medidas usadas para avaliar a literatura produzida por homens ou mulheres, como percebeu Sinéad Gleeson como editora de duas antologias de contos de autoria feminina.
Even if they write about love, relationships, families or death, these are deemed lesser, a pocketful of domesticity. Men writing on the same subject are naturally considered the instigators of the great American/Irish/British novel. They are the flag-bearers of the human condition, and no one dares utter the word ‘domestic’ about their work. Don’t we all fall in love? Have families? Die? Fuck? Why the distinction in reverence based on who the teller is?
December 20, 2019
Either Goodreads ate my review, or I never posted it here? I usually cross-post from Goodreads to my blog, not the other way around, so that is very odd.
Anyway.
Constellations is the debut memoirist essay collection by noted Irish arts critic Sinéad Gleeson, and it’s a collection that appears to have been years in the making. It’s unsurprising then that the result is as masterful as it is – I inhaled this utterly marvelous book in one day and could not stop thinking about it after I finished.
Gleeson puts her own body at the front and center of these essays; she writes of hip replacements, leukemia, arthritis, and childbirth, deftly tying in her own stories with broader observations about the politicization of women’s bodies. These essays are at their best when they’re the most personal, I think, because Gleeson has the remarkable ability to express vulnerability without self-pity, but there isn’t a single essay in this collection that isn’t in its own way thought-provoking and memorable.
This is perfect for fans of Maggie O’Farrell’s I Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes with Death, though I consider Constellations to be (perhaps ironically) more thematically coherent. ‘Blue Hills and Chalk Bones’ opens the collection with a story about a school trip to France and coming to terms with her body’s limitations, a moving opening that segues into the more widely accessible ‘Hair,’ which interrogates the relationship between hair and identity. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything that captures the utter senselessness and cruelty of death better than ‘Our Mutual Friend,’ far and away the collection’s standout, but even though that emotional crescendo comes early, the essays that follow continue to hold their own and deliver the occasional gut-punch while meditating on themes of illness, death, motherhood, and the interplay between art and health.
All said, this collection is essentially a reminder of the importance of bodily autonomy (which Gleeson fights for most ardently in her essay in which she reflects on Ireland’s notoriously harsh abortion policies). But despite the relentlessly heavy subject matter, this is the kind of book that you feel lighter having read, because it isn’t weighed down by the kind of hopelessness and despair that Gleeson has been fighting through ever since her first health diagnosis. As a self-proclaimed lover of all things macabre I tend to shudder at the word ‘uplifting’ so I’m trying to avoid using it, but suffice to say that this is a beautiful book that works through a number of difficult subjects to a consequential and impactful end. Read it.
Anyway.
Constellations is the debut memoirist essay collection by noted Irish arts critic Sinéad Gleeson, and it’s a collection that appears to have been years in the making. It’s unsurprising then that the result is as masterful as it is – I inhaled this utterly marvelous book in one day and could not stop thinking about it after I finished.
Gleeson puts her own body at the front and center of these essays; she writes of hip replacements, leukemia, arthritis, and childbirth, deftly tying in her own stories with broader observations about the politicization of women’s bodies. These essays are at their best when they’re the most personal, I think, because Gleeson has the remarkable ability to express vulnerability without self-pity, but there isn’t a single essay in this collection that isn’t in its own way thought-provoking and memorable.
This is perfect for fans of Maggie O’Farrell’s I Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes with Death, though I consider Constellations to be (perhaps ironically) more thematically coherent. ‘Blue Hills and Chalk Bones’ opens the collection with a story about a school trip to France and coming to terms with her body’s limitations, a moving opening that segues into the more widely accessible ‘Hair,’ which interrogates the relationship between hair and identity. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything that captures the utter senselessness and cruelty of death better than ‘Our Mutual Friend,’ far and away the collection’s standout, but even though that emotional crescendo comes early, the essays that follow continue to hold their own and deliver the occasional gut-punch while meditating on themes of illness, death, motherhood, and the interplay between art and health.
All said, this collection is essentially a reminder of the importance of bodily autonomy (which Gleeson fights for most ardently in her essay in which she reflects on Ireland’s notoriously harsh abortion policies). But despite the relentlessly heavy subject matter, this is the kind of book that you feel lighter having read, because it isn’t weighed down by the kind of hopelessness and despair that Gleeson has been fighting through ever since her first health diagnosis. As a self-proclaimed lover of all things macabre I tend to shudder at the word ‘uplifting’ so I’m trying to avoid using it, but suffice to say that this is a beautiful book that works through a number of difficult subjects to a consequential and impactful end. Read it.
April 9, 2019
In this group of memoirist essays art and life intersect to create a powerfully moving portrait of cultural and personal change. It feels like this book has been a long time coming and in later essays Sinéad Gleeson refers to its gradual creation as well as obstacles which sharpened its focus. I’ve been familiar with Gleeson’s work as a journalist and a curator since she edited two stunning anthologies of Irish short fiction by women: “The Long Gaze Back” and “The Glass Shore”. So I was already familiar with her stance as a feminist and aesthete, but it wasn’t till reading this gripping and mesmerising book that I understood how her personal history partly informs her conversation with literature and the arts. The essays roughly follow the trajectory of her life from childhood to adulthood and the severely challenging medical issues she’s faced along the way. These health issues presented many heartrending and difficult obstacles, but they also gave Gleeson a unique perspective of the world around her as a woman, citizen, friend, mother and intellectual. She charts how her beliefs and feelings have evolved alongside the society around her. Certainly she’s lived through many personal challenges, but she’s never let them define her. Rather, they’ve inspired a deeper form of engagement with the world and fervent belief that “Art is about interpreting our own experience.”
Read my full review of Constellations by Sinéad Gleeson on LonesomeReader
Read my full review of Constellations by Sinéad Gleeson on LonesomeReader
April 21, 2024
Impressive, challenging, moving - recommended
Needle in arm – You’ll just feel a scratch – I look away from my skin the rainbow line of branded tubes: VACUETTE. Every time a nurse fills one with my blood, I want to ask, ‘Wouldn’t the Vacuettes be a great name for an all-girl punk band?’ But I never do. I try not to focus on the extraction. Vacuette could also be the name of a French heroine in a romance novel or slang for mean-dim girls. My vein resists and the needle goes astray. Avoiding the puncture, and the blood on my arm, I focus instead on the blue and yellow sharps bin, and recall team colours.
Football: Wimbledon, Mansfield Town, Oxford United.
GAA: Roscommon, Wicklow, Longford, Clare, Tipperary.
Needle in arm – You’ll just feel a scratch – I look away from my skin the rainbow line of branded tubes: VACUETTE. Every time a nurse fills one with my blood, I want to ask, ‘Wouldn’t the Vacuettes be a great name for an all-girl punk band?’ But I never do. I try not to focus on the extraction. Vacuette could also be the name of a French heroine in a romance novel or slang for mean-dim girls. My vein resists and the needle goes astray. Avoiding the puncture, and the blood on my arm, I focus instead on the blue and yellow sharps bin, and recall team colours.
Football: Wimbledon, Mansfield Town, Oxford United.
GAA: Roscommon, Wicklow, Longford, Clare, Tipperary.
July 25, 2020
Brilliant.
March 19, 2019
I absolutely loved this. A great edition to the emerging subcategory of memoirs focussing on the author's body, their health and experiences of illness and the impact these have had on them - in the vein of Maggie O'Farrell's I Am, I Am, I Am: Seventeen Brushes with Death. The book is organised as a series of essays focusing on topics as wide in range as abortion, her hip replacement, hair and leukaemia. Fantastic writing too - I'll definitely be checking out more of Gleeson's writing.
Thank you Netgalley and Pan Macmillan for the advance copy, which was provided in exchange for an honest review.
Thank you Netgalley and Pan Macmillan for the advance copy, which was provided in exchange for an honest review.
July 21, 2019
I had the opportunity meet Sinéad Gleeson last year while studying in Ireland for my masters program in creative writing. She was a guest speaker and, though I was unfamiliar with her before that, I enjoyed a lot of what she had to say about the publishing world (even though I'm not actually in the publishing world yet - she confirmed some of my suspicions). She talked about illness in writing and just all around said a lot of things that resonated with me. I talked with her briefly after her talk about speculative memoir, which she had not heard about but she wrote down the address to an article online and said she'd look into it.
This year in Dublin I had the amazing opportunity to work with Sinéad as one of her students in a Master Class session on creative nonfiction. It was, I still feel, a dream come true. I had bought a copy of this book of essays in preparation for working with her but only had the chance to read one of the essays before we worked together. Along with some other essays, she suggested we read one of her own ("Second Mother," included in this collection). All of the essays she shared with us in advance of the class primarily had to do with illness, an author's relationship to his or her body. Something I'm also interested in since my body seems to get its shits and giggles out of falling apart periodically. A body that is prone to illness is different than a body that is not - chronic illness is a real thing, whether you can see it or not.
I felt that throughout Constellations. A body is so much to so many different people, especially if you factor in motherhood (yuk, NO, not me), and that is what Sinéad writes about in this collection. These essays are, in my opinion, spectacularly honest. She writes about her own mobility issues, her illnesses, what pregnancy was like for her, the changes her body has gone through over the years - all with great understanding and honesty. I think she tends to come across otherwise as a bit prickly (based on things I've heard from someone else who knows her), but I found that equally as endearing. And, it turns out, we have a lot in common such as our interest in the early feminist punk scene, like The Slits. We could talk as easily about her interview with Ari Up as we could about the decision to have children, which I found rather refreshing. She writes with the same frankness as she talks which is, also, refreshing.
I'm glad to have a new female essayist to look up to. Not all of these essays will work for all readers. I have been considering the body a lot myself, especially in the last year when a lot has gone wrong with my health. I am working on my own essay about my body, though it hasn't come together the way I want it to just yet. It will be a long-time coming. Reading Sinéad's essays, however, reminds me it's okay to keep working at it, finesse it until I am comfortable with it.
I can't wait until her next collection of essays, or whatever she writes next. I will read it.
This year in Dublin I had the amazing opportunity to work with Sinéad as one of her students in a Master Class session on creative nonfiction. It was, I still feel, a dream come true. I had bought a copy of this book of essays in preparation for working with her but only had the chance to read one of the essays before we worked together. Along with some other essays, she suggested we read one of her own ("Second Mother," included in this collection). All of the essays she shared with us in advance of the class primarily had to do with illness, an author's relationship to his or her body. Something I'm also interested in since my body seems to get its shits and giggles out of falling apart periodically. A body that is prone to illness is different than a body that is not - chronic illness is a real thing, whether you can see it or not.
I felt that throughout Constellations. A body is so much to so many different people, especially if you factor in motherhood (yuk, NO, not me), and that is what Sinéad writes about in this collection. These essays are, in my opinion, spectacularly honest. She writes about her own mobility issues, her illnesses, what pregnancy was like for her, the changes her body has gone through over the years - all with great understanding and honesty. I think she tends to come across otherwise as a bit prickly (based on things I've heard from someone else who knows her), but I found that equally as endearing. And, it turns out, we have a lot in common such as our interest in the early feminist punk scene, like The Slits. We could talk as easily about her interview with Ari Up as we could about the decision to have children, which I found rather refreshing. She writes with the same frankness as she talks which is, also, refreshing.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman in possession of a womb and a decent supply of eggs must be in want of a child. We know this, us women. The directive that every one of us must produce or will want babies even predates the Virgin Mary miraculously birthing Jesus Christ (without the prerequisite fuck). The urge to procreate and propagate is as arbitrary as any other act of free will, but has been imposed on women like so many other ideals of womanly perfection. Be thin! Be beautiful! Be pregnant! The entire concept is predicated on biology-as-destiny, as though the acme of being female is to be a mother. But not everyone wants to be. Not every woman has a womb, is able to conceive, or has instant access to semen. The assumptions about what female bodies are, should be, or can do have progressed, but the expectation of eventually choosing motherhood has persisted.I'm not going to lie. I have such a crush on Sinéad, from working with her, hearing her read, and reading this collection. I hope to have the opportunity to work with her on my own writing again in the future, but who knows. I do know that she crossed a bookstore at a public event because she saw me after working together in Master Class and she wanted to say hello which made me possibly tinkle in my pants a bit.
("On the Atomic Nature of Trimesters," p89)
I'm glad to have a new female essayist to look up to. Not all of these essays will work for all readers. I have been considering the body a lot myself, especially in the last year when a lot has gone wrong with my health. I am working on my own essay about my body, though it hasn't come together the way I want it to just yet. It will be a long-time coming. Reading Sinéad's essays, however, reminds me it's okay to keep working at it, finesse it until I am comfortable with it.
I can't wait until her next collection of essays, or whatever she writes next. I will read it.
September 9, 2025
فکر نکنم صدای آرام و لحجهی ایرلندی شینید گلیسون رو که در روزهای سختی همدم لحظاتم شده بود رو فراموش کنم. صدایی که از بیماری مزمن، زیستن، مادر بودن، مرگ، زن بودن، درد و ادبیات میگفت و کلمات رو جوری به هم پیوند میزد که به عمق این موضوعات پیچیده رسوخ میکردند. گاهی حس میکردم وارد سرم شده و تجربهی زیستهی من رو نوشته و گاهی حتی جملاتش با جملاتی که سالها پیش نوشتم یکی بود
از سال ۲۰۰۰ جستارها کمکم جای خودشون رو در ادبیات جهان پیدا کردند، نوشتههایی که فارغ از محدودیتهای فرم و داستان از تجربهی انسان بودن میگفتند. با وجود اینکه فرمت جستار اواسط دههی بعد به دلیل شخصی بودن موضوعات مورد انتقاد شدید قرار گرفت، تا به امروز فقط تکامل پیدا کرده و قویتر و عمیقتر جای پاش رو در ادبیات باز میکنه و این کتاب نمونهی بارزشه
خواندن «صورتهای فلکی: تأملاتی از زندگی» مثل اینه که جلوی نویسنده بشینی و او از زندگیش باهات صحبت کنه اما زندگینامه نگه، خاطراتش رو برات بگه اما قصه نگه و از تجربههای زندگی در کشوری دور و زمانی متفاوت بگه که به طرز غریبی آشنا هستند
کتاب و صوتیش رو میتونید از اینجا دانلود کنید
Maede's Books
۱۴۰۴/۵/۱۳
از سال ۲۰۰۰ جستارها کمکم جای خودشون رو در ادبیات جهان پیدا کردند، نوشتههایی که فارغ از محدودیتهای فرم و داستان از تجربهی انسان بودن میگفتند. با وجود اینکه فرمت جستار اواسط دههی بعد به دلیل شخصی بودن موضوعات مورد انتقاد شدید قرار گرفت، تا به امروز فقط تکامل پیدا کرده و قویتر و عمیقتر جای پاش رو در ادبیات باز میکنه و این کتاب نمونهی بارزشه
خواندن «صورتهای فلکی: تأملاتی از زندگی» مثل اینه که جلوی نویسنده بشینی و او از زندگیش باهات صحبت کنه اما زندگینامه نگه، خاطراتش رو برات بگه اما قصه نگه و از تجربههای زندگی در کشوری دور و زمانی متفاوت بگه که به طرز غریبی آشنا هستند
کتاب و صوتیش رو میتونید از اینجا دانلود کنید
Maede's Books
۱۴۰۴/۵/۱۳
July 14, 2021
Mit ihren 14 Essays in "Konstellationen. Die Sprache meines Körpers" hat mich Sinéad Gleeson so vieles fühlen lassen: Freude, Trauer, Zustimmung, Wut, Beklemmung, Mitgefühl - um nur einige zu nennen. Die irische Autorin schreibt vor allem über den Körper, bevorzugt in Zeiten, in denen es ihm nicht gut geht. Dieser Abwesehnheit von Gesundheit und dem damit verbundenen Schmerz konnte ich mich kaum noch entziehen, mein Kopf steckte, auch wenn das Buch zugeklappt war, viel zwischen diesen Seiten.
Sinéad Gleeson fächert ihre Themen im Bezug auf den weiblichen Körper dabei breit: es geht zum Beispiel um Abtreibung im streng katholischen Irrland, um Geburten von Kindern und wie sie den Körper und das persönliche Umfeld verändern, um die oft schwierige sowie von einer strengen Hierarchie und wenigen Worten geprägte Beziehung zwischen Ärzt*innen und Patient*innen oder auch den Tod geliebter Menschen und den dadurch ausgelösten seelischen Schmerz.
Was ich vor allem an "Konstellationen" mochte war die sprachliche Gestaltung. Der Schreibstil der Autorin ist sehr besonders und einnehmend, sie beschönigt nichts und verpackt es trotzdem zugleich in anmutige Worte.
Essaysammlungen sind hier in Deutschland gefühlsmäßig auf dem Vormarsch - zum Glück! Ich liebe es, wie Autor*innen ihre Gedanken schweifen lassen können, ihrer Fantasie freien Lauf lassen können, sich thematisch nicht eingeengt fühlen müssen. Sinéad Gleesons "Konstellationen. Die Sprache meines Körpers" ist ein wunderbares Beispiel dafür, welch großartige Werke hierbei entstehen können. Ich kann nur allen empfehlen, ihre Nasen in einen Essayband zu stecken - bevorzugt diesen hier. Berührend, feministisch, poetisch und intensiv!
Sinéad Gleeson fächert ihre Themen im Bezug auf den weiblichen Körper dabei breit: es geht zum Beispiel um Abtreibung im streng katholischen Irrland, um Geburten von Kindern und wie sie den Körper und das persönliche Umfeld verändern, um die oft schwierige sowie von einer strengen Hierarchie und wenigen Worten geprägte Beziehung zwischen Ärzt*innen und Patient*innen oder auch den Tod geliebter Menschen und den dadurch ausgelösten seelischen Schmerz.
Was ich vor allem an "Konstellationen" mochte war die sprachliche Gestaltung. Der Schreibstil der Autorin ist sehr besonders und einnehmend, sie beschönigt nichts und verpackt es trotzdem zugleich in anmutige Worte.
Essaysammlungen sind hier in Deutschland gefühlsmäßig auf dem Vormarsch - zum Glück! Ich liebe es, wie Autor*innen ihre Gedanken schweifen lassen können, ihrer Fantasie freien Lauf lassen können, sich thematisch nicht eingeengt fühlen müssen. Sinéad Gleesons "Konstellationen. Die Sprache meines Körpers" ist ein wunderbares Beispiel dafür, welch großartige Werke hierbei entstehen können. Ich kann nur allen empfehlen, ihre Nasen in einen Essayband zu stecken - bevorzugt diesen hier. Berührend, feministisch, poetisch und intensiv!
March 23, 2021
An excellent collection of essays, of life writing writing with a particular connection to the body and how women negotiate life when part(s) of it malform and interrupt the ordinary course of a life, making it something extraordinary. Extraordinary it is, that Gleeson went through all she has until now and managed to create a family and birth this wonderful book.
I was reminded while reading of Maggie O'Farrell's I Am, I Am, I Am memoir which similarly tracks those events and turning points in a life that invite reflection.
The essay I found the most moving comes near the end is named after an Anne Carson poem ' A Wound Gives Off Its Own Light' which explores the relationship with art and creativity as a way to channel or express what is being felt. Here she related to the work of Frida Kahlo, Jo Spence, Lucy Grealy.
"Kahlo, Grealy and Spence were lights in the dark for me, a form of guidance. A triangular constellation. To me, they showed that it was possible to live a parallel creative life, one that overshadows the patient life, nudging it off centre stage...That in taking all the pieces of the self, fractured by surgery, there is a rearrangement: making wounds the source of inspiration, not the end of it."
I was reminded while reading of Maggie O'Farrell's I Am, I Am, I Am memoir which similarly tracks those events and turning points in a life that invite reflection.
The essay I found the most moving comes near the end is named after an Anne Carson poem ' A Wound Gives Off Its Own Light' which explores the relationship with art and creativity as a way to channel or express what is being felt. Here she related to the work of Frida Kahlo, Jo Spence, Lucy Grealy.
"Kahlo, Grealy and Spence were lights in the dark for me, a form of guidance. A triangular constellation. To me, they showed that it was possible to live a parallel creative life, one that overshadows the patient life, nudging it off centre stage...That in taking all the pieces of the self, fractured by surgery, there is a rearrangement: making wounds the source of inspiration, not the end of it."
June 30, 2020
I recently read two books of essays -- Upstream, by Mary Oliver, a stalwart of American poetry, and Constellations by debut Irish author and editor Sinéad Gleeson. The essays in these works tackle starkly different themes, but reading them one after the other made me realize how similar they are in certain aspects. This is an attempt at formulating some of those similarities (as well as differences).
Upstream gathers Mary Oliver's thoughts on nature and artistic work. In a series of essays, Oliver vividly paints a picture of the scenic beauty of New England with an admiring brush, all the while acknowledging the debt she owes her surroundings. In her own words she ".. could not be a poet without the natural world. Someone else could. But not me. For me the door to the woods is the door to the temple." In parallel, she also discusses her thoughts on writing, and the various influences that have shaped her --- Emerson, Wordsworth, Poe, and most importantly, Whitman. Her essay on Whitman's Leaves of Grass is the most singular piece of writing about that collection that I have had the fortune to read. The quote below summarizes her thoughts on the importance of Leaves of Grass
In contrast to Oliver's outward-facing focus, Gleeson's Constellations deals with all things internal. Illness, hospitals, bodies (especially those of women, and the myriad controversies surrounding them), childbirth, and the inevitability of death are the major themes she touches on. As such, this book has a more somber tone compared to the undercurrents of joy that pervade Oliver's book, but that does not make it any less beautiful.
The inner/outer dichotomy of the two books complement each other in ways that bring out the best of each other, and even serve to highlight the overlaps. Much as Oliver, Gleeson also talks about the nature of art and writing, although consistent with the rest of the work, this is grounded in the aforementioned themes. It is this reflection that also highlights the contrast between the schools of thoughts that prop these two writers. Oliver firmly believes that the best creative work stems from solitude.
On the other hand, Gleeson's conception of writing is firmly intertwined with the complexities of a more modern and grounded life, and feels more relatable (especially in forced quarantines amidst global pandemics)
Of course, neither solitude not the trappings of everyday life hold a monopoly over artistic genius and hard work and everyone charts their own paths to fulfilling work. The differences in the two takes above are ones shaped by lived experience. In total, both these books serve to highlight exactly that --- the beauty and challenges that come with living a life full of experiences.
"Teach the children. We don’t matter so much, but the children do. Show them daisies and the pale hepatica. Teach them the taste of sassafras and wintergreen. The lives of the blue sailors, mallow, sunbursts, the moccasin flowers. And the frisky ones—inkberry, lamb’s-quarters, blueberries. And the aromatic ones—rosemary, oregano. Give them peppermint to put in their pockets as they go to school. Give them the fields and the woods and the possibility of the world salvaged from the lords of profit. Stand them in the stream, head them upstream, rejoice as they learn to love this green space they live in, its sticks and leaves and then the silent, beautiful blossoms. "
Upstream gathers Mary Oliver's thoughts on nature and artistic work. In a series of essays, Oliver vividly paints a picture of the scenic beauty of New England with an admiring brush, all the while acknowledging the debt she owes her surroundings. In her own words she ".. could not be a poet without the natural world. Someone else could. But not me. For me the door to the woods is the door to the temple." In parallel, she also discusses her thoughts on writing, and the various influences that have shaped her --- Emerson, Wordsworth, Poe, and most importantly, Whitman. Her essay on Whitman's Leaves of Grass is the most singular piece of writing about that collection that I have had the fortune to read. The quote below summarizes her thoughts on the importance of Leaves of Grass
"Of all American poems, the 1855 Leaves of Grass is the most probable of effect upon the individual sensibility. It wants no less. We study it as literature, but like all great literature it has a deeper design: it would be a book for men to live by. It is obsessively affirmative. It is foolishly, childishly obsessively affirmative. It offers a way to live, in the religious sense, that is intelligent and emotive and rich, and dependent only on the individual—no politics, no liturgy, no down payment. Just attention, sympathy, empathy. Neither does Whitman speak of hell or damnation; rather, he is parental and coaxing, tender and provocative in his drawing us toward him. Line by line, he amalgamates to the fact. Brawn and spirit, we are built of light, and God is within us. This is the message of his long, honeyed harangue. This is the absolute declaration, and this is the verifying experience of his poem. "
In contrast to Oliver's outward-facing focus, Gleeson's Constellations deals with all things internal. Illness, hospitals, bodies (especially those of women, and the myriad controversies surrounding them), childbirth, and the inevitability of death are the major themes she touches on. As such, this book has a more somber tone compared to the undercurrents of joy that pervade Oliver's book, but that does not make it any less beautiful.
"When someone dies suddenly, I always think of what they were doing at that exact time a week ago. What they would have done differently if they’d known. Declare their love for someone, take shamanic drugs, fulfil a fantasy, visit another country. An accidental death has no schedule: one Tuesday, you’re working, sleeping, laughing. The following Tuesday, laid in the ground, covered by three metres of soil."
The inner/outer dichotomy of the two books complement each other in ways that bring out the best of each other, and even serve to highlight the overlaps. Much as Oliver, Gleeson also talks about the nature of art and writing, although consistent with the rest of the work, this is grounded in the aforementioned themes. It is this reflection that also highlights the contrast between the schools of thoughts that prop these two writers. Oliver firmly believes that the best creative work stems from solitude.
"Creative work needs solitude. It needs concentration, without interruptions. It needs the whole sky to fly in, and no eye watching until it comes to that certainty which it aspires to, but does not necessarily have at once. Privacy, then. A place apart—to pace, to chew pencils, to scribble and erase and scribble again. But just as often, if not more often, the interruption comes not from another but from the self itself, or some other self within the self, that whistles and pounds upon the door panels and tosses itself, splashing, into the pond of meditation. And what does it have to say? That you must phone the dentist, that you are out of mustard, that your uncle Stanley’s birthday is two weeks hence. You react, of course. Then you return to your work, only to find that the imps of idea have fled back into the mist."
On the other hand, Gleeson's conception of writing is firmly intertwined with the complexities of a more modern and grounded life, and feels more relatable (especially in forced quarantines amidst global pandemics)
"Virginia Woolf, who was far removed from the work and grind of daily life, made generations of writers think that they’re entitled to a room of their own. At home, my desk is in a room full of books, read and unread, that sit next to Lego and other various toys. Our lives push up against each other. There are hundreds of sentences in this book written when my children wander in to chat, or tell tales on each other. Their voices echo all over the house and it’s impossible not to tune into it. I can focus, but my daughter’s songs carry, as do my son’s conversations with the dog, in that voice he saves just for this creature. But still I go back to finding words and fitting them together. I start to see the shape of what I’m trying to build, word by word."
Of course, neither solitude not the trappings of everyday life hold a monopoly over artistic genius and hard work and everyone charts their own paths to fulfilling work. The differences in the two takes above are ones shaped by lived experience. In total, both these books serve to highlight exactly that --- the beauty and challenges that come with living a life full of experiences.
July 3, 2020
This is probably not a book for everyone. The writer describes her lifelong health issues, sometimes in excruciating detail. A book club friend noticed that only 1 of the 4 men in our book club even attended (and he's the Zoom host), and he said next to nothing about the book.
It is not just a memoir in essays but it is a history of women's bodies under 20th century Irish law. Gleeson's essays are written in the context of an Ireland where women (their bodies) have long been seen as a source of sin. A case that changed Irish law was that of Savita Halappanavar, a dentist from India, living in Ireland, and a Hindu. Her body was attempting to miscarry. She asked to be induced but was refused (we're a Catholic country)After 8 days, and 4 days after there was no longer a fetal heartbeat, she died of septicaemia. This led to a 2013 law, Protection of Life During Pregnancy. In 2018, Ireland legalized abortion. The primary "business" of the Magdalene Laundries was to remove Irish women from society who were seen to be guilty of engaging in sex outside of marriage, or could be a temptation to men .
One of my favorite chapters was about ghosts. I am one of those people of Irish descent who has experienced ghosts (both seen and felt). I believe in second sight, and have had times when it probably kept me from harm. The Irish aren't alone in believing in ghosts, but it is a society where people won't question or judge you if you share your own ghost stories.
I encourage readers who want to gain insight into the lives of women in Ireland to read this book.
It is not just a memoir in essays but it is a history of women's bodies under 20th century Irish law. Gleeson's essays are written in the context of an Ireland where women (their bodies) have long been seen as a source of sin. A case that changed Irish law was that of Savita Halappanavar, a dentist from India, living in Ireland, and a Hindu. Her body was attempting to miscarry. She asked to be induced but was refused (we're a Catholic country)After 8 days, and 4 days after there was no longer a fetal heartbeat, she died of septicaemia. This led to a 2013 law, Protection of Life During Pregnancy. In 2018, Ireland legalized abortion. The primary "business" of the Magdalene Laundries was to remove Irish women from society who were seen to be guilty of engaging in sex outside of marriage, or could be a temptation to men .
One of my favorite chapters was about ghosts. I am one of those people of Irish descent who has experienced ghosts (both seen and felt). I believe in second sight, and have had times when it probably kept me from harm. The Irish aren't alone in believing in ghosts, but it is a society where people won't question or judge you if you share your own ghost stories.
I encourage readers who want to gain insight into the lives of women in Ireland to read this book.
December 21, 2021
"The kingdom of the sick is not a democracy."
▪️CONSTELLATIONS : Reflections from Life by Sinéad Gleeson, 2019.
#Readtheworld21 📍Ireland
Gleeson's intimate essays look at the span of life and the corporeal body, her own childhood with disability, an early adulthood cancer diagnosis, but also lives of others: the accidental death of a young friend, the long life and dementia of a beloved aunt, and a deeper look at the effects of Ireland's long standing abortion laws, and small asides about her work in art and music critical work.
One of my favorite essays "60,000 Miles of Blood" discusses this fluid of life, the circulatory system, relating the blood transfusions she has received that kept her alive in various surgeries, and writing shorter 'movements' inside of the larger essay for each blood type/group. Creative, fascinating, and well- executed. Many others in the collection too that are notable. This one just really stood out.
🎧 I highly recommend the audiobook, as Gleeson reads it herself, adding all the more to the personal and intimate nature of the collection.
Similar in essence and style to works I've read by Leslie Jamison and Maggie Nelson, so highly recommended if you like this essay style.
▪️CONSTELLATIONS : Reflections from Life by Sinéad Gleeson, 2019.
#Readtheworld21 📍Ireland
Gleeson's intimate essays look at the span of life and the corporeal body, her own childhood with disability, an early adulthood cancer diagnosis, but also lives of others: the accidental death of a young friend, the long life and dementia of a beloved aunt, and a deeper look at the effects of Ireland's long standing abortion laws, and small asides about her work in art and music critical work.
One of my favorite essays "60,000 Miles of Blood" discusses this fluid of life, the circulatory system, relating the blood transfusions she has received that kept her alive in various surgeries, and writing shorter 'movements' inside of the larger essay for each blood type/group. Creative, fascinating, and well- executed. Many others in the collection too that are notable. This one just really stood out.
🎧 I highly recommend the audiobook, as Gleeson reads it herself, adding all the more to the personal and intimate nature of the collection.
Similar in essence and style to works I've read by Leslie Jamison and Maggie Nelson, so highly recommended if you like this essay style.
August 25, 2019
I really need to stop reading memoirs (she says, in the middle of spitting nails over ‘Educated’). This doesn’t technically fall under a memoir categorization - it’s an essay collection - but as it contains all the most aggravating tics of memoirism, I’m calling it a memoir.
It’s not the fault of the genre that it’s first person, that it’s interior, that it’s navel-gazing, that it’s oblivious of the wider world, that it lacks insight, that (for some reason) if it’s written by a woman it’s gonna have a bit about periods in it. (Like HAVING them isn’t bad enough, for some reason it’s a requirement of Good Feminism to TALK about them all. The. Time.) It’s supposed to be personal. Me going into it resenting this fact is like picking up a romance novel and throwing it across the room because there’s no third-act showdown with guns. Yet the zeitgeisty nature of female memoir these days is such that I feel obliged to read them so I can have an opinion on them, even though my starting opinion (UGH MEMOIR) isn’t that different from my end opinion (do the work and turn it into fiction – THIRD PERSON fiction – ftlog).
It ALSO doesn’t help that this particular essay-memoir deals mostly with Gleeson’s experiences with illness and her interactions with the healthcare system. A patient-eye view of this system is about as accurate and insightful as me writing about airports from the point of view of a casual traveler would be, yet for some reason, patient viewpoints are sacrosanct. It’s the same endless demand for empathy from people who have never had to perform empathy for more than one or two people a day (or even a week) to people who have to do it twenty to fifty times a day. It’s the same expectation of magical solutions that everyone brings to healthcare providers. Most people like ‘alternative practitioners’ better than doctors and it’s not surprising; a ‘holistic therapist’ can say anything with certainty, we can say almost nothing. The things we do say with certainty no one wants to hear (sleep more, exercise more, eat less, drink less alcohol, do psychological work on yourself by yourself).
“My body is a question mark, and pain is not a negotiation.”
It is though, because I have seen people in every type of pain, including the people who say it’s ‘ten out of ten’ while sitting up on their phone, eating crisps. How shocking that in these circumstances doctors develop an instinctive tendency not to believe people’s versions of themselves? After all, they usually are wrong.
“A doctor speculated that it was caused by the contraceptive pill, anticoagulants were administered in elephantine doses”
For someone who primps herself on being – ugh – an ‘active partner in health’, she is drawing a serious false dichotomy here. You get administered warfarin based in INR. There is no such thing as an ‘elephantine’ dose of it, and the dose isn’t predicated on the reason for its prescription. UGH.
“In a long-sleeved top with a wine trunk and mustard sleeves”
I don’t often agree with Hemingway, but seriously, a simple ‘red and yellow top’ as a description would have prevented me having to stop and re-read, wondering why he was carrying a trunk of wine.
“Anyone who presents themselves for care, cure or examination must accept the role of the patient, which requires them to give up something: freedom/free will/free movement.”
Yeah. Because otherwise people who think it's possible to be prescribed ‘elephantine’ doses of warfarin would be running the show. And come back to me when you’re happy for us to give ‘free movement’ to heroin addicts in whom we have inserted IV lines instead of it being our total responsibility when they run out and shoot up using them. We are required to take on this responsibility, which means yes, everyone’s liberty is compromised. DEAL WITH IT.
“In the phlebotomy clinic, lines of phallic test tubes with vaginal lids, hermaphrodite and colour coded.”
The multiple ridiculous overwrought mixed metaphors here made me want to gag.
“My gay friend with the beautiful, full lips says a small
mouth would be a problem for him.”
Only gay men give blowjobs now?! (PS. All the poetry is BAD.)
“To me, they showed that it was possible to live a parallel creative life, one that overshadows the patient life”
By writing exclusively about your illness experiences?!
God almighty. I need to stop doing this to myself. After Educated (which I already hate), NO MORE.
It’s not the fault of the genre that it’s first person, that it’s interior, that it’s navel-gazing, that it’s oblivious of the wider world, that it lacks insight, that (for some reason) if it’s written by a woman it’s gonna have a bit about periods in it. (Like HAVING them isn’t bad enough, for some reason it’s a requirement of Good Feminism to TALK about them all. The. Time.) It’s supposed to be personal. Me going into it resenting this fact is like picking up a romance novel and throwing it across the room because there’s no third-act showdown with guns. Yet the zeitgeisty nature of female memoir these days is such that I feel obliged to read them so I can have an opinion on them, even though my starting opinion (UGH MEMOIR) isn’t that different from my end opinion (do the work and turn it into fiction – THIRD PERSON fiction – ftlog).
It ALSO doesn’t help that this particular essay-memoir deals mostly with Gleeson’s experiences with illness and her interactions with the healthcare system. A patient-eye view of this system is about as accurate and insightful as me writing about airports from the point of view of a casual traveler would be, yet for some reason, patient viewpoints are sacrosanct. It’s the same endless demand for empathy from people who have never had to perform empathy for more than one or two people a day (or even a week) to people who have to do it twenty to fifty times a day. It’s the same expectation of magical solutions that everyone brings to healthcare providers. Most people like ‘alternative practitioners’ better than doctors and it’s not surprising; a ‘holistic therapist’ can say anything with certainty, we can say almost nothing. The things we do say with certainty no one wants to hear (sleep more, exercise more, eat less, drink less alcohol, do psychological work on yourself by yourself).
“My body is a question mark, and pain is not a negotiation.”
It is though, because I have seen people in every type of pain, including the people who say it’s ‘ten out of ten’ while sitting up on their phone, eating crisps. How shocking that in these circumstances doctors develop an instinctive tendency not to believe people’s versions of themselves? After all, they usually are wrong.
“A doctor speculated that it was caused by the contraceptive pill, anticoagulants were administered in elephantine doses”
For someone who primps herself on being – ugh – an ‘active partner in health’, she is drawing a serious false dichotomy here. You get administered warfarin based in INR. There is no such thing as an ‘elephantine’ dose of it, and the dose isn’t predicated on the reason for its prescription. UGH.
“In a long-sleeved top with a wine trunk and mustard sleeves”
I don’t often agree with Hemingway, but seriously, a simple ‘red and yellow top’ as a description would have prevented me having to stop and re-read, wondering why he was carrying a trunk of wine.
“Anyone who presents themselves for care, cure or examination must accept the role of the patient, which requires them to give up something: freedom/free will/free movement.”
Yeah. Because otherwise people who think it's possible to be prescribed ‘elephantine’ doses of warfarin would be running the show. And come back to me when you’re happy for us to give ‘free movement’ to heroin addicts in whom we have inserted IV lines instead of it being our total responsibility when they run out and shoot up using them. We are required to take on this responsibility, which means yes, everyone’s liberty is compromised. DEAL WITH IT.
“In the phlebotomy clinic, lines of phallic test tubes with vaginal lids, hermaphrodite and colour coded.”
The multiple ridiculous overwrought mixed metaphors here made me want to gag.
“My gay friend with the beautiful, full lips says a small
mouth would be a problem for him.”
Only gay men give blowjobs now?! (PS. All the poetry is BAD.)
“To me, they showed that it was possible to live a parallel creative life, one that overshadows the patient life”
By writing exclusively about your illness experiences?!
God almighty. I need to stop doing this to myself. After Educated (which I already hate), NO MORE.
April 12, 2019
Constellations is a collection of fourteen essays written by an eloquent storyteller. Each celebrates the imperfect body – its workings and failings. There are musings on wider attitudes to ownership and behaviour. The stories told are incisive and highly personal. They cover a variety of the author’s lived experiences including: bone disease, cancer treatment, pregnancy, motherhood, and death. As a woman growing up in Ireland she has shouldered a burden of expectation against which she quietly rebels.
Alongside periods of incapacitation, the aloneness of illness, are many joyous moments of freedom and adventure. The author writes of: music, dancing, travel, relationships. There is an underlying generosity in her attitude to the world she inhabits, “making wounds the source of inspiration, not the end of it.”
She expresses a wish that her children, especially her daughter, may live their lives to the full and not be curtailed by
“Those who go out of their way to avoid your good news,
who flash facsimile smiles when the world smiles on you,
The people who are too afraid to try to do
what you will one day do.”
The essay titled ‘Hair’ explores society’s attitude to women who choose to grow or shave off their tresses:
“Every time I’ve shaved my head, or sported a suedehead of regrowth, there is always a response, especially from men. They are mostly horrified or bemused; some declared it attractive: but I was always asked to justify myself.”
These unasked for responses to changed looks, or to actions deemed unfeminine and therefore unacceptable, are recounted in many of the essays. Too many people appear to believe that women require guidance, that they cannot be expected to know what is best for them.
In ‘60,000 Miles of Blood’, the author explores attitudes to this vital liquid when it leaves a host’s body. A soldier shedding their blood in battle is regarded as heroic. A woman’s monthly menstruation is shameful. An artist using blood in their work is berated. There are always opinions on what may be done with the one’s own body and its constituents.
“Art is about interpreting our own experience. Upon entering hospitals, or haematology wards, our identity changes. We move from artist or parent or sibling to patient, one of the sick. We hand over the liquid in our veins to have it microscoped and pipetted. Beneš used his art as tenancy. If hospital tubes could house his blood, so could his own work. Beneš knew that if his blood had to be anywhere other than in his veins, he might as well use it as an aesthetic agenda; a declaration of possession.”
Moving on to the subject of parenthood, the author writes of how this has brought with it both joy and pain. As children grow they travel ever further away, carrying their parents’ intense love for them lightly.
There is a thread on feminism running through many of the essays. A woman’s pain is not always taken seriously by medical professionals. A mother is expected to put her children’s needs before her own. ‘Twelve Stories of Bodily Autonomy’ looks at abortion in Ireland and the 2018 referendum on the issue. It wonders at the mindsets of those who oppose a woman’s right to choose a termination.
“Ireland is scornful of its girl children. The state can and does oppose what a family/a woman/a pregnant person believes is in their best interest. A born girl has no more rights than an unborn foetal one.”
“A writer friend overhears a group of twenty-something men talking on a train. One, full of swagger, says he doesn’t ‘want to give them that’, insinuating that women are uppity and asking for too much wanting to control their bodies.”
‘Second Mother’ tells of a beloved aunt who suffered from Alzheimer’s and how the family could only watch as the person they had known and valued faded away, mind before body.
‘Our Mutual Friend’ is a reminder of the precariousness of life and the pain of grief. It is an intensely moving tribute to a young man whose life ended unexpectedly.
The writing throughout is percipient and exquisitely rendered, arguments expressed with clarity and compassion. Although important and at times emotive, vital issues are presented with grace.
Every entry in this collection was a pleasure to read.
Alongside periods of incapacitation, the aloneness of illness, are many joyous moments of freedom and adventure. The author writes of: music, dancing, travel, relationships. There is an underlying generosity in her attitude to the world she inhabits, “making wounds the source of inspiration, not the end of it.”
She expresses a wish that her children, especially her daughter, may live their lives to the full and not be curtailed by
“Those who go out of their way to avoid your good news,
who flash facsimile smiles when the world smiles on you,
The people who are too afraid to try to do
what you will one day do.”
The essay titled ‘Hair’ explores society’s attitude to women who choose to grow or shave off their tresses:
“Every time I’ve shaved my head, or sported a suedehead of regrowth, there is always a response, especially from men. They are mostly horrified or bemused; some declared it attractive: but I was always asked to justify myself.”
These unasked for responses to changed looks, or to actions deemed unfeminine and therefore unacceptable, are recounted in many of the essays. Too many people appear to believe that women require guidance, that they cannot be expected to know what is best for them.
In ‘60,000 Miles of Blood’, the author explores attitudes to this vital liquid when it leaves a host’s body. A soldier shedding their blood in battle is regarded as heroic. A woman’s monthly menstruation is shameful. An artist using blood in their work is berated. There are always opinions on what may be done with the one’s own body and its constituents.
“Art is about interpreting our own experience. Upon entering hospitals, or haematology wards, our identity changes. We move from artist or parent or sibling to patient, one of the sick. We hand over the liquid in our veins to have it microscoped and pipetted. Beneš used his art as tenancy. If hospital tubes could house his blood, so could his own work. Beneš knew that if his blood had to be anywhere other than in his veins, he might as well use it as an aesthetic agenda; a declaration of possession.”
Moving on to the subject of parenthood, the author writes of how this has brought with it both joy and pain. As children grow they travel ever further away, carrying their parents’ intense love for them lightly.
There is a thread on feminism running through many of the essays. A woman’s pain is not always taken seriously by medical professionals. A mother is expected to put her children’s needs before her own. ‘Twelve Stories of Bodily Autonomy’ looks at abortion in Ireland and the 2018 referendum on the issue. It wonders at the mindsets of those who oppose a woman’s right to choose a termination.
“Ireland is scornful of its girl children. The state can and does oppose what a family/a woman/a pregnant person believes is in their best interest. A born girl has no more rights than an unborn foetal one.”
“A writer friend overhears a group of twenty-something men talking on a train. One, full of swagger, says he doesn’t ‘want to give them that’, insinuating that women are uppity and asking for too much wanting to control their bodies.”
‘Second Mother’ tells of a beloved aunt who suffered from Alzheimer’s and how the family could only watch as the person they had known and valued faded away, mind before body.
‘Our Mutual Friend’ is a reminder of the precariousness of life and the pain of grief. It is an intensely moving tribute to a young man whose life ended unexpectedly.
The writing throughout is percipient and exquisitely rendered, arguments expressed with clarity and compassion. Although important and at times emotive, vital issues are presented with grace.
Every entry in this collection was a pleasure to read.
May 31, 2021
A stunning collection of autobiographical essays every woman should read.
This year brought me a new-found love for non-fiction and, especially, for personal essays. I love reading about all aspects of womanhood, but it is definitely not that easy to come across something that feels original and fresh, letting thoughts and experiences speak for themselves.
It is hard to discuss or rate essay collections, since packing different themes into a book can lead to lack of cohesion and a fragmented result, which can cause readers to lose interest along the way. Fortunately, though, all the pieces fall in place and connect to each other, as the stars from the constellations would.
Constellations is about the stories our bodies tell about ourselves, how they can turn against us and how we, as women, are constantly fighting to regain (a somehow lost) agency for them.
Sinead takes us on a journey through her struggles with illness from an early age, her experiences of growing up in a conservative Ireland and the (sometimes rough) path she took to become a woman and a mother. While her body may be fragile, her mind is strong and fierce. She speaks of art, politics, feminism, society, motherhood, love, loss, grief and so much more. How can this even be a debut?
This book found its way to my heart quite easily and has ever since visited my thoughts almost daily. One of the last essays, where she introduces us to an important female figure made me cry like a baby and I will carry its strength and quiet beauty with me for as long as I possibly can.
Brilliant, magnificent, galvanizing, thought-provoking, raw, beautiful, tender,… there are not enough words to describe its power. I urge you to pick this up and let it change you for the better.
This year brought me a new-found love for non-fiction and, especially, for personal essays. I love reading about all aspects of womanhood, but it is definitely not that easy to come across something that feels original and fresh, letting thoughts and experiences speak for themselves.
It is hard to discuss or rate essay collections, since packing different themes into a book can lead to lack of cohesion and a fragmented result, which can cause readers to lose interest along the way. Fortunately, though, all the pieces fall in place and connect to each other, as the stars from the constellations would.
Constellations is about the stories our bodies tell about ourselves, how they can turn against us and how we, as women, are constantly fighting to regain (a somehow lost) agency for them.
Sinead takes us on a journey through her struggles with illness from an early age, her experiences of growing up in a conservative Ireland and the (sometimes rough) path she took to become a woman and a mother. While her body may be fragile, her mind is strong and fierce. She speaks of art, politics, feminism, society, motherhood, love, loss, grief and so much more. How can this even be a debut?
This book found its way to my heart quite easily and has ever since visited my thoughts almost daily. One of the last essays, where she introduces us to an important female figure made me cry like a baby and I will carry its strength and quiet beauty with me for as long as I possibly can.
Brilliant, magnificent, galvanizing, thought-provoking, raw, beautiful, tender,… there are not enough words to describe its power. I urge you to pick this up and let it change you for the better.
May 4, 2020
If you want to read one good book, pick up Constellations for sure.
Sinéads writing is absolutely stellar. She puts her words together in a way that makes you understand and that makes you wonder. I basically inhaled this book. Her similes and metaphors make me gasp. Because you know what she means. Whether you share her experience or not, you know what she means, because she lets you know exactly what you should be feeling. And I don't think that's something everybody can do. Not everybody can invite you into their rich inner life and feelings like this. Not to mention, it's incredibly poetic and witty and, in a strange way, entertaining.
I am also very grateful to have met Sinéad at a release event last year, having briefly spoken to her, having almost fallen on top of her in a bar and having those kind words written by her in my own copy of the book.
I definitely found a new favourite.
Sinéads writing is absolutely stellar. She puts her words together in a way that makes you understand and that makes you wonder. I basically inhaled this book. Her similes and metaphors make me gasp. Because you know what she means. Whether you share her experience or not, you know what she means, because she lets you know exactly what you should be feeling. And I don't think that's something everybody can do. Not everybody can invite you into their rich inner life and feelings like this. Not to mention, it's incredibly poetic and witty and, in a strange way, entertaining.
I am also very grateful to have met Sinéad at a release event last year, having briefly spoken to her, having almost fallen on top of her in a bar and having those kind words written by her in my own copy of the book.
I definitely found a new favourite.
August 20, 2020
Since my last trip to Ireland, I’ve tried to regularly read book reviews in The Irish Times, which is where I came across this outstanding book of essays. The author has had many health challenges throughout her life and it’s both heartbreaking and infuriating to read about male doctors who tell their female patients that they are just imagining their pain.
Oddly enough, this is the second book I’ve read this month referring to the artist, Ana Mendieta, who attended the University of Iowa, my alma mater. Both books refer to a piece of performance art she did in response to the rape and murder of a student there in one of the dorms. It happened 3 years before I got there and after reading more about it, there’s no way I would not have known about it while I was in school. I guess that’s one of those memories that gets suppressed.
Oddly enough, this is the second book I’ve read this month referring to the artist, Ana Mendieta, who attended the University of Iowa, my alma mater. Both books refer to a piece of performance art she did in response to the rape and murder of a student there in one of the dorms. It happened 3 years before I got there and after reading more about it, there’s no way I would not have known about it while I was in school. I guess that’s one of those memories that gets suppressed.
May 17, 2021
In 14 Essays nimmt uns Sinéad Gleeson mit auf eine persönliche Reise durch die Jahre ihres Lebens als Frau. Als Frau im katholischen Irland. In einem Körper, der bereits seit der Kindheit vielen Schmerzen ausgesetzt war und sich immer wieder neuen Herausforderungen stellen musste. Dabei ergründet die Autorin die Möglichkeiten und Grenzen des weiblichen Körpers im Zusammenhang mit unterschiedlichen Themen - Krankheit, Mutterschaft, Abtreibung, Alter und schließlich auch dem Tod.
In einer beeindruckend mächtigen Sprache stellt Gleeson Verbindungen zwischen ihren ganz persönlichen Erfahrungen und der Bedeutung der körperlichen Autonomie im geschichtlichen und sozialen Kontext her. Sie schafft es auf eine bemerkenswerte Weise, Verletzlichkeit ohne Selbstmitleid auszudrücken, bekannte Gefühle so treffend zu beschreiben, dass man sich erneut in ihnen verliert und einem wiederum Unbekanntes durch eine brillante, bildhafte Sprache nahe zu bringen.
In einer beeindruckend mächtigen Sprache stellt Gleeson Verbindungen zwischen ihren ganz persönlichen Erfahrungen und der Bedeutung der körperlichen Autonomie im geschichtlichen und sozialen Kontext her. Sie schafft es auf eine bemerkenswerte Weise, Verletzlichkeit ohne Selbstmitleid auszudrücken, bekannte Gefühle so treffend zu beschreiben, dass man sich erneut in ihnen verliert und einem wiederum Unbekanntes durch eine brillante, bildhafte Sprache nahe zu bringen.
December 14, 2018
A powerful and personal book, Constellations is a collection of essays on diverse topics ranging from motherhood to art, and everything in between, The constellations of the title refers to the metal implants that the author had inserted in her hip as a young teen, and from this starting point she takes us on a journey of struggle and pain, but also of hope and determination as she recounts her life from the perspective of the toll it has taken on her body, a brutal impact with a car as a child, years of surgery and physiotherapy as a teen, a rare form of leukaemia as an adult, and her pregnancies which were not without drama of their own. Female bodily autonomy is a topic which has come under scrutiny in Ireland in the last number of years, and the political and social aspects of this struggle are at the forefront of the book. So many times, her words and experiences resonated with me as a fellow Irish woman, but I have no doubt in saying that they also speak to a universal experience. I found myself not merely entertained by the book, but inspired too.
I read and reviewed an ARC courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher, all opinions are my own,
I read and reviewed an ARC courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher, all opinions are my own,
October 4, 2019
"The body is an afterthought. We don't stop to think of how the heart beats its steady rhythm; or watch our metatarsals fan out with every step. Unless it's involved in pleasure or pain, we pay this moving mass of vessel, blood and bone no mind. The lungs inflate, muscles contract, and there is no reason to assume they won't keep on doing so. Until one day, something changes: a corporeal blip. The body - its presence, its weight - is both an unignorable entity and routinely taken for granted."
im sat here trying to find a way to write a review of this book that could ever do it justice, and im just coming up completely short. it feels wrong to try to reduce gleeson's brilliant, humane writing into some kind of pithy review.
just read constellations. that's it really. the book speaks for itself; it's a feat of writing.
im sat here trying to find a way to write a review of this book that could ever do it justice, and im just coming up completely short. it feels wrong to try to reduce gleeson's brilliant, humane writing into some kind of pithy review.
just read constellations. that's it really. the book speaks for itself; it's a feat of writing.
June 4, 2022
this is what it feels like when walking on lava glass.
this is what the green hum of water softly whispers.
as a med student, as an adolescent, as an ally to feminism, as a lectiophile, as a sucker for poetic micro-essays and heart-wrenching memoirs;
from the historical context of abortion and women’s rights in 20th century Ireland
to Gleeson’s courage to open up about pain and suffering, albeit of her own or of other women close to her.
this is what the little fox paints across the night-sky with its sidereal tail.
———���—
still thinking about Sinéad signing my copy and misspelling my name as ‘Esther’ ❤️🔥
this is what the green hum of water softly whispers.
as a med student, as an adolescent, as an ally to feminism, as a lectiophile, as a sucker for poetic micro-essays and heart-wrenching memoirs;
from the historical context of abortion and women’s rights in 20th century Ireland
to Gleeson’s courage to open up about pain and suffering, albeit of her own or of other women close to her.
this is what the little fox paints across the night-sky with its sidereal tail.
———���—
still thinking about Sinéad signing my copy and misspelling my name as ‘Esther’ ❤️🔥
September 23, 2021
This book was mesmerizing - so smart, and so engaging. I loved the way Gleeson situated her illnesses in terms of constellations and how she expressed a feminist response to contending with Western medicine. My favorite essays were the one about the "mutual friend" that got her and her husband together, the one about ghosts, and the one about reproductive rights in Ireland. I hope to return to this one again.
July 8, 2021
Die Sprache, die in diesem Buch verwendet wird, ist wunderschön. Sie ist malerisch und poetisch und gefiel mir unglaublich gut. Die Autorin schrieb teils in Prosa, teils schrieb sie Gedichte, häufig spielte sie auf andere Texte und Autor:innen an. Gerade Letzteres liebe ich an Büchern, vor allem dann, wenn ich die Texte kenne, auf die angespielt wird. Ich konnte dieses Buch nicht mehr aus der Hand legen und habe die einzelnen Texte mit großer Freude verschlungen.
Die Texte sind soweit ich das verstanden habe autobiographisch. Das macht die inhaltliche Bewertung für mich schwieriger. Vor allem, da das Thema doch recht ernst ist. Die Autorin beschreibt ihren Körper und ihr Leben in diesem Körper. Sie musste als Kind und Jugendliche mehrere schmerzhafte Operationen über sich ergehen lassen und war immer wieder auf Krücken oder sogar auf einen Rollstuhl angewiesen. Später bekam sie aufgrund der Antibabypille eine Thrombose und dann auch noch eine aggressive Form der Leukämie. Auch über ihre zwei Schwangerschaften und Geburten schreibt sie und warum es eigentlich immer politisch ist, wenn man über seinen Körper spricht, wenn man gleichzeitig auch eine Frau ist. Es geht um Ableismus, also um die Diskriminierung aufgrund von Behinderung und um Sexismus. Gleeson spricht über die Jugend, über das Alter, über Demenz und über den Tod. Also eigentlich deckt sie das ganze Spektrum der Körperlichkeit ab. Ich habe jeden der Texte mit großem Interesse gelesen.
Mein Fazit? Super interessante Texte. Dieses Buch hat mir viele spannende Lesestunden beschert und ich würde mich freuen, bald noch mehr Texte der Autorin lesen zu dürfen.
Die Texte sind soweit ich das verstanden habe autobiographisch. Das macht die inhaltliche Bewertung für mich schwieriger. Vor allem, da das Thema doch recht ernst ist. Die Autorin beschreibt ihren Körper und ihr Leben in diesem Körper. Sie musste als Kind und Jugendliche mehrere schmerzhafte Operationen über sich ergehen lassen und war immer wieder auf Krücken oder sogar auf einen Rollstuhl angewiesen. Später bekam sie aufgrund der Antibabypille eine Thrombose und dann auch noch eine aggressive Form der Leukämie. Auch über ihre zwei Schwangerschaften und Geburten schreibt sie und warum es eigentlich immer politisch ist, wenn man über seinen Körper spricht, wenn man gleichzeitig auch eine Frau ist. Es geht um Ableismus, also um die Diskriminierung aufgrund von Behinderung und um Sexismus. Gleeson spricht über die Jugend, über das Alter, über Demenz und über den Tod. Also eigentlich deckt sie das ganze Spektrum der Körperlichkeit ab. Ich habe jeden der Texte mit großem Interesse gelesen.
Mein Fazit? Super interessante Texte. Dieses Buch hat mir viele spannende Lesestunden beschert und ich würde mich freuen, bald noch mehr Texte der Autorin lesen zu dürfen.
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