Colm Tóibín writes mesmerically. That is the effect he has on me anyway. His prose is so effortless that it carries me along as if I am in a trance, from the beginning to the end of his novels.
In one sense, not much happens in this story. The major event, the death of Nora Webster’s husband has already occurred when the book opens. The novel is taken up by her slow journey through grief over the next three or four years. But Tóibín’s achievement is to take us deep into the mind of the grieving Nora Webster, to show us how every minute of her day, her every reaction to the parochial world of rural Ireland, is consumed by grief. This may sound dark, but there is a lot of humour in this novel. Tóibín takes us, as he always does, into the claustrophobic, incestuous, church dominated, busy-body world of Ireland in the early 1970s.
Nora has to deal also with the grief of her children, especially her two young boys. Her two girls, who are in their teens, appear more self-sufficient and self-centred. She has to deal with the loss of her husband’s physical and emotional presence, his fathering of the children, his income and then the stream of well-meaning or just plain nosy townspeople constantly knocking on her door. At the same time, Tóibín shows us the warmth and good-heartedness of many in Nora’s community. She is forced to drop her pride and accept the help offered and slowly to assert herself and take control of her life again. She also opens up to friendship with people she had formerly resisted.
From my perspective, Tóibín appears to have brilliantly delved into the mind of a grieving widow. I would be interested to hear from women who have read this book, to see if they agree.