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Only Say the Word
Both a novel and a letter from a husband to his wife, Only Say the Word is a haunting, intimate testament to the enduring nature of love.Jim Foley loves his parents, his brother, his sister, Dickens and God, although not necessarily in that order. Later, he loves Kate, enough to make her his wife; later still, he loves his children, Jack and Hannah. This is Jim's story, from early days spent in County Clare to early adulthood in America, and back to Clare again. Tracing his journey from child, to husband to father, from happy-ever-after to death-do-us-part, from beginnings to endingsand from there to starting afresh once moreit tells of the people and places in Jims life, his hopes, fears and fantasies, his ever-evolving relationships and the books that remain always constant. Deeply-felt, beautifully-told, and written in Niall William's lyrical, lilting prose, Only Say the Word offers both acceptance of the past and hope for the future.
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First published January 7, 2005
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About the author
Niall Williams
34 books1,724 followersNiall Williams studied English and French Literature at University College Dublin and graduated with a MA in Modern American Literature. He moved to New York in 1980 where he married Christine Breen. His first job in New York was opening boxes of books in Fox and Sutherland's Bookshop in Mount Kisco. He later worked as a copywriter for Avon Books in New York City before leaving America with Chris in 1985 to attempt to make a life as a writer in Ireland. They moved on April 1st to the cottage in west Clare that Chris's grandfather had left eighty years before to find his life in America.
His first four books were co-written with Chris and tell of their life together in Co Clare.
In 1991 Niall's first play THE MURPHY INITIATIVE was staged at The Abbey Theatre in Dublin. His second play, A LITTLE LIKE PARADISE was produced on the Peacock stage of The Abbey Theatre in 1995. His third play, THE WAY YOU LOOK TONIGHT, was produced by Galway's Druid Theatre Company in 1999.
Niall's first novel was FOUR LETTERS OF LOVE. Published in 1997, it went on to become an international bestseller and has been published in over twenty countries. His second novel, AS IT IS IN HEAVEN was published in 1999 and short-listed for the Irish Times Literature Prize. Further novels include THE FALL OF LIGHT, ONLY SAY THE WORD, BOY IN THE WORLD and its sequel, BOY AND MAN.
In 2008 Bloomsbury published Niall's fictional account of the last year in the life of the apostle, JOHN.
His new novel, HISTORY OF THE RAIN, will be published by Bloomsbury in the UK/Ireland and in the USA Spring 2014. (Spanish and Turkish rights have also been sold.)
Niall has recently written several screenplays. Two have been optioned by film companies.
His first four books were co-written with Chris and tell of their life together in Co Clare.
In 1991 Niall's first play THE MURPHY INITIATIVE was staged at The Abbey Theatre in Dublin. His second play, A LITTLE LIKE PARADISE was produced on the Peacock stage of The Abbey Theatre in 1995. His third play, THE WAY YOU LOOK TONIGHT, was produced by Galway's Druid Theatre Company in 1999.
Niall's first novel was FOUR LETTERS OF LOVE. Published in 1997, it went on to become an international bestseller and has been published in over twenty countries. His second novel, AS IT IS IN HEAVEN was published in 1999 and short-listed for the Irish Times Literature Prize. Further novels include THE FALL OF LIGHT, ONLY SAY THE WORD, BOY IN THE WORLD and its sequel, BOY AND MAN.
In 2008 Bloomsbury published Niall's fictional account of the last year in the life of the apostle, JOHN.
His new novel, HISTORY OF THE RAIN, will be published by Bloomsbury in the UK/Ireland and in the USA Spring 2014. (Spanish and Turkish rights have also been sold.)
Niall has recently written several screenplays. Two have been optioned by film companies.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 52 reviews
October 16, 2022
The narrator is Jim Foley. He has two children: Jack and Hannah, and his wife, Kate, died. Father and children live in the countryside in County Clare in Ireland.
Jim takes care of the education of his children. He tries very hard to be a good father. His daughter Hannah seems to me to have her head on her shoulders. She remarks to her father, who recognises the relevance and modulates his way of acting.
Jim takes care of the education of his children. He tries very hard to be a good father. His daughter Hannah seems to me to have her head on her shoulders. She remarks to her father, who recognises the relevance and modulates his way of acting.
May 24, 2022
Não olharia duas vezes para um livro com um título tão religioso se não tivesse ouvido rasgados elogios aos mais recentes de Niall Williams. E se não fosse um autor irlandês, claro, o meu ponto fraco.
Não há histórias irlandesas de regressos a casa. Pelo menos histórias com final feliz. São todas histórias de desterro, emigração, exílio e infelicidade.
Ainda que também tenha a ver com perda de fé, “Dizei uma palavra e serei salvo” é essencialmente sobre palavras, as que se dizem, as que se calam, as que se lêem e se escrevem, porque Jim Foley, agora escritor, é um grande leitor desde miúdo e transporta uma enorme culpa dentro de si, para a qual procura o perdão.
O pai de Jim é aquele que no posto dos correios estabelece as ligações telefónicas, mas em casa não há comunicação, apenas quatro pessoas taciturnas a alimentar o silêncio. Um pai que pensou que podia resgatar a mulher da dor quando a conheceu, uma mãe que se refugia na costura, um irmão mais velho que só pensa no universo da matemática e o jovem Jim, que se habitua desde criança a evadir-se através da literatura, especialmente com o seu livro preferido, “Grandes Esperanças”, cujo furto da biblioteca causa um mal-estar entre pai e filho que Jim acredita estar na origem da sua subsequente invalidez.
É um conjunto de espasmos e reflexos, de sobrancelhas franzidas, pestanas que batem, torções orquestradas da boca quando volumes inteiros de coisas que quer dizer lhe brotam de dentro e assomam ao rosto. Nenhuma delas chega a sair. Pelo contrário, como não consegue dizê-las, as palavras silenciosas bailam-lhe nos músculos e no azul pálido dos olhos.
Posteriormente, como estudante universitário em Dublin e como imigrante em Nova Iorque, mantém-se a sua obsessão pelos livros que, por falta de meios, surripia.
Percorre os nomes que os olhos, Austen, Brontë, Collins, Dickens, Hardy, Joyce, o ABC da literatura, e dizer-lhes os nomes em silêncio é como uma saudação murmurada de quem entra num círculo de amigos.
Este delito, porém, não angustia o protagonista, já que o peso da sua culpa em relação aos pais oblitera todos os pecadilhos cometidos, e é ela que o traz de volta à Irlanda, num dos momentos mais catárticos que tive o prazer de ler.
Tenho vontade de me atirar ao chão e gritar, soltar o longo grito em que se acumula tudo o que é remorso e compaixão e desespero e dor que nada fiz parar sarar. Tenho vontade de me rasgar, de me libertar de tudo aquilo, de escancarar com as minhas próprias mãos a jaula que é o meu peito e soltar os passos negros de sangue do arrependimento, de grandes asas e bicos, e deixar que eles levantem voo agitando o ar e reduzindo a nada a matéria rosada e grumosa do sofrimento.
Toda esta história é contada à distância por Jim já na pele de escritor, agora viúvo e a braços com um filho ainda criança e uma filha adolescente, onde impera de novo o silêncio, porque lhe faltam as palavras com o mais novo e receia usar as erradas com a mais velha. São cenas que espelham bem um dos meus maiores receios: uma mãe faz muita falta.
Pensei: julgas que consegues proteger o teu filho, julgas que podes ser uma parede contra a qual o desgosto e a dor e o desespero esbarram sem conseguirem passar. Mas tu não és uma parede, és apenas uma testemunha.
Uma história sobre remorsos e expiação raramente falha comigo, e esta, imbuída no amor pelos livros, vai ficar entre as mais envolventes.
Aqui vou eu com os livros em cima dos joelhos. Vou a ler os títulos, a passar a mão pelas capas forradas a plástico, ansioso por saber o que o conteúdo me reserva, (...) e já com a cabeça longe dali, naquele lugar onde é impossível sentir dor e ninguém me pode pedir amor. Nem dar amor. (...) Sou o estudante sentado no autocarro (...) a abrir as páginas de um romance para ler à luz amarelada e, com isso, olhar para longe de todo aquele sofrimento. Ou assim me desculpo e justifico pelo facto de me refugiar nos livros.
Não há histórias irlandesas de regressos a casa. Pelo menos histórias com final feliz. São todas histórias de desterro, emigração, exílio e infelicidade.
Ainda que também tenha a ver com perda de fé, “Dizei uma palavra e serei salvo” é essencialmente sobre palavras, as que se dizem, as que se calam, as que se lêem e se escrevem, porque Jim Foley, agora escritor, é um grande leitor desde miúdo e transporta uma enorme culpa dentro de si, para a qual procura o perdão.
O pai de Jim é aquele que no posto dos correios estabelece as ligações telefónicas, mas em casa não há comunicação, apenas quatro pessoas taciturnas a alimentar o silêncio. Um pai que pensou que podia resgatar a mulher da dor quando a conheceu, uma mãe que se refugia na costura, um irmão mais velho que só pensa no universo da matemática e o jovem Jim, que se habitua desde criança a evadir-se através da literatura, especialmente com o seu livro preferido, “Grandes Esperanças”, cujo furto da biblioteca causa um mal-estar entre pai e filho que Jim acredita estar na origem da sua subsequente invalidez.
É um conjunto de espasmos e reflexos, de sobrancelhas franzidas, pestanas que batem, torções orquestradas da boca quando volumes inteiros de coisas que quer dizer lhe brotam de dentro e assomam ao rosto. Nenhuma delas chega a sair. Pelo contrário, como não consegue dizê-las, as palavras silenciosas bailam-lhe nos músculos e no azul pálido dos olhos.
Posteriormente, como estudante universitário em Dublin e como imigrante em Nova Iorque, mantém-se a sua obsessão pelos livros que, por falta de meios, surripia.
Percorre os nomes que os olhos, Austen, Brontë, Collins, Dickens, Hardy, Joyce, o ABC da literatura, e dizer-lhes os nomes em silêncio é como uma saudação murmurada de quem entra num círculo de amigos.
Este delito, porém, não angustia o protagonista, já que o peso da sua culpa em relação aos pais oblitera todos os pecadilhos cometidos, e é ela que o traz de volta à Irlanda, num dos momentos mais catárticos que tive o prazer de ler.
Tenho vontade de me atirar ao chão e gritar, soltar o longo grito em que se acumula tudo o que é remorso e compaixão e desespero e dor que nada fiz parar sarar. Tenho vontade de me rasgar, de me libertar de tudo aquilo, de escancarar com as minhas próprias mãos a jaula que é o meu peito e soltar os passos negros de sangue do arrependimento, de grandes asas e bicos, e deixar que eles levantem voo agitando o ar e reduzindo a nada a matéria rosada e grumosa do sofrimento.
Toda esta história é contada à distância por Jim já na pele de escritor, agora viúvo e a braços com um filho ainda criança e uma filha adolescente, onde impera de novo o silêncio, porque lhe faltam as palavras com o mais novo e receia usar as erradas com a mais velha. São cenas que espelham bem um dos meus maiores receios: uma mãe faz muita falta.
Pensei: julgas que consegues proteger o teu filho, julgas que podes ser uma parede contra a qual o desgosto e a dor e o desespero esbarram sem conseguirem passar. Mas tu não és uma parede, és apenas uma testemunha.
Uma história sobre remorsos e expiação raramente falha comigo, e esta, imbuída no amor pelos livros, vai ficar entre as mais envolventes.
Aqui vou eu com os livros em cima dos joelhos. Vou a ler os títulos, a passar a mão pelas capas forradas a plástico, ansioso por saber o que o conteúdo me reserva, (...) e já com a cabeça longe dali, naquele lugar onde é impossível sentir dor e ninguém me pode pedir amor. Nem dar amor. (...) Sou o estudante sentado no autocarro (...) a abrir as páginas de um romance para ler à luz amarelada e, com isso, olhar para longe de todo aquele sofrimento. Ou assim me desculpo e justifico pelo facto de me refugiar nos livros.
February 9, 2017
Como é que conseguimos lidar com os sentimentos, quando tudo nos parece perdido...
Quantas vezes, ficamos sem palavras para dizer-mos o que sentimos, quem é que nunca se expressou através de uma folha de papel... Basicamente é o que o protagonista tenta fazer, dar um rumo á sua vida, através de palavras escritas...
Quantas vezes, ficamos sem palavras para dizer-mos o que sentimos, quem é que nunca se expressou através de uma folha de papel... Basicamente é o que o protagonista tenta fazer, dar um rumo á sua vida, através de palavras escritas...
February 20, 2015
A story about a writer living in the West of Ireland mourning the death of his wife and struggling to deal with its impact on his children, Niall Williams' intensely poetic novel is almost unbearably moving:
"The children are home from school I hear them moving about restless with the empty time. Hannah comes and asks me when will I be going to the village. She needs shampoo. Ten minutes later Jack who was eight years old two days ago stands at the doorway and asks why we do not live in America. They have better television in America, he says. I want to tell him that television is not important. I want to take him inside my arms and hold him here beside me and say I know how things are for you. I know the harrowing the world has already made in the soft places of your spirit. I know your fears and pains and because I am your father I cannot know them for an instant without wanting to make them pass.
But the words, or perhaps the means to say them, seem stolen from me, and instead I say I will try and get better stations on the television."
In flashbacks to the writer's own childhood, this novel is also a glorious celebration of the transformative power of literature and the importance of storytelling in all our lives. The young boy's attempt to find a place for himself in the world of the imagination and his struggle to understand and appreciate the real world all around him has a wonderful intensity that will be painfully familiar to many a bookish adult.
Running alongside the narrator's intensely realised inner world is the constant presence of the Irish countryside brought powerfully to life by Williams' evocative prose:
"Autumn progresses. The rain is ceaseless now, and yet seems hardly to fall, a soft grey wrapped like a shroud about all west of the Shannon. Leaves of sycamore blacken and curl their edges. When the wind picks up the rain, they come slanting across the cottage window in stricken flight. All the last blossoms are faded now, and crimson geraniums are stalks of brown seed and yellowed leaves. Everywhere the countryside is tattered, wind-wild. You can feel that somewhere in the deeps of the earth something is slowly souring which once was sweetening. Across the valley small herds of cattle move and stand and move again for shelter. Between the showers huge blackbirds come and alight in your garden. I raise my hand from the table and they do not fly off. They wait there, as though burdened with some significance, when I know they have none."
Out of this interplay of interior and exterior worlds, and out of the conflict between the reality that cannot be faced and the memories that cannot be escaped, Williams has created an incandescent work of literature as well as an intriguing investigation into the process of writing itself..
"The children are home from school I hear them moving about restless with the empty time. Hannah comes and asks me when will I be going to the village. She needs shampoo. Ten minutes later Jack who was eight years old two days ago stands at the doorway and asks why we do not live in America. They have better television in America, he says. I want to tell him that television is not important. I want to take him inside my arms and hold him here beside me and say I know how things are for you. I know the harrowing the world has already made in the soft places of your spirit. I know your fears and pains and because I am your father I cannot know them for an instant without wanting to make them pass.
But the words, or perhaps the means to say them, seem stolen from me, and instead I say I will try and get better stations on the television."
In flashbacks to the writer's own childhood, this novel is also a glorious celebration of the transformative power of literature and the importance of storytelling in all our lives. The young boy's attempt to find a place for himself in the world of the imagination and his struggle to understand and appreciate the real world all around him has a wonderful intensity that will be painfully familiar to many a bookish adult.
Running alongside the narrator's intensely realised inner world is the constant presence of the Irish countryside brought powerfully to life by Williams' evocative prose:
"Autumn progresses. The rain is ceaseless now, and yet seems hardly to fall, a soft grey wrapped like a shroud about all west of the Shannon. Leaves of sycamore blacken and curl their edges. When the wind picks up the rain, they come slanting across the cottage window in stricken flight. All the last blossoms are faded now, and crimson geraniums are stalks of brown seed and yellowed leaves. Everywhere the countryside is tattered, wind-wild. You can feel that somewhere in the deeps of the earth something is slowly souring which once was sweetening. Across the valley small herds of cattle move and stand and move again for shelter. Between the showers huge blackbirds come and alight in your garden. I raise my hand from the table and they do not fly off. They wait there, as though burdened with some significance, when I know they have none."
Out of this interplay of interior and exterior worlds, and out of the conflict between the reality that cannot be faced and the memories that cannot be escaped, Williams has created an incandescent work of literature as well as an intriguing investigation into the process of writing itself..
May 7, 2023
As with all of Williams’ books, this is totally compelling, beautifully written and a book I did not want to end. Williams has an ability to take the reader directly into the Irish community, to experience it as his characters do. I thoroughly enjoy his writing.
June 1, 2022
Apreciei, sobretudo, a forma como a narrativa, na verdade as narrativas, se desenvolvem lado a lado para se tocarem de uma forma muito natural, através de uma escrita cuidada, sem foguetórios mas atenta à riqueza lexical. Uma vez chegados ao ponto em que duas passam a ser uma, a desenvoltura já não é a mesma, como se o autor tivesse descuidado a narrativa, perdendo-se demasiado no hiper-realismo descritivo que não ajuda em nada ao desenvolvimento do enredo. Creio, no entanto, que no final a "coisa" se salva, não sem antes passarmos por mais uma crise de ansiedade. É um livro muito bonito, por vezes na fronteira entre o bonito e o piroso, mas muito mais no lado do bonito, sobre a forma como escolhemos viver quando aquilo que mais amamos nos é roubado, ou talvez como pode ser possível vivermos, numa possibilidade que cabe a cada um de nós perceber. A capa é aquilo que se vê, mas não se pode esperar muito da Bizâncio, e o título, credo!
January 16, 2010
It's official. I have a new favorite author. Niall Williams continues to impress with his beautifully-told stories of love and heartache. In this book, Jim Foley finds it easier to grieve and relate to his past with the story he's authoring, much easier than it is to communicate with his two young children over the loss of their mother. But that's not all. It never is with Williams's books. I have never read another author where I find each line, each paragraph to be standalone poetry. And I can go on and on about the imagery:
"Reading poetry for hours on end, falling into half-sleeps, blurring moments when the divide between waking and dreaming does not exist and I cannot say if the line in my head is one I have read or invented."
How many of us can relate to that, yet how many of us could find the words to say it any better???
I have another book by Niall Williams that a friend lent to me. I'm going to try my hardest to take my time reading it because I want to savor every last word!
"Reading poetry for hours on end, falling into half-sleeps, blurring moments when the divide between waking and dreaming does not exist and I cannot say if the line in my head is one I have read or invented."
How many of us can relate to that, yet how many of us could find the words to say it any better???
I have another book by Niall Williams that a friend lent to me. I'm going to try my hardest to take my time reading it because I want to savor every last word!
December 29, 2021
3.75
This book is really beautifully written and I definitely will read more from him. The story is quite sad and I wouldn't say it's a very lighthearted book but it does handle the grief quite well and definitely in a way where you can stomach it as the reader. A good Irish story!
This book is really beautifully written and I definitely will read more from him. The story is quite sad and I wouldn't say it's a very lighthearted book but it does handle the grief quite well and definitely in a way where you can stomach it as the reader. A good Irish story!
July 15, 2018
Evocative, reflective and moving, capturing, as does most of Williams's works, the impact of time and place on how we grow and who we are. A beautiful, very worthwhile read.
August 2, 2019
Beautifully written book about loss.
Niall Williams is my favourite writer
Niall Williams is my favourite writer
October 23, 2021
This book is absolutely gorgeous... like the other books by Niall Williams that I have read.
Such beautiful prose and a beautiful story of healing.
Such beautiful prose and a beautiful story of healing.
February 14, 2022
A lovely, lovely book. Outstanding writing. Beautiful.
March 13, 2024
*She stands beside me a thousand miles away.
November 9, 2024
A very unnecessarily painful book.
Don't read it if you're feeling slightly down.
As it was I was feeling fine, but reading this book brought my mood right down.
I'm so glad I've finished reading it.
I actually felt less down reading a Primo Levi book. Why, because Primo Levi didn't wallow in self pity ... he moved forward every day and didn't self sabotage his life at every turn.
The book contains two narratives of the same character, one when he was a boy and one as adult.
The boy's character is much stronger than the adult character. I can't say I liked the adult character as he was weak, pathetic and dragged down those around him with his self indulgent selflishness.
Somehow this is okay because he wants to be a writer and is a dreamer.
Lots of awful things happen to this character, one layered upon the other, like a suffocating overfilled sandwich ... for no reason ... this is why at times it felt like being in a Thomas Hardy novel.
Also, many things didn't really seem to make sense.
Don't read it if you're feeling slightly down.
As it was I was feeling fine, but reading this book brought my mood right down.
I'm so glad I've finished reading it.
I actually felt less down reading a Primo Levi book. Why, because Primo Levi didn't wallow in self pity ... he moved forward every day and didn't self sabotage his life at every turn.
The book contains two narratives of the same character, one when he was a boy and one as adult.
The boy's character is much stronger than the adult character. I can't say I liked the adult character as he was weak, pathetic and dragged down those around him with his self indulgent selflishness.
Somehow this is okay because he wants to be a writer and is a dreamer.
Lots of awful things happen to this character, one layered upon the other, like a suffocating overfilled sandwich ... for no reason ... this is why at times it felt like being in a Thomas Hardy novel.
Also, many things didn't really seem to make sense.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
January 3, 2019
Notes on Just say the word ...
Appropriate to follow on my reading of Girl is a Half Formed Thing (Eimear McBride); seems to echo its mood of a detached (dissociated?) protagonist bound to a stifling and dysfunctional family. Consequently he appears unable to ‘get inside’ subsequent relationships with peers at Uni but stay outside observing himself and others.
From the first page one can can see how much both Niall Williams and his protagonist enjoy language and rhythm of it;
p89 - the first autumn afternoon folds softly into evenings outside
P104 - (talking about his father’s lack of speech) “none of the none of them reach the air. instead as his saying of them fails, the silent words play in the muscles of his face and in the pale blue of his eyes until they settle again And he lies there there in a resigned peace once more.”
I was Irritated by His avoidance of life; getting wrapped up in words poetry rhythm; pleased when his landlady astutely comments
(P115) “ strange isn’t it dear so much humanity in the writing but not in the writers“.
(p119) “ and in the dead gathered silence of the rooms I feel the exultant victory of sorrow. The dust falls mote upon mote with soft surrender and soon all is sheeted with a mouse-grey grief that chokes everything. The air itself is thick and bitter with implacable remorse for all that was and should not have been and for which there seems no remedy or relief.”
Beautiful.... so quiet and sacramental to the end. I’ve just been taken into and through the finely crafted soul of the writer; felt the sandpaper chaffing the final form having been rough hewed from the fallen tree.... every hard worn backbreaking step... and can’t wait to be taken on another journey/read another....
Appropriate to follow on my reading of Girl is a Half Formed Thing (Eimear McBride); seems to echo its mood of a detached (dissociated?) protagonist bound to a stifling and dysfunctional family. Consequently he appears unable to ‘get inside’ subsequent relationships with peers at Uni but stay outside observing himself and others.
From the first page one can can see how much both Niall Williams and his protagonist enjoy language and rhythm of it;
p89 - the first autumn afternoon folds softly into evenings outside
P104 - (talking about his father’s lack of speech) “none of the none of them reach the air. instead as his saying of them fails, the silent words play in the muscles of his face and in the pale blue of his eyes until they settle again And he lies there there in a resigned peace once more.”
I was Irritated by His avoidance of life; getting wrapped up in words poetry rhythm; pleased when his landlady astutely comments
(P115) “ strange isn’t it dear so much humanity in the writing but not in the writers“.
(p119) “ and in the dead gathered silence of the rooms I feel the exultant victory of sorrow. The dust falls mote upon mote with soft surrender and soon all is sheeted with a mouse-grey grief that chokes everything. The air itself is thick and bitter with implacable remorse for all that was and should not have been and for which there seems no remedy or relief.”
Beautiful.... so quiet and sacramental to the end. I’ve just been taken into and through the finely crafted soul of the writer; felt the sandpaper chaffing the final form having been rough hewed from the fallen tree.... every hard worn backbreaking step... and can’t wait to be taken on another journey/read another....
December 30, 2012
I was stunned by the start of the book and wanted to savour every word on those first few pages. The prose was like poetry and although it moved into a proper novel later on, some phrases really struck a chord inside me. I could not get enough of it and really enjoyed it. I was therefore so much more disappointed by the ending, a limp cop-out after all the build-up and expectations. I would, however, like to read more of his books in future.
December 8, 2013
It feels like the hero and I share some invisible bonds of thoughts and feelings. I just love everything in it: the beautiful, poetically and meditatively well-written prose, the fear of death, loss, unexpressed love and the soothing susurrus of the writer were profoundly imbued in his every word.
"The days are long then, and of a timeless kind of beauty where it is possible to think the world a place still pastoral and Arcadian."
"The days are long then, and of a timeless kind of beauty where it is possible to think the world a place still pastoral and Arcadian."
November 23, 2022
I’m a great fan of Naill Williams,but frankly was a bit disappointed in this book. I’m afraid I found it quite tedious, just going on in the same vein forever.. It seems very autobiographical,and hopefully life got better as would seem with subsequent books that are extremely poetic and even show some humor(!) Four Lessons of Love for instance…
He’s a wonderful writer but this book was disappointing..
He’s a wonderful writer but this book was disappointing..
March 22, 2016
A beautifully written book - extremely sad as luckless Jim Foley laments the death of his baby sister, the death of his parents, his lost brother, his inability to form friendships or be employable. But the cleverness in this book lies in the alternate chapters where Jim writes about his life without his wife and a denouement which finally gave some cheer to the book.
July 12, 2022
Luminous. The opening sentences cracked me wide open: "I do not know what words to write. There have been so many words written already. So many endings and beginnings. I have lost my faith."
Niall writes as if he is standing inside my heart. His view, his descriptions and his voice sound like the one I have inside me. I can only hope some of mine come out as beautifully as his.
Niall writes as if he is standing inside my heart. His view, his descriptions and his voice sound like the one I have inside me. I can only hope some of mine come out as beautifully as his.
January 3, 2022
Very Nice story about a Guy who trying to absorve somehow his grief. IT is also story about imagination and how IT works and about lots and lots of books. I believe that I am going Read this story one more Time when I Will be older.
February 14, 2022
It's the second time that I've read this wonderful book. The description of souless lecturers at University who destroy books and artists was apt. This book is beautifully written and is a gift- it just keeps getting better.
January 26, 2012
Confuso, mas com algumas passagens interessantes sobre o amor pelos livros e leitura do protagonista...
A história confunde-se com a resenha biográfica do autor."Lê e medita"
A história confunde-se com a resenha biográfica do autor."Lê e medita"
November 3, 2012
I found the hero difficult to relate to. He seemed to live in a dreamworld.
November 7, 2017
Gorgeous writing, but plunged me into depression. No thanks...
March 12, 2022
Beautiful story of love, faith and grief… as many of Williams’ novels are. Full of quiet moments of both doubt and certainty.
September 3, 2022
Maudlin!
October 31, 2020
Tutti noi abbiamo delle paure, non è mai facile affrontarle, e immagino che sia ancor più difficile metterle nero su bianco.
Dico la verità, non mi ha fatto impazzire questo romanzo, non mi ha fatto impazzire per una serie di cose.
Primo fra tutto i buchi immensi di trama.
Ci sono stati un sacco di episodi che qua vengono solo accennati e mai approfonditi e che comunque mi sembravano rilevanti per la storia.
Però forse è stato proprio l’epilogo che mi ha fatto dare un senso più grande a tutto quanto, un senso più concreto, ho capito il focus del libro.
Queste tre stelle di valutazione per quanto mi riguarda sono date proprio dal coraggio di riuscire a scrivere delle proprie paure, scriverle mettendole in un libro, e scriverle cercando di viverle per immaginare quel dolore.
Perché forse immaginarsi quel dolore lo rende meno doloroso quando lo si affronterà ?
Non lo so sinceramente.
Non e tuttavia solo una storia di dolore, è anche una storia d’amore e un percorso di fede.
Quindi, concludendo, nonostante ci siano state innumerevoli cose che non mi hanno convinto completamente resta il fatto che questo libro mi ha fatto riflettere su molte cose.
Dico la verità, non mi ha fatto impazzire questo romanzo, non mi ha fatto impazzire per una serie di cose.
Primo fra tutto i buchi immensi di trama.
Ci sono stati un sacco di episodi che qua vengono solo accennati e mai approfonditi e che comunque mi sembravano rilevanti per la storia.
Però forse è stato proprio l’epilogo che mi ha fatto dare un senso più grande a tutto quanto, un senso più concreto, ho capito il focus del libro.
Queste tre stelle di valutazione per quanto mi riguarda sono date proprio dal coraggio di riuscire a scrivere delle proprie paure, scriverle mettendole in un libro, e scriverle cercando di viverle per immaginare quel dolore.
Perché forse immaginarsi quel dolore lo rende meno doloroso quando lo si affronterà ?
Non lo so sinceramente.
Non e tuttavia solo una storia di dolore, è anche una storia d’amore e un percorso di fede.
Quindi, concludendo, nonostante ci siano state innumerevoli cose che non mi hanno convinto completamente resta il fatto che questo libro mi ha fatto riflettere su molte cose.
March 29, 2022
Gorgeous writing about grief - just stunning. An author awhile grieving the death of his wife writes about his childhood in County Clare in the shadow of parents grieving his baby sister’s death. Parents die, brother runs off to London drinking and gambling. He goes to NY marries his beloved wife, had two kids. Writing is so poetic descriptive true. In the end … his novel is BOTH the Irish tale woven with contemporary story of being a freshly grieving Dad. His wife lives… his writing is to heal his old grief and prepare protect provide solace and comfort even before her death. Oh my. It was brilliant. And such a haunting Irish solitude guilt shadow of storytelling- just gorgeous!
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
March 15, 2025
This is a gem of a book and I will read it again just for its essential truths which we all need to be reminded of from time to time. As with all of Niall Williams books, the prose is like poetry in motion and I savoured every word. This story is a deeply personal account of love and loss with a style that is characterised by its blend of imagery and clarity. I feel that his ability to bring characters and places to life, make him one of Ireland's finest writers. Always a joy to pick up one of his books and be lost in the words.
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