This novel by a Scottish writer who now lives in London blurs the artificial distinctions of genres of fiction. Presented in the first person singular voice of a Scottish Catholic priest assigned to the small town of Dalgarnoch, after spending most of his life in England, at an unspecified time around 2000, it is chock full of disconnected ethereal musings about his faith, the purpose of his life, and the trials he endures as he seeks to be accepted by his parochial parishioners.
None of the characters are innocent except for the dying housekeeper, and the priest’s engagement with two teenagers into thievery, illicit drugs, drunkenness and heavy smoking is a bit of a stretch. Romance and sexuality is presented mainly by oblique inferences, not explicit description, but foul language is pervasive. The priest says Mass and hears confessions without any deep sense that any of the rituals matter.
The plot is quite simple and the characters are few in number but some seem like caricatures.The writing style is expressive, with many allusions to British history and classical literature that I found to be confusing, as the author seems to take for granted that all readers know the details of Oxford history and the writings of Marcel Proust. That doesn’t describe me.
Two quotes will suffice to give a taste of the style. Bishop Gerard “…sat at the table, using his hand, as usual, to weigh the words he spoke, fondling the air in front of him, shaping their rhyme and reason.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Poole appeared to live together in a state of settled resentment.”
I kinda, sorta, enjoyed this story, but it is not very memorable.
Thanks, Din.
The Passionate Reader 